10 May, 2009

Road Trip


97 - 98 - 99 - 100. A glance in the bathroom’s mirror shows a boyfriend watching her brush her blonde tresses. Never exactly knew why he enjoyed watching her hair being brushed. Was not totally certain why he told her to brush her hair twice a day with one hundred strokes. But she normally did as she was told. She set the brush down on the bathroom counter and gently turned her head left and right, watching the blonde tresses move in the bathroom's bright light. She knew he did.

"Sit down please. Spread your legs." Words interrupted the reverie. Boyfriend had put a folded towel on the toilet lid. A saucy smile on her lips and she sat, legs spread, her sex on display, only clothing a pair of red stilettos.

She watched him trim that little patch of blonde curls at the apex of her thighs. A little shaving gel, and his razor, still wet from his morning shave, scraped at the short hairs there.

She looked down at your crotch, now a bare as a girl’s. A head shake, what thoughts were in that man’s head. Reaching down, she ran her hand over the smooth, hairless skin. A look up at the boyfriend, a sassy smile curving her lips, and a finger slid between female folds. Holding the glistening finger up, she gave it a delicate taste before presenting the finger to her lover. He sucked on the finger, enjoying her flavor.

She gracefully got up. Putting her hands under her full breasts, she lifted them up as if offering them to her boyfriend for his attention. Then dodged his hands and walked back towards the bed swinging her hips.

"Bitch," a word growled.

"You betcha,” she said laughing.

Ink, Inc.

Breakfast had been three hours before. And the mid morning coffee break had been her bent over the trunk lid of the car. It was time for a break. The sign for a diner five miles ahead meant that lunch would be hot food, not Nabs and a Royal Crown.

Car parked, parking brake set, engine off. She waited until her boyfriend opened the door for her. A stretch to relieve discomfort in the lower back from sitting in a car seat too long. A stretch that pushed full breasts against her tee shirt. She knew the driver was watching, he was a tit man and kept his eyes on her D-cups. The same guy that had bent her over the trunk lid and used her. Fucking her hard.

"You want a new tattoo," a baritone voice.

"I never said that." She looked him over. Taller than her, hair and mustache salt-and-pepper. Older than her by a decade. But, he knew all of her buttons to push, and pushed them at will.

"I did," he grinned. "Same thing." A large hand in the small of her back guided her across the street to a tattoo shop in a little strip mall. Ink, Inc., original name, she thought. He opened the door for her and waited until she walked into the air conditioned room.

"Yes," the man, no boy, behind the counter said. He looked young enough to card at the bar. And he was working at a tattoo parlor. This did not look good.

"The lady wants a tattoo."

She now remembered what had been discussed over beers a couple of nights ago. Fuck. Her getting a tat in a very intimate place. "Yes," she said licking her lips. "How much experience do you have?" If the tattoo artist didn't have much experience, maybe the idea could get dropped or postponed.

"Five years," he said from behind the counter. "A year of class work, two years of working under somebody else. And now here."

She resigned herself to getting inked. "I want a Old-English 'S' tattoo."

"OK." He pulled out a book of drawings, leafed through it, and found a page of letters. "Like that?"

"Yes," she glared over at her boyfriend. The bastard just smiled. "Yes. About an inch . . . no, inch and a half tall." Fucking Bastard Boyfriend. She glared at him. The smile just grew. "On my mons."

The tattooist thought for a moment. "If you would feel more comfortable, we have a woman artist who will be here tomorrow."

"No, we're traveling," Bastard Boyfriend said. Looking over at her, he smiled. "You know we have to make time to visit your parents."

It wasn't her parents they were going to visit. It was a Dom's dungeon. She had a date with a flogger. She smiled, "Yes, Honey." Turning to the artist, "Paperwork?" They were in the land of the Free and the Brave, there was always paperwork. A few moments, and her passport were photocopied, forms were signed, and Boyfriend handed over his credit card.

The tattooist locked the door. "Not too much business this week." He led them back to a room with several booths. He put a fresh sheet over a dentist like chair and looked suddenly uncertain.

He looked cute, she thought. "I'll push my panties down, and pull the skirt up," she volunteered.

The tattoo artist smiled, "That will be fine."

"Honey, you need to pee first." Fucking Bastard Boyfriend.

Now that he had said it, she did. Has he been trying some of his training? She hadn't had to go and then. . . . "Restroom?" she asked. The artist pointed out a door with a unisex bathroom sign on it. A nod of thanks, and walked over to it and opened the door. Door closed, she looked around the tile-floored room. It was OK, clean at least. She pushed down the pink panties, pulled the skirt up and sat down.

"Stop," a male voice intruded in the simple pleasure of emptying her bladder.

The stream stopped. "You know that stopping peeing is not good for the urinary tract." She looked up at him. He was leaning against the wall, restroom door closed. Like he owned the place and everything in it. Her included.

"You may continue."

"Thank you," she said curtly. The stream continued and finished. She looked up. Fuck, he had a wad of toilet tissue in his hand. "I'm a big girl. My mother taught me how to wipe after a piss. Front to back to cut down UTIs. I really don't need your help."

"Spread your knees," She colored a little as her knees spread and turned her head so he could wipe her dry. "That's better."

"Thank you," she said quietly, head bowed. She got up, straightened her clothing while he washed his hands. He opened the door and let her lead him back to the tattoo artist and his chair.

The skirt came up enough so she could get her thumbs under the thong and push it down so it fell to her feet. Her boyfriend helped her into the chair, and pushed up her skirt, exposing her up to her belly button.

The artist stood for a moment pulling on a pair of purple gloves, then bent over the canvas offered. "Good job shaving."

She looked pointedly up at the boyfriend. He just smiled. So that’s why he shaved her that morning. She reached for her boyfriend's hand when the buzzing started and the sharp little needle started jabbing her sensitive skin, pushing ink under her fair skin. It was there, waiting for her, a hand well known to her. One that had grabbed her hair to control her, one that had slapped her face when she sassed. But now, open, letting her hold it through the pain of the tattoo, the humiliation of a stranger touching her at her boyfriend's bidding.

The buzzing stopped, the tattoo needle set down. A wipe of tissue collecting a little bit of blood, and the artist picked up a mirror so that she could see the permanent mark. It was well done, mostly black with a little touch of red. Pretty, but nothing that she would have picked.

"Nice job," the boyfriend said.

She nodded her agreement. It did look nice. Just would have rather seen it on somebody else.

"Thank you," the boy replied.

"You know something," the boyfriend said. He kissed her hand and set it down.

She looked up at her boyfriend. What was he thinking?

"She's aroused." He walked down to the foot of the chair were her knees dangled over the edge.

Fucking Bastard Boyfriend. Yes, she was a bit of a pain slut, the pain of the tattoo needle and the intimate touching had caused a bit of arousal. But not that much. And not to fuck anybody at that moment. Not even her boyfriend.

And he touched her nether lips. "Yes, she's wet. You touch her," he said turning to the tattoo artist.

"I really can't." the kid stammered.

Maybe she could get out of here with a shred of dignity.

"She likes being touched down there," boyfriend said. "Don't you?"

Or not. She pasted a smile on her face, "Yes I do. Please touch me down there." A soft intake of breath as nitrile gloved fingers touched. She smiled back at the kid. A lick of lips.

"Go ahead, slip your fingers between her folds."

Fucking Bastard Boyfriend. "Oh, yes," she said in a breathless voice. And another intake of breath as the boy's fingers slipped along her folds. Fingers grazing the clitoris got a gasp.

The boy looked up at her, a bot of concern in his eyes. "She's OK, that was her clit that you touched." His fingers replaced the boy's for a second, intimately stroking her. "Let me show you something."

This ain't the place for sex ed, Bastard.

"Slide your middle finger into her vagina," he said demonstrating. "And a couple of inches is all, and gently crook it towards you in a come hither motion. There's a soft, spongy spot. Take off your gloves, you'll be able to feel it better."

Fuck, she thought gasping, her hands grabbing the sheet, as his fingertips brushed her G-spot. He knew what doing that to her. He'd made her cum with that little trick once. Twice. Hell, she didn't remember how many times. It was one of those buttons he knew how to push.

". . . a little rubbing of the girl's clit . . ."

I'm a woman, you prick. A thought interrupted by a gasp as FFB hit both G-spot and clit. The pleasureable pressure was building as fingers moved inside her. She looked down, the boy's bare fingers were buried in her.

"You're doing a great job," the boyfriend said walking up along the chair, fingers trailing along her hip and side. "Let me show you something real pretty."

What was the fucker thinking, she asked herself, looking up at him as he stood at the top of the chair back. She pushed up a little with her elbows as her boyfriend pulled up the hem of her tee shirt up and over her bra.

"Aren't those tits pretty," FFB said looking down at breasts wrapped in red lace.

"Yeah," the kid sounded confused for a moment. "Real pretty." A hand came up and squeezed her right breast.

"Let me," FFB said reaching down, and pulling the bra up exposing her soft breasts and the pencil-eraser nipples.

Fucking Bastard Boyfriend, she thought glaring at the source of her humiliation. It wasn't bad enough that he got her tattooed and fondled, let's just strip her naked too.

"I think she wants something more personal now. Don't you, Dear?" Boyfriend cupped a breast and pinched a sensitive nipple.

Fucker knew her buttons, didn't he. And if it didn't give her so much pleasure, she'd tie that Bastard's prick in a knot. "Yes," she said gasping as Bastard pinched both nipples.

"Yes, what?"

You know, she shouted in her head. Don't make me beg. "Please. . . Fuck me."

"Ask the young man, the one who did such a good job on your tattoo."

"Please." A gasp as a finger probed her, a nipple was pinched. "Fuck me please."

"You sure?" the kid asked.

"She's sure," boyfriend added.

"Condoms," she gasped as two fingers violated her. It was his rules, no penetration with out protection. One she agreed with. "You don't got in unless he's wearing a raincoat."

"I've got some in my bag," the kid replied.

She felt strangely empty without the kid's fingers fondling her. A low voice caught her attention.

"You OK with this?" boyfriend asked looking down at her, his blue eyes looking down into her's.

She could tell how much he was enjoying showing her off, imposing his will on her, and the kid. "OK enough," she replied. "Don't leave the room," she added in a stern voice.

"I would never think of it," he replied, his hand stroking her blonde tresses. The kid's noisy return with a strip of foil squares in his hand got everybody's attention. The boyfriend squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

She grabbed her boyfriend's hand to pull herself up. "Let me see those," she asked reaching for the strip of foil squares. If these weren't good enough for her, the kid got a handjob. They were OK, a name brand and in date. "Pull out that bad boy and let's get him dressed for his big night," she said to the kid. And looked up at her boyfriend when the kid did exactly that. The kid was well hung. Will that fit? she asked herself looking at the telephone pole and thinking of her cunt. Only one way to find out, she thought opening one of squares and pulling out the lubricated protection inside. It rolled down easy enough, thank God for XXL. She looked up at the kid's face for a moment as she kissed the tip and licked the condom. No blowjob for him, he's too big.

"Let's party," she said to the tattoo artist as she spread her legs and guided the cock to her cunt. "Be gentle with me, you're huge," she said rubbing the cock against her, getting the crown nice and lubricated before she positioned it at her opening. "Push gently, you're bigger than my boyfriend." Maybe it was a bit of a dig, but the Bastard deserved it. It hurt, but the cock filled her up as it entered her. She concentrated on her breathing as she felt her flesh stretch around the intrusion, felt her cunt fill up with hard cock. A lick of the lips, "That's all that I can take." It didn't all fit, she didn't want to think about how it would feel in her ass. "Fuck me slowly, I beg you." She watched the cock slow slide out of her wet snatch, and then slow slide back in, filling her back up. And the cycle repeated. Each thrust felt better, less like it was going to split her in two. Soon the pain morphed into that mixture of pleasure and arousal that a good fucking was.

And there was something else that she wanted, needed, as she laid there, her guts being violated over and over again by that barely legal cock, her mind vague in the sensations of being used. Her hand reached out, flailing for her boyfriend. When she felt his hand in her's, a quick squeeze and she pulled him close, "I want . . I need your cock," she gasped as she felt boy push his cock deep. The sound of a zipper barely registered, but the smell and feel of a cock she knew well at her lips registered, she opened her mouth and started to suck on the tip, her hand wrapping around the base of the cock, holding it still as she licked and sucked it into her mouth. Her head bobbed on her boyfriend's, her lover's cock. She knew the taste of the precum, the musky smell of his patch of curls.

Soon her heels where on the boy's shoulders, his hands bruising her thighs as he sped up the rutting, fucking her hard. Her boyfriend's cock was deep in her mouth, entering her throat as he fucked her mouth. She was nothing but sensation, carnal sensation. And then her climax hit, she groaned around the cock that was filling her mouth, making it hard for her to breath. She barely felt the boy push deep and climax. But the feel of her boyfriend filling her mouth with his cum as he climaxed hit hard, she groaned a second time.

The feeling of a thumb gently squeezing her sensitive throat, and a growled "Don't swallow" cut through the fog and brought her back in a second, all feeling of her climax washed away in a cold sweat. The threat wasn't empty, he'd choked her once when she had disobeyed him. She'd passed out and her throat had been sore for days. Days he'd forced her to deep throat him each morning. Each night. She didn't know if he had forced her because he enjoyed the feel of his cock down her narrow throat, or it was punishment for disobeying him. Some questions she was afraid to ask. She opened her mouth letting him see the pool of white in her mouth.

"Good girl." He bent down, one hand holding her head still with a handful of hair, the other possessing a breast. His mouth pushed punishingly hard against her's, his tongue invading her mouth, tasting his essence. Ravishing her mouth as his cock had done moments before. Then gently lowered her head down to the chair, gently brushed her hair with the same hand that had held the same tresses. "Swallow," he said. She obeyed. "Good girl." She felt his forehead rest on her's and smiled.

"Ich," the kid said.

She looked down at the young kid. Her boyfriend may not have a cock as . . . magnificent as the kids, nor have the stamina of the much younger man. He was a card carrying member of the AARP. But he knew that sex was a messy pleasure, and did not hesitate when it got messy. She hoped that the kid knew GIRLS in this area, no matter how well hung he was, if she had anything to say about it, he wasn't EVER going to get in her WOMAN's pants again. "Hon, help me up," she asked her boyfriend with a smile.

A quick, private trip to the restroom and she was ready to see the world again. Thanking the boy again for the tattoo and the good time, she quickly led her boyfriend out of the parlor.

They walked across the street hand-in-hand. "Did you leave your thong as a memento for the kid?"

"No," she replied. A single word that ended any discussion of the subject. They walked a couple of steps closer to the HoJos. "Corazon, can I ask you for something?"

"Anything," was a quick reply.

She stopped walking, looking at him with open eyes. She knew what he meant by that word. When he said "Anything," he meant exactly that, “Anything." No reasonable. No maybes. She wanted something. She'd get it. A new car. Her freedom for a day. Him being inked. If he could, he would get or do it for her. She knew in her heart, that she would do the same for him.

He had stopped walking when she had, and now looked at her, a smile on his lips, he gently squeezed her hand.

She took a deep breath. "When you reach for me for your pleasure this evening,": she started. He nodded. "Let me pleasure you with mouth and hand. Not my cunt and ass."

He smiled, "Sure."

She laughed with joy, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Thank you. Thank you." She felt relief. After the assault by telephone pole cock not even an hour before, she was still sore. Not a good situation to be in when you were to pleasure your lover in a few hours.

"What about High Tea?"

She stopped laughing. Shit. As he had that morning, he was going to take his pleasure with her that afternoon. And she hadn't asked for that . . .

"Pearl Necklace?" he asked.

She laughed again. She had no problem stripping to the waist and giving him a titty fuck. Or even leaving the clothes on and wearing his cum on them as decoration. "Sure," she echoed his words.

He gave her a quick hug, his arms around her waist. After a quick kiss, he released her and started leading her to the restaurant. "Don't forget, you get the BLT on whole wheat. And I'll chose something else."

She laughed, "What-ever." She'd get the 'something else'. She was with her man. That was the important thing.


"BLT on toasted whole wheat. Mayo. Potato salad. Birch Beer." That was what her boyfriend had been telling her to order. He'd order something different from the menu, never the same thing twice. Sometimes she ate the bacon sandwich, sometimes the boyfriend would.

"The gentleman will have the Chef's Salad. French dressing. Unsweetened iced tea," she told the waiter. He hadn't told her she couldn't order for him, just never told her that she couldn't. It was being sassy, and she was risking 20 swats on the ass.

The waiter was looking confused. HoJo's was not known as the place where the host ordered for their date. Hell, it wasn't the sort of place where you took a date. "That sound great," boyfriend said. The waiter visibly relaxed. "And a shrimp cocktail as an appetizer."

Shit. She loved shrimp. And hadn't seen it on the menu. She would have begged for the shrimp. And now as punishment, he'd probably eat it all in front of her. Fucking Bastard Boyfriend.

"Honey, thank you for offering to pay the lunch bill. How sweet of you."

Shit. Second shit. She didn't have any money on her. He wouldn't let her carry any. He'd take care of her, he'd said. What if I want to give you something for a surprise, she'd asked one day. Everyday is a wonderful surprise with you, he replied holding her head gently and looking into her eyes. She knew he wouldn't lie to her. But that still ,. . .

"Sass. Are you listening?"

Shit. Double shit. She hadn't been paying attention. 40 swats and she wasn't going to be able to sit down for a week. Better to be spanked for a truth, then spanked for a lie. "No," she replied in a small voice, looking down at the table.

He gently grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her over and kissed the top of her head. "Silly girl. You know that I'll cover the bill. Don't you?" He whispered, "Pay better attention in the future." He shook her head gently.

Ok, thirty swats.

The shrimp came and they looked all nice and pink and luscious. He took one, dipped it in cocktail sauce and ate it. "Tastes great. Very flavorful cocktail sauce."

Fuck. No little shrimpies dripping in cocktail sauce for her. She watched him eat a second one.

"Sit on your hands." A quiet phrase. She did. And he took one of the shrimp, dipped it in the cocktail sauce and fed it to her with his fingers. "Thank you," he said feeding her a second chilled shrimp dripping with cocktail sauce.

"For what?" She hadn't done anything except disobey and risk a spanking.

"Helping me fulfill a fantasy," he replied. "I've had this fantasy about going to a restaurant with a beautiful woman, ordering food, and feeding it to her with my fingers."

She knew better than try a 'Who Me?' when he made compliments about her. She kissed the back of the hand that held another shrimp before gently, slowly taking the shrimp from his fingers and eating it. "You feed me by hand fairly often."

"True. Which makes it a fantasy that you help fulfill often." He sat there for a second. "Waiter is coming, do not sit on your hands."

They were in her lap in a second. She realized something, she'd been fed the majority of the shrimp. "Thank you," she told him smiling. He returned her smile.

He praised the salad to the waiter when he came to pick up the dirty plates. And ordered a slice of apple pie and two cups of coffee for desert. She left her desert fork on the table and folded her hands in her lap when her boyfriend picked up his fork.

"If you want pie," he said. "You'll have to get it for yourself."

She picked up her fork and took a little piece of apple and a bit of crust on it. She licked her lips, and held out the fork to him, "To you, my love."

He understood what she was offering, took the bite and thanked her. She ate about a third of the slice.

After the bill was settled and they walked out to the car. "There is something that I need to tell you and I'm not certain how to say it, " she said looking down at the car tire.

He leaned back against the car door, folded his arms. "Saying it straight is generally the best and least painful."

She nodded. "Back in the tattoo parlor, I had a phrase that I used in my head to refer to you."

He waited a moment. "You think that I won't like it?" At her nod, he continued. "Say it." A command.

"Fucking Bastard Boyfriend," she said it quickly. "F-B-B for short."

He looked at her for a moment and laughed. "Fucking Bastard Boyfriend. That's rich. We should get t-shirts made. I'll wear the FFB one, and you can wear one of those cute tank-tops with the lace around the neck, with 'I'm with FFB' on the front."

She sighed. Maybe her butt wouldn't glow red.

"We could get a second couple of shirts," he said laughing. "Mine would have 'I'm with FSS' on in, and your tank would say FSS."

"Fucking Sexy Sass?" she ventured.

"Nah. Fucking Sassy Slavegirl," he said. "Kneel," he barked.

In front of the HoJos, in front of anybody in the parking lot, she gracefully knelt. She was in SOOO much trouble.

"Each of the items you pulled today push the envelope, and each taken separately doesn't make me think that you are seriously misbehaving. But the nickname and the ordering for me on the same day is a bit much."

"Yes," she responded quietly.

"Yes, What?"

"Yes, Boss."

"OK. Tonight, after you have pleasured me with mouth and hand, you will sleep on the floor without benefit of blanket, mattress, or pillow. I will allow a towel between you and the carpet."

"Thank you, Boss." It could have been worse. He wasn't going to beat her.

"Get in the car," he told her.

When she looked up and started to rise, she saw her boyfriend's hand in front of her, palm up. She smiled up at him, reached out and grasped the hand, using it to balance her as she got up. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied and kissed her.

04 May, 2009

Option Two

I know what I would do when you get home from a stressful day at the office.

Take your purse and set you down in a comfy chair. Rub shoulders and neck. Bring you two fingers of Maker's Mark. Take your shoes off and message your feet and lower legs.

Leave you for a moment to draw you a hot bath, dump in some bath salts, I carry you to the bed room and gently undress you. There would be a few caresses and kisses, you would think things strange if I didn't kiss and cop some feels.

Then lower you into the hot water and let you parboil for awhile. Soothing classical music on a radio. Cucumber slices on your eyes. When the water had cooled down to bearable, I would wash your body with scented soaps on a loofah. I'd be sure to wash all those little bits that miss out on the attention, underside of your breasts where they meet your chest, arm pits, backs of legs. Gently wash your labia. Scrub your back hard. Wash your anus with a soapy finger.

Then rinse you off with warm water and wrap you in my terry cloth robe, the blue one that you cannot walk in because it is half a foot too long on you. Lay you on the bed, and rub lotion into your skin. And a bit of the lip gloss from your purse into your nipples.

And before you fall asleep, bring in some delivery Chinese food, and not complain when you eat most of the wontons out of my wonton soup.

Then tuck you in and let you fall asleep. I'd police the bathroom. Strip myself, and pull you into my arms, enjoying the your soft scented skin. After enjoying that for a moment, and if I didn't fall asleep relaxing with you in my arms, I'd slowly make sensual love to you as you slept. Kissing your lips, your forehead, your ears, your throat. Lick those flavored nipples. Cup and caress your breasts. Kiss the back of your neck. Go down on you, licking your folds, sucking on your clit, until you start to pant. Then plunder your wet secrets with my hard cock. And thrust until you came.

26 April, 2009


I hate myself when I get like this.

I’m going to hurt somebody. And I’m afraid it is going to be you.

I’m down to my last pack of Lucky’s and half way through the last bottle of whiskey. I’m hoping for alcohol induced oblivion, but I just can’t find it.

I told you to pick up more cigs and hooch Bitch when you went out shopping yesterday morning. Why can‘t you listen?

Like when we went out for dinner and a little shopping last night. I told you how to dress, buttoned blouse, skirt, shoes could be your choice. No underwear. You could even wear one of my shirts if you wanted. When I got into the bedroom for my lighter, you were standing there. Blouse was OK. Ballet flats OK. Bra and Jeans. Fuck.

Change to what I told you to wear, I told you. Don’t provoke me, I told myself.

You gave me that look that said, Fuck you and the Horse your rode in on. You complained, again, that you are too busty to go braless. And that you wanted to wear jeans because some of the items we were going to buy were on the bottom shelf of the store were on the bottom shelf and you didn’t feel like flashing people your ass.

I don’t give a Flying Fuck about your bitching. When I tell you to dress a certain way, you are going to dress that way. Don’t fucking care, Bitch. Change.

Make me, you said.

I closed my eyes, you know that I’m in a mood, why are you provoking me. I just looked at you . Under the bravado was a touch of fear. You knew that I could, and would hurt you. I just walked up. Grabbing your blouse, I yanked it open. Buttons flew everywhere. You just smiled.

The smile disappeared when I pulled by lock back out of my pocket and thumbed it open. You stared at the sharp blade. I don’t know if you noticed when I grabbed the front of your bra. But you noticed when I put slipped the blade under the middle of the bra, right between your lovely 36Ds , and pulled up, slicing that little strap. Too bad it was the one you had just bought at VS, that blue and white lace one. Two more slices and the shoulder straps were cut too.

You looked up at me, fear, anger, fuck I didn’t know what was in your eyes. Didn’t care. I pushed you back, hard. You stumbled and flee back on the bed. Well, at least one thing went right tonight. I walked up, bent down and pulled off the flats. Then started unzipping the jeans. When you complained, I slapped you. You shut up. Good girl.

I peeled the jeans off of you. Cute pink thong. My head hurts, why couldn’t you even get this right? Don’t you pay attention? I had told you. Fuckin’ told you. I pulled the thong down too.

Looking down at you, lying there, blouse spread open down to your waist. Breasts on display. Nude from the waist down. Legs slightly spread. Beautiful. I got hard. I kicked off my shoes and started to strip my pants off.

No. No. you said. Don’t think about it, you said. I crawled up beside you on the bed. And stuffed the thong in your mouth to shut you up. You fought, but soon was gagged. When you tried to pull it out, I slapped your tits. Those sensitive tits. You stopped.

I grabbed your knees and spread them wide and up so your cunt was open. I gave it a quick stroke with my fingers, and pushed my cock up inside of you. And pounded. You were tight, a little dry, but soon got wet and juicy. I pumped my load into you. It felt good. If nothing else, you are a good fuck.

When I pulled out, I could see where my cum was leaking out. Seeing the thong still in your mouth, I reached up, and pulled it out of your mouth. You started to work your jaw, and I’m certain gonna bitch again, when your eyes went wide as I stuffed the thong up in your snatch. You closed your eyes when you saw mine. I could see your tears.

I pulled you up onto your feet. Pulling one of your jean skirts out of the closet, I threw it to you. You pulled it on and then looked down at the ruined blouse.

Stupid bitch, I called you. I rolled up the hem and tied it. Your breasts were (mostly) covered.

Ok, you said in a small voice.

Dinner and shopping were quiet activities. You didn’t provoke me, spoke only when spoken to. Stood there when I slipped my hand into your blouse and fondled your tits. Gasped a little when I pulled the thong out of your cunt in the parking lot by the truck. And whimpered when I finger fucked you. Were careful bending down to get things at Wal-Mart.

After we put things away, I pointed to the kitchen table. You had that Make Me look on your face for a second, then cowed and bent over it. I lifted the back of your skirt. I heard the gasp as I pushed some of the cold lube in your ass, lubricating your rosebud. And the sad sigh as I pushed my cock into your ass. I pumped, pushing you against the cold glass of the table. Until I came. I pull out and tell you to go up to the bed room, clean up, and go to bed. I’ll be up in a second. You looked at me, clothes and hair messed up. Your eyes glistening with tears. You went up the stairs.

I have one more smoke and two fingers of hooch before coming up. I glance into the bedroom. You’re in bed, the covers pulled up, on your side. I hear you cry, little soft whimpers and sobs. I am a little sad. I've hurt you, I've made you cry. I shouldn’t make you cry. I should be the one to protect you. But who can protect you from me?

I go back downstairs. Clean up, and sit in the kitchen smoking and drinking. And now, an hour before dawn. My head still hurts. I’m still in a mood.

I’m going back upstairs. Maybe you’ll wrap your arms around me again like you used to. When we first got together. You legs around my waist as I fuck you. Maybe I’ll find oblivion in your arms.

And maybe I’ll just use you again. Fuck you again. Hurt you again. And you’ll cry again.

I'm sorry, Honey.


20 April, 2009

Strikethrough Demo Posting

This posting is being done to test HTML strikethrough in Blogger. The text strikethrough should have a line thru it. I used the del tags, <> and < /del >. Spaces added in the tags to allow them to be displayed.

Sorry, G rated post.


10 April, 2009

The shirt you swiped

The shirt you swiped.

The boxers your borrowed.

The new necktie you thought made a great belt for your ensemble.

And on the edge, the belt I warmed your bottom with when I caught you.

03 April, 2009

And whisper carnal threats in your ear.

Don't bother locking the doors, I've got lockpicks.

Don't bother locking the windows, I have a Slim Jim.

Don't have a knife by the bed. I'll use it. Those initials on your belly? Mine.

Don't buy a thirty-eight. You'll never get to use it. I'll have fun. In the morning it will smell of pussy. Guess who's?

The person sleeping next to you. They won't help you. I've got a happy hypo that will keep them from bothering us.

Go ahead and struggle when you feel my weight on your body, my hands on your soft breasts. I'll enjoy it.

Try to keep your legs together when you feel my leg between your knees. My knee will spread them.

Keep your mouth closed when you feel my lips touching yours. I'll just nibble and nip your jaw, your throat. Suck on your nipples.

One thing you can do. Close your eyes when you feel my hardness violating you, penetrating you. It won't help. I'll still feel your warm wet tightness wrapped around me.

When you wake, when the birds sing, the sun is shining in the window you knew you had closed the night before. When you wake in the wet spot, your muscles sore, something sticky in your curls, you'll know it wasn't a bad dream. You lived through a nightmare.

25 March, 2009

What choice?

We are in public, the two of us, your back against my chest. A large coat wrapped around us. My hands are wrapped around your waist. For a while. Then they start moving. Up and down. One cupping your sex through your jeans, the other, cupping a full breast.

You give a nervous laugh, and say, "Not here."

As the one hand, grabs one of your tits hard, "Yes here."

You start to protest, we'll be seen, you'll be embarrassed. I tell you to be quiet. Your hands pull at my hands, but mine don't budge. I grind your pants into your crotch. You gasp. I tell you if there was any privacy around here, my cock would be in your mouth, before burying in your cunt.

"Unzip your pants."

"No. No," You struggle a little in my arms.

"Listening?" I smile, put my hand over one of yours and force it down your torso, making it rub as it goes, until I force your fingers to rub your sex through your pants. "I'm bigger then you. I'm stronger than you."

You stop struggling. "Please," you beg.

"Unzip." One hand remains at your breast, the other slides up and caresses your throat. Message is obvious.

Your fingers unzip your pants. "Good girl. Now slip them inside your pants." I feel movement. I can't tell if you are going as you are told, but you have stopped struggling. The hand at your breast gives it one last squeeze before sliding down and slipping under your tank. And back up, fingers playing with your skin until it slips under your bra and claiming the soft skin and hard nipple of your breast.

"Please don't," you plead. "Not here. I'll be a good girl back in the motel room. I'll please you any way you want."

"You'll be a good girl here. And there." I move my fingers from your throat to your mouth. "Suck on them"

You do, "I don't have any choice in this, do I?"

I chuckle. "No. I'm going to play with you here. Then back to the room where you'll be stripped naked and fucked. Bareback. Mouth, Cunt. Ass." My hand, fingers wet from your mouth, slide down your torso, down to your crotch. Slowly slide them into the open fly of your jeans, under the thong, and then two fingers into your wet cunt. A gasp. The fingers move inside you. The hand at your breast mauls and pinches.

You struggle a little as my fingers and hands are busy touching and finger-fucking you. I hear a little sound. Sniffling. I look around and see tears on your cheeks. You turn your head a bit. "You've stripped," a gasp, "away my choices," another gasp as i pinch a sensitive nipple. "I'm just your toy, your plaything."

"You're more than just a toy," I replay, fingers have moved to playing with your clit. "But I get a big thrill taking your choices away from you."

One of your hands slide down between us, open palm ends up between your ass and me. And starts stoking my cock. "Good girl." Soon I start fucking you with short, quick thrusts. And your body stiffens in climax.

My hands hold you against me as your half collapse after your climax. Your head moves around. I suspect that you are scanning the crowds, looking to see if anybody witnessed you being molested. I zip your pants, and give your breast one last pinch.

I release you after one last squeeze. My coat comes from around you and you shiver in the sudden cold. I take off the coat and wrap it around you. "Thank you," you whisper.

"To the hotel room and its bed?"

You look up at me. Your blue eyes still have some tears in them. A little sigh, and your hand reaches for mine. "Yes, I'll be your sex toy today."

"And tomorrow."

"We'll see about that," you reply, some of the embarrassment at being publicly finger-fucked is being replaced by sass.

I laughed. My girl is coming back.

09 March, 2009

Would You?

I'm thinking of you this morning as I sit here, the coffee maker singing it's song as it makes that black liquid I crave this morning.

But not as much as I crave you.

Your nipples, hard in my mouth. Your mouth and hand wrapped around my cock, your blue eyes looking up at me. Your body under mine, you legs wrapped around mine, as I slowly move within you. My mouth buried against your cunt, licking away at your honey, sucking on your clit. Your laughter. And yes, your wise mouth, your sass.

What would you think, if after fucking you, spooning. I've felt you cum, you cunt squeezing around my hard prick.. I've cum, that same hard cock buried inside of you, pumping my seed inside of you. Your breasts have been in my hand, my fingers pinching your nips. My other hand has ranged over your abdomen and hips, sometimes holding hip still as I moved, sometimes low on your abdomen trying to feel my prick as it moved inside of you. Fingers rubbing your clit. If I didn't let you pull away? If I whispered, lie with me a few more minutes, Babe, let my cock rest in your wet folds just a few moments more. If my hand was hard where it cupped your breast, my arm firm across your abdomen. If I didn't let you go?

Would you lay there? Let me soften inside of you? I know that you want to lick your juices, my seed off of my cock.

Would you lay there, letting me intimately possess your body, whispering words about how it felt, just lying there, not moving, not fucking, my cock still buried within you. Would you tell me how much pain I had caused your sensitive nipples and how much that had turned you on. How you expected to have bruises from my hand on your hip. Would your gently chide me for biting your shoulder as I came? Would your tell me how you had felt each spurt as I pumped my seed up into you?

Would you lay there and listen as I told you about how your nipple had been rock hard in my hand. About how I felt your fingertips move against your clit as I was buried inside. About how it felt when your pussy spasmed around my rampant cock as you came. Tell you the noises you make as you fuck. The moans, the whimpers, sometimes saying, 'Be Gentle.' Sometimes 'Fuck me harder. Harder, HARDER!' About the involuntary gasp when you came, and the long slow sigh afterward.

Would your let me fall asleep holding you in my arms?

02 March, 2009

A little less fun

Been thinking about you this weekend. Often thinking about you leads to my dick getting hard. Is this the sort of desire that you want to cause in men. The mere thought of you causing erections? Not thinking about blue eyes or hair the color of honey. Not thinking about your D-cup tits or your tight cunt. Just thinking about you.

You incite that much lust in a man. Not thoughts about gentle kisses and walks hand in hand. No, I'm talking about pushing you face down over a table, pushing your skirt up, pushing your panties out of the way, then a quick hard thrust up into your cunt. And thrusting until a climax. Or maybe skip the cunt. Lube up the prick and take your ass. Thrust deep and hard. One hand holding your shoulders down, the other on your head keeping it down as my prick pounds into you. Until finally I get off and fill you ass full of cum. If you didn't cum, tough shit, you've got your fingers.

What would you think of me then? My cum leaking out of your body, your flesh still bearing the imprints of my fingers. Using you like a sextoy. With a hard swat to the ass as a final insult.

Or does it turn you on. Does it make your pussy wet and your nipples hard knowing your incite those nasty thoughts? Make you want to play with yourself? Does your hands slip up your skirt? Slipping inside your panties, that is if you even bothered with them. Fingers sliding inside the bra cup searching from that nipple that needs twisting. Do your fingers gently touch your clit? Or do you stuff two fingers up your snatch because you can't find a cock to ride?




You can't be Lilith, the first temptress, your hair color is wrong. She was a redhead, you're a blonde. Was she one of your lovers? Did you fuck her hard? Shove your fist up her cunt? Did her heart break loving you?

Jerked off thinking about you this morning. I'll jerk off again tonight thinking of you. Of you sucking my cock. Of it disappearing down your throat. Playing with your tits as you suck. Of watching you play with yours as it slips between your red painted lips. Until my cock is buried deep and I feel you swallow trying to get me off.

When I feel that urge build in my balls, that delicious tension, I'm going to pull out and cum all over your face and tits.

It will be beautiful.

“Oh my God,” A. mumbled looking at the words streaming across the computer monitor. Who the fuck would send me this shit, she wondered. Fingers danced across a phone keypad and she stood there waiting for the other phone to be answered. Fucking boyfriend didn’t answer.

She read the words a second time. The words made her hot. Problem was that she was one of a hundred other little chicks in a cube farm with no fucking privacy. It was only iron control that kept her from reaching under her skirt to that little nub that gave her so much pleasure. Shit. Back to work, she thought.. If it was the stupid boyfriend, she was going to tie his cock in a knot.

Lunch, The Italian Village, West Monroe, the best place in The Loop for Italian. And within walking distance of the office. Only problem. On the way back from lunch a text message popped up on the phone.

You're the sort of girl that Mothers tell their sons to stay away from.

The Bad Girl.

The one that is going to corrupt their son.

The girl that thinks that fucking on the first date is a grand idea. He brings the cock, you'll bring the condoms and lube.

You're the sort of girl that Fathers lust after. They want you in their bed rather than that frigid bitch their wife has become. With you they think that they would feel that the fire hadn't gone out.

You're the sort of girl the other girls at High School and College hate. After a night, or lunch time quickie behind the bleachers, the boys aren't happy with hand jobs. The next girl had better swallow.

I know that you would rather have a hard cock than another pussy as a playmate, but how many of the Mother's daughters did you corrupt on a whim?

Hell's Bells, whom didn't you corrupt?

Bad Girl.

She frowned down at the little screen on her phone. As a matter of fact, there were those two soccer moms, one had been pretty hot. A Bishop, he wasn’t. He actually wanted a boy and when she started to grow tits . . . And the two cops. The cops had been the most fun. Big strong guys. Partners. Didn’t mind sharing. Shared her in the same bed one afternoon when they should have been on patrol. Left her bruised and sore. That had been fun.

But being tangled in the sheets of past carnal pleasures wasn’t helping her figure out who was sending her this shit.

She turned into her building and had to sprint for the elevator. And just made it. As it was she all but slammed into some guy on the crowded elevator. Her nose and tits were pressed against a chest that spoke of hours in the gym. Hard body. Gray pin-stripe three piece suit, beige trench over one arm. Looking up, salt and pepper hair and moustache. And tall. Blue eyes dancing with humor behind steel rimmed specs. Hint of a smile on his lips. His free hand reached up and tapped the brim of his gray fedora in salute. He smelled male, made stronger being in close proximity. His musk, overlaid by the morning Old Spice aftershave, oiled leather, and something that she couldn’t quite pin down, but made him seam just a little dangerous.

And rose. She turned her head slightly. He had a rose tucked into the top button hole of his suit coat. Not some modern rose, but some old variety that hadn’t had the scent hybridized out of it. She smiled back at him.

His hand slid up between them, the back of his hand brushing against her left breast. She had to forgive him that because how crowded the elevator was. But pulling the flower from his lapel and tucking it behind her left ear was rather too much. Then running his fingers over her blonde tresses was way too intimate.

“A., this is our floor,” one of her colleagues of the cube farm called out. It stopped her from taking the flower and shoving it up his nose. She left the elevator without a glance back.

Back in her cube she pulled the flower from her ear meaning to throw it away. But looking at it, she couldn’t. The man may have taken liberties, but he at least had given her a flower, something that nobody else had done for long while. She sniffed it enjoying the scent of . . . .

She sat down hard. That scent she couldn’t identify. Gun Oil. Shit. The hand that had put the flower behind her ear had been gloved. A subtle bulge and glint of metal under the left armpit. An automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. And that hard chest, a bullet proof vest. Fuck. What had been a throwback to ‘50s film noir was now a current threat.

She worked the rest of the day, ears half tuned to the sound of pistol fire and sirens. Kept checking the Trib’s website for news of murder.

She kept a watch for people following her on the way home. When her boyfriend opened their apartment’s door, she clung to him for comfort. He confessed to being the one who had sent her the sexy messages. He copped them from a blog he'd found. She didn’t care.

The world had become a little less fun.


The original idea for this story was to try to write a story of what drove A. Secret into the lady's in Relief. Started to write it. Got the two 'e-mails' written. Started writing A.'s reaction. The first reaction went OK. The second where she runs into the guy in the elevator did not go the way I planned. The guy was just supposed to be a taller person. One that A. figures out had looked down the front of her dress in the elevator.

Shit. Left turn into film noir. Three Piece Suit guy is now packing a sidearm. Dangerous. Writing A being thrilled with this guy looking down her dress just didn't make sense to me.

Funny how you plan a story out, start writing, and the story runs off in its own direction.


15 February, 2009

Two Sides of the Same Coin

This story is in response to Pocket Secret's "Voracious". And continues with events in my tale 'The Photographer's Eye." Please feel free to go and read "Voracious," I won't mind. Take your time.

The story was written to answer a couple of different questions. The first, what happens when the photographer finally meets up with the woman in "A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words...." and my "The Photographer's Eye." Second, in the comments for "Voracious", I commented about 'the same hands that gently caress your breasts tonight can be the ones twisting your nipples until you whimper tomorrow." She called my bluff, "Do tell."

I told, and was not happy with what I wrote for the Gentle part. The characterization of 'A. Secret' that I used was not canon, it did not match the authoress's writing. The character would not be swayed by a few caresses. So I thought where to go. After consumption of too much coffee and listening to Stone Temple Pilots, vintage Jimmy Buffett, and Kraftwerk, I came up with the changed tale below. I rewrote the 'It Continued with Gentleness' section. I think that the female character that I'm portraying is a better match to A. Secret's than the character that I had before.

I also changed the title of the first section. A had commented to me that using the word 'Blackmail' in the hearing of infidelity bloggers was in bad taste.



Looking down at grainy monochrome pictures of you fucking and being fucked by a well known politico, you whisper, “I have to have these.” Looking up at me, I can see the plea in your eyes. It might not be the first time the tabloids had published nudes of you, but he was an up and coming politician who’s career would crash and burn if he was caught in flagrante delicto. “I’ll pay,” you say, reaching into your purse. Doubtlessly you would have brought your checkbook or an bundle of expensive portraits of Her Britannic Majesty.

“I don’t want your money,” I growl. “When I saw you with him, I said that I would make you mine.” The last word came out as a growl.

Your eyes go as wide as they were when he buried his cock in your ass. You lick your lips and nod.

“Twenty-four hours, Noon to Noon.” I name a date, time, and boutique hotel in close by city.

You stand up straight and give me a slight nod before turning and walking away. My eyes watch until you disappear into city’s crowds.


Sitting with hips touching. Gentle kisses on lips colored BlowJob Red. Hard lips, unmoving lips. I understand that you don’t want to be here, I think. I sit back. “Did you bring any hand crème?“

You start, that was a question that you were obviously not expecting. “Yes.“ You reach into your purse..

I take off my wristwatch and start rolling up my sleeves. I hold out a hand slightly cupped. A squeeze, and a little puddle of Oil of Olay rests in my palm. “Thank you. Now if you’ll take off your rings, I’ll rub your hands.”

Raised eyebrows proceed you following my instructions. I notice a variety of rings, but no engagement or wedding band. You tuck the rings into a pocket inside your purse. Your eyes follow my fingers as they start to rub and massage your hand. By the time I’ve finished the hand, your eyes have closed.

“Some more hand crème?” Your eyes open as you are quite willing to squeeze more expensive moisturizer into the palm of my hand. And stretch your other hand for it to be rubbed and massaged. You sigh and close your eyes as I ply a skill practiced long ago on a woman with long braids.

When I’ve completed the hands, there’s a quandary. Arms and shoulders would be next, but there is a very nice navy linen suit coat in the way, and my hand crème soaked hands would stain. And Oil of Olay is great stuff, I used to give it to my grandmother, but it is a moisturizer, it soaks into the skin too quick to be used for large scale massage. “You seem to be enjoying the massage.”

A nod.

“I want to continue the massage, but you need to take the coat off first.”

You nod acceptance and start loosening the coat‘s buttons.

“And I need to get something a bit better for massage than the hand crème. Are you allergic to almonds or any of the tree nuts?”

“No, I‘m not,” you say standing up from the sofa.

I watch your graceful movements as you hang up your suit coat in the armoire, catching the brief flash of skin as the silk cami rides up a bit when you reached up for the hanger.

I call the front desk and order a bottle of almond massage oil and a piece of heavy plastic sheeting. They assured me that it would be delivered in 10 minutes. I turned noted you watching what I was doing. You will soon learn. “I’ve ordered massage oil and some plastic to cover the bed. In the mean time, we’ll improvise.” As I’m talking, I grab a bath sheet from the bathroom, partly unfold it and drape it over the back of a chair, “Please sit facing the back of the chair,”

You hitch up your skirt and sit as directed. The good side of sitting like this, you could relax against the back of the chair. A side effect is that your skirt rode way up. I got a nice view of hose tops, garters and fair skin. Yep, good side for me, bad side for your modesty. Your eyes take inventory of what’s exposed and then look up at me. I smile and start kneading shoulders. Forehead gets rests quickly against the chair back followed by a moan.

A knock on the door interrupted the rubbing. I draped a towel over bare shoulders before answering the door. The front desk had even put the bottle of oil in a basin of warm water. Very thoughtful. I tipped the bellhop and brought the tray into the room.

“Now, A., we have a dilemma. For us to continue, you are going to have to strip naked.”

I’m afraid that the comment spoilt the mood. Your head shot up, one hand tucking blonde hair behind your ear. The words were mischosen. “’Undress’ would have been a better choice, ‘strip naked’ has a sexual connotation and bumped up the tension a bit.

You are, however, logical, and when faced with a no alternatives, does what has to be done. You rise and start unbuttoning the cami.

“Perhaps a hot shower would help relax you?” I ask. “Alone.” I get an honest smile at the last word. The beauty seen when your face lit up reminded me why you are so popular as a companion with the moneyed, politicos, and the intelligentsia. I swallow, taking a moment so I wouldn’t sounds like a 14 year old the first time they see a woman’s nipple. Images of attractive, even stunning, women are common in glamour and fashion photography. But every so often, you come across a woman, never a girl mind you, who just kicks you in the balls and whacks you up beside the head with her purse with her appearance, an appearance that is a couple of quantum leaps above stunning. And one of those was 4 yards away scrubbing her skin with a loofah. Fuck, I didn’t know who was going to be screwed more, me or her. But, I was going to find out.

The bed was covered with plastic and a bath sheet, gentle classical music on the radio, dim lights, heat pushed up a bit. the stage was set for the next step,

The bathroom door opened, the warm moist air spilling out into the bedroom. You walk out wearing one of the hotel’s signature terrycloth robes. Looking me dead in the eyes, you disrobe. You were challenging me, I’d have to break eye contact to ogle. I’m male, my eyes traveled from blue eyes down to red-laquered toes, and enjoyed everything inbetween. A figure painted by Vargus, and proof positive that your hair color was natural. I look back into your eyes and smile.

A shake of the head that set blonde tresses moving and a single word, “Men“. And a smile.

“Madam,” I said, half bowing, and gesturing towards the bed. “Please lay on your stomach.” A quick glance at the tight body I going to be anointing with warm oil, and I poured a spoonful of oil into a palm and rubbed my hands. Starting with a full body stroke from fingers to toes, I began massaging. An activity made up of vigorous kneading of muscles on my end, and moans and ’Oh yeahs” on your’s.

“Time to roll over, babe.” Eyes flutter half open and I help you roll over. What I see is delectable, soft breasts with brown areolas, trim flat abdomen, long legs. Definitely done on one of Vargus’s better days. I start with the long body strokes, bypassing the nipples. Soon you’re lying there, half melted. I ever-so-gently touch the mons and inner thighs. A few strokes and your pelvis starts arching up. I kiss your stomach and murmur that I’d be right back. A quick washing of the oil from my hands, and I grab the bottle of water-based lube to continue the seduction.

A couple of gentle rubs of the mons and you arch again. Gently squeezing the outer lips, my fingers slide up and down gently stroking these important bits. A glance at your face rewards with blue eyes and a hesitant smile. I take my time massaging both inner and outer lips.

“Breathe,” I remind as a fingertip gently touches and rubs the little man in the boat, the clitoris. “Relax, breathe,” I say slowly sliding my right middle finger into your vagina. I move it around gently, varying pressure, movement, depth. You moan softly. I slide in the next finger and start moving the fingers in a ‘come here’ motion.

Blue eyes come wide open, hands with red nails grab handfuls of bed linens. A gasp is added as I start rubbing the clitoris with the bad of my right thumb.

My left hand has not been idle. Rubbing over where the right hand has been busy, rubbing up and down the torso, playing with breasts and nipples. “Breathe slowly, relax,” I keep repeating as if it was a mantra. Soon your body tenses, as a moan escapes your lips. As you lay there recovering, I keep rubbing. I watch your body tense again, your hands cupping your breasts, fingers tweaking your hard nipples. Your eyes open wide, searching for my face as my right little finger now starts gently massaging your anus. You open your mouth, I cannot tell if it is say stop or harder.

Finally, as your lay there panting, tears at the corners of your eyes, you go rigid, arms wrapped around your self, a high keening sound ripping from your throat, you climax hard. “Enough. Please, I beg you, stop,” you gasp out. I slowly withdraw my right hand from your Yoni.

My shoes already off, I crawl into the bed with you, taking your quivering, sobbing body into my arms. Soon you calm down, “What did you do to me?”

“Held one of the mysteries of the universe in my hand,” I answer.

You look up, I see the tracks of tears in your eyes, you wanted more explanation. “Tantric yoni massage.”

A nod and your tongue darts out moistening your lips. Your left hand comes around and caresses the back of my neck. After pulling my mouth down to yours, a kiss that was not cold, one where our tongues got introduced. “Now let me show you what I can do with fingertip and tongue, lover boy.”

I could hardly wait.


Eyes open. The bedroom, windows covered in heavy drapery, is in twilight.

And now, I wake up with major wood. Driving nails wood. A better use for this minor miracle would be pleasuring myself with the girl laying asleep beside me.

I roll you over onto your back, your breathing remains slow, your eyes closed. You ‘re still asleep. A bit of lube to reduce chafing and I slowly spread your legs. You are now exposed, vulnerable. And I plan to take advantage of that. One good thrust and I’m in deep. It feels different than the night before. You’re dry, but still warm and tight. I grab your forearms and trap them above your head, and pull back to just the crown of my cock is inside you, and thrust deep again. You start to stir, and I move again.

“What the?” Half asleep mumble. Another thrust and eyes go wide as the penetration registers. “Get off of me. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I’m hard, you’re female and mine. Do the math. “Fucking you,” I whisper into your ear, your breasts pushed against my chest. You struggle, but my knees keep your legs too spread for you do get any leverage with them. And I have got a good hold of your arms. So I keep moving, slowly pleasing myself with your body.

Your cries have changed to No’s and Please stop. And whimpers as you continue to struggle.

“Who’s bitch are you?” I ask.

“What?” A whimper as I bury myself deep. “Fuck you. I’m nobody’s bitch, you . . . Aww!” You’re a petite thing and I can restrain both of your wrists with one hand. The other hand grabs a nipple and twists.

“I’m going to repeat the question. Who’s bitch are you?”

“Get off of me, you fucking . . . Aww!” Another twist.

I push in deep. You’re starting to get wet. So to change things around a bit, I pull your breast up to my teeth and I start to gnaw. And get another cry of pain.

“OK! I’m your bitch,” you cry out.

“What was that?” I stop my gnawing for a moment, but keep violating your body with my hard cock.

“I’m your bitch,” you whisper.

“What what does that mean?”

“You can fuck your bitch anytime you like.”

I chuckle and keep moving. “Start responding then.”

You glare up at me, but start moving your hips in time to my thrusts and stop struggling.

I release your wrists, which was a mistake because you push yourself up and away. I‘m still bigger then you are so I grab your hips and hold you down while I penetrate you again. Your hipbones fit nicely into the palms, my fingers digging into your skin. I‘m going to leave bruises but, hell, who cares. I‘m about to cum so I pull out and spray my seed all over your stomach and tits. “Hey, you wanted me to pull out.”.

I sit back on my heels and look down at you. You are a mess. Cum all over your heaving chest and abdomen. Hair in disarray. Legs obscenely spread. You looked like you had been fucked, and fucked well. I wanted a camera.

I wasn’t paying close enough attention to you, a pissed off woman is a dangerous thing. And I got slapped. It hurt.

“You bastard, you just raped me,” you said pulling your arm back for another swing. And stopped.

You saw my glare and paled, a touch of fear in your eyes. “You are mine to enjoy for 24 hours. That was the agreement. Come over here.” I crooked my finger at you.

You swallowed and stayed out of reach.

“Don’t make me come after you,” I growled.

You shook your head again. The bed room wasn’t that big, and you hadn’t moved that far. I was able to jump up and grab your arm and pull you back to the bed. It took a bit of struggle, but you ended up bent over my lap. SMACK!

You stopped moving, looked back at me and “Aww. That hurts.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I replied. “Start counting. You‘ve been a bad bitch and need some disciplining.” When I raised my hand to swat your tight and delectable ass again, your hand was in the way. “You don’t want to do that. I’ll just swat your hands too. And that will really hurt.”

You hung your head and crossed your wrists in the small of your back. “Hold them then so I can’t try.”

I held them and swatted. “Count?”


“Wrong. One.”

That earned me an over the shoulder glare and “One.”

I caressed your ass before swatting it again. Eight more caresses, eight more swats, and I was done. You quickly get up and scurry away rubbing your butt when I release your wrists.

“I need to clean up,” was all that you say. I can see where the tears had run down your face.. You go into the bathroom and close the door.


We had broken our fast and was finishing getting dressed and packing. I was leaning against the wall watching your brush out your long thick hair. It is beautiful hair.

“There is something else I want from you.”

You stopped brushing and looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You’ve eaten me out, I’ve deep throated your cock, you’ve fucked both my cunt and ass multiple times. You’ve fondled my breasts in the Opera Hall. You’ve all but raped me. You even spanked me. What’s left?” You went back to brushing your hair.

“I want a lock of your hair. A souvenir.”

You stop and look at me. A slight almost sad smile and you take a small lock of hair by your left ear and start to braid it.

“There were so many moments that I wish that I’d had a camera with me,” I started to say, thinking of all the Kodak Moments that the past hours had brought. You lounging on the bed nibbling on a croissant and reading the morning Times, nude. How your mouth opened the first time I penetrated your ass. Your face as the curtain went up for ‘The Marriage of Figaro.’ The look in your eyes as my cock slid down your throat. “But taking pictures of you when the whole idea of this . . .“

“Blackmail,” you chime in.

I shrugged. “Blackmail was sex in exchange for pictures of you in compromising situations. It did not seem cricket for me to pull out the Nikon and start snapping.”

You finished braiding. Fishing out a pair of nail scissors, you cut the braid close to your scalp and presented it to me.

“Thank you. I also wanted to mark you in some way. And a trip to a tattooist or body piercer would take away from other activities that were more enjoyable.”

“As well as me protesting.”

“That too. And a tat or piercing might detract, rather then add to your considerable beauty.”

A smile and “Thank you“ was my reward. I refrained from mentioning that she‘d have to explain the missing hair for family and lovers for years, let it be a surprise. “I‘m planning a tabletop book, ‘New Nude City. You would be perfect for it.”

You look over at me. Despite spending almost 24 hours with you, I can‘t quite read your face. “Do you seduce all of you models?”

I grin. “Only the pretty ones.”

You chuckle, a rich throaty sound. “I won‘t say no,” you comment, finishing your lipstick, still bright ‘Blow-Job Red‘. “But don’t call me, I‘ll call you.” The last delivered looking me at me in the mirror. The subtext is obvious.

We were both dressed and the bags were packed. I rung for a bellhop.

It was a silent trip down to the lobby. We were in the middle of the lobby when you say, “The pictures?”

“Ask for an envelope at the front desk.”

You gave me a quizzical look, then went to the front desk, “Is there an envelope for A. Secret?” A fat one is handed over to you. You tuck the envelope safely under your arm..

The bells of St Mike’s tolled 12 times when we got out the door. You pick up your suit bag off the bell hop’s cart and chastely kiss me on the cheek. “Good bye.”

I echo the words and we shake hands. I watch you walk down the street, past the tapas restaurant where we had laughed, past the Opera House where you had first watched Mozart, until you got lost in the crowds. You never looked back.

“Monsieur,” the bellhop said breaking into my reverie.

“A cab.”

“Yes, monsieur.“ In seconds, my bags were in the back of a cab and I was heading to catch a plane.

One thought did cross my mind, “Would A ever wonder if I have a scanner?”


01 February, 2009

An unexpected gift

I walk around the figure kneeling on the blue cushion. I admire and want to run my fingers through the natural blonde tresses. I know she is a natural blonde, the dusting of freckles across her nose and fair curls her sex hide behind are evidence enough.

I do not say anything for two circuits around her. She doesn't move, she's been well trained. Her legs were tucked underneath her, back straight, head bowed. A faint sheen of sweat makes her skin glow. "Who is your Master," I bark.

"You are the slave's Master," she said, her head still bowed. She licked her lips.

"How did you get here?"

"Master Samuels brought the slave here. The Master ordered the slave to tell the new Master that he acknowledges his debt to you and the slave is presented as payment on the interest."

"Stand." She rose gracefully and soon stood up straight, shoulders back. One pleasant surprise, a long dark tail came from between her butt cheeks and fell down to her knees. A nice ornament on her body. I went behind her and unlocked the handcuffs and slave collar.

Her hands went up to her throat as the collar came away from it. "Are you manumitting me?"

"You are really too pretty to free," I told her. "But I need to know what limitations there are on your enslavement. And those are not questions that can be asked of somebody wearing a collar."

A nod and nervous licking of lips, "There were no limits."

"None?" I asked surprised, there are should always be some limits.

"None," was her whispered reply.

That is almost scary. With no limits, I could do do anything I wanted to her and she couldn't stop me. Bigger breasts, Knock her up. Rent her out as a prostitute. Just as long as I was willing to pay the medical bills. "Duties?" There were some places even I did NOT want to go to.

"Warm his bed. Cooking. Cleaning. He had me go to Pilates three times a week, Yoga twice a week."

Samuels liked his toys trim and limber. For that matter, so do I. "I will add weekly belly dancing to that."

She nodded, but then, what else really could she do.

"And schedule a trip to the piercer," I say pinching a nipple. I think a slave just does not look right unless the nips and umbilicus have the glint of gold or silver in them.

Eyes went wide. Another nod.


A brief look of sadness in the bright blue eyes and she gracefully knelt. Her hands went immediately behind her back. I found her neck amazingly slim as my hands went around it. I took a moment to feel her pulse. She froze when she felt my thumbs on her throat. I gently squeeze to remind her what I was and what I could do to her. I locked the slave collar around her neck reclaiming my property. "Follow me," I told her. It was time to see what carnal pleasures my new toy would bring me.


This came to mind this afternoon while NOT watching the Superbowl.


19 January, 2009

A bit of hemp . . .

A. Secret posted 'Give and Take' 30 December 2008. Another delight from her pen. If you have not taken the time read it, please do so now. I will not be offended if you have to adjust your clothing or step out for a moment after reading it.

The first comment I made to her post was:

"It is a subtle pleasure possessing not only the body of a beautiful, strong-willed woman, but also her mind and soul. There are quiet ways of making that she has no choice. Telling the waiter, 'And the lady would have . . .' And then feeding her the appetizer that had been ordered. Invading her space more than Mulder did Scully's while out on the town.

It sounds like an all-consuming affair. Moments stolen from the mundane world. Cock buried deep into female flesh. Tongue licking hidden folds. Whimpers and cries in the night. Screams of passion in the middle of the afternoon. What stories could be read in the twisted damp sheets.

I would enjoy watching you with another woman. Pleasuring each other with lips, tongue, and fist. Knowing that when you laid back thinking that you might take a breather, I would be spreading your legs for my rampant cock.

The one thing that I do not know if I could do. Sooner or later I would long to take away all control from you. A bit of hemp, or polished leather and brass. The choices are endless.

I would have to balance the pleasure of seeing you helpless, tied to the bed, with the fear of not having you by my side."

After a comment by her on my comment, I posted a second comment:

"I look at you across the rehearsal dinner table. You are looking beautiful tonight. Your eyes were bright and twinkling, a smile on your lips. An attractive bride's maid dress that fits your figure perfectly.

I'm excited too. I love being with you. The long walks in the forest. Skinny dipping. Late night talks at the Driftwood Coffee Shop. Your whimpers as I bury my cock deep within your body. I love watching your face as you climax. I am going to risk your laugh, your tight body, your hand in mine, all that by taking you someplace that I don't know if you are willing to go.

I look into your eyes and jerk my head towards the door as I get out of the chair. You smile, nod, and you follow my lead. We ran into the bride and groom on the way to the door. They are a lovely couple that we have known for years. I shake his hand while you gave her a not quite chaste kiss. I'm not surprised. Your torrid love affair with the bride had been the talk of the town for months, and I know that you two are still thick as thieves. Me, I’d been in too many bar fights with the groom. Sometimes I was by his side, sometimes I was the one trying to beat the shit out of the SOB.

I am a little envious when the ring bearer, a young lad of maybe 4 years of age who stopped us by grabbing your skirt. You stop and bend down to talk with him, giving him the attention that I crave. He did not know where his mommy was. You comfort him and take his hand. We walk him back to his mother. You showed tenderness helping some kid that you do not know. Some would say, out of character, but I know better. You are a strong woman, both in body and will. AND you are quite self assured. A strong, self-assured woman is a sexy woman. However, you understand that being tender, being kind, from a position of strength does not mark you as being weak. There is a lioness in there.

When we get to our hotel room, your eyes go wide looking down at the leather cuffs and ropes lying dark against the white chenille bedspread. You glance up at me for a moment, then look back at the bed, a sheen of nervous sweat on your forehead, your bosom.

I go behind you, and quickly unzip your dress and push it down off your shoulders. It catches for a moment on your arms. You glance down at the dress, unaware of my act, then lower your arms and let it fall, pooling at your feet. I pull you into my arms for a hard kiss, a hand in your tresses holding your head still as I rape your mouth with my tongue, nibble under your ear. When I release you, you lick your lips, a nervous habit you have. But the trust is in your eyes again. The fear is still be there, the discomfort about being vulnerable.

I half drag, half lead you to the bed and roughly push you down on it. It is rather a struggle getting the cuffs wrapped around your wrists and ankles. And the squirming did not stop as the ropes went taut, stretching you, making you helpless. My eyes devour you, your trim body half covered by the basque you had worn that day, the white hose still covering your legs. Your skin is shiny from sweat, your breathing shallow and quick from a bit of fear. I cup a breast, slipped my finger between your folds. The nips were little hard nubbins, your were already wet.

I lift your head up and put a blindfold over your eyes.

As you struggle and squirm, I strip. You freeze for a moment when I claim a nipple with my lips. When I suck on your clit and invade your secrets with two fingers, your hips arching up driving my fingers that much deeper into you.

I pull my fingers out and present them for you to lick and clean. The groom slowly pushes open the closet door and steps out. To say ‘cock rampant’ would be an understatement.

I backed up a step or two as he climbed up onto the bed. A moment later, his latex covered cock is buried hilt deep into your cunt. Your answering gasp is music to my ears. The ancient rhythm of thrust and arch, whimper and slap of wet skin against wet skin was heard in that room.

A bit later, my own rampant cock by your soft lips, you first gave it a lick, and start to suck on it when you froze, another cock ramming deep into your cunt. The realization that two cocks were present, that two men were pleasuring themselves with your body, hit. You opened your mouth wide and sucked my dick deep into your mouth.

Too few moments later, a male shout of pleasure , and he collapses on top of you, his cock sliding out of you.

A short cuddle and the groom got up off of the bed and headed for the bathroom. Five minutes, and he was dressed and heading out the door.

After the groom left, I gave it a couple of moments before taking off the blind fold. You blinked a couple of times before looking up at me. What were you going to say?"

There is an interesting problem writing a piece like this. How far to go? The woman in this story is not a character created by me. So have to be careful what I do to and with the character. I want to push things, but I don't want to push things too far. Go to a place where the creater of the character is uncomfortable, you might not be able to play with that character any more.

So I review what she included in her post, share her with another guy, share her with a woman, blindfold. In one of the comments, she states that bondage makes her 'squirmy even thinking about it'. Gives me some ideas. Sounds like it is time to order some rope.

A dialog New Year's Eve between ez cheeze and her gives me a final point, gentleness. A strong person being gentle is not showing weakness. They are showing that they are strong enough to be gentle.

18 January, 2009

The Photographer's Eye

The first story follows on 'A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words....' posted on PocketSecrets on 9 December 2008. A repost by A. Secret where she 'speaks' to a photographer who watches in on a tryst and the photographer's reaction to the event. Be sure to read her posting. Her blog is listed as one of the ones I visit.

A photographer is by nature a voyeur, you are there to record an event, not participate in or react to it. So even if the event is erotic, you think exposure and framing, not your own arousal. That comes later when you have processed the film and are looking at the contact sheets of the negatives or project the slides on the wall.

I read the story, enjoyed it, and posted a comment about making the woman 'Mine'. When A. Secret asked a leading question, I decided to let out the words that had been bouncing around the back of my head. And now, here it is.

"I would capture on film each new part of your body that would be exposed as you stripped for him. And unwittingly, for me.

Yes, I would record the look on your face as you came from his mouth, but I would also record the look of sexy self confidence on your face that would be evident when you looked down at him after you ran your fingers through your loose heavy hair.

I would want to record the look on your face the first time his cock penetrated your cunt, possessed your ass.

I would wish that I'd brought a movie camera, wondering what images I would miss as I changed rolls of film. 36 images is all that you can get on a 35mm roll of Tri-X Pan.

After he came, I would go to the darkroom with the film and process it. And make many prints.

Since I knew how to find you when you went to visit your lover, I could find you again. And this time, I would have that movie camera with me. So I could record the look on your face, and the sound of your voice, when I told you of the images of lust that I had of you."

A. Secret's response to my words was positive, and triggered thoughts was to what happened next. But that is another posting for another time.


17 January, 2009

Inital Posting

Welcome to Single One's Den. A place to drop in, sit a spell, and maybe read some erotic fiction.

It is very much an experiment. While I have lurked and commented in others blogs, this is the first time that I have attempted to create a blog of my own.

In a very real way, this blog can be blamed on A. Secret, proprietress of Pocket Secrets. She does a great job of writing erotic little snippets that are a hot little ball of sweaty emotion. I commented on one of her posts, and she urged me to come out and play. So I have.