She jills with me.

The Grrl's body is warm beside me as we languish under the heavy blankets. She sighs to herself as my hand softly caresses her belly, my fingertips darting upon her navel, as she rests her head against my shoulder. Between kisses, her short hair is soft against my face, and I know that she's enjoying the feel of my hardening cock sliding against her thigh. My hand moves upward, softly cupping her tender breast, and I brush the nipple with my thumb. It's growing nicely, and strains against my skin and the black sheets.

Continuing to fluidly caress her, my hand moves to her belly again and then her thigh. I enjoy it when she coos to herself when I'm touching her there, knowing how close I am to her soft folds, feeling her flesh ensconsed in my grip. I smack her inner thigh gently and she giggles. Her kisses become more passionate when I feel her legs parting more. My fingertips brush against her blossoming flesh, and I can feel the heat that's rising between her thighs. She's slick.

Some fingertips begin stroking above her cleft in tight, rolling circles, and I'm keeping her folds moving as I gently tug her flesh up with the upstroke. I enjoying masturbating her, feeling her head against me as she gasps and shakes and groans. I enjoy how her nub feels under my fingers as I roll her skin across and upon it, teasing it into alertness. Soon, surprisingly soon, she's shaking more and beginning to grit her teeth. Her jaw is tightest just before her release, and as my fingers continue to roll across her delightful cleft, I can hear the gush that's happening deep inside her. She's cumming hard, and I'm certain that the sheets under her are wet.

She tells me that she wants my cock deep inside her now. I kiss her head, her mouth, her breast, her belly, and I raise myself on my knees above her. She swings a leg over my shoulder and opens herself before me. I'm holding her thighs, readying my thick cock when she cups my length in her hands and stops for a moment. She asks me if I would mind...

I know what she wants, and I love it when she does it. Perhaps she feels selfish and that is why she asks me, always asks me, if I mind. Does she suppose it does little for me? Something that gives her so much pleasure, and something that she's taking from me, could only leave me lusting more for her. It wouldn't bring me to orgasm, but it's very, very fun.

She wants to press my glans and my upper shaft against her clit and jill herself off with my cock as her toy. Lying on her back, she reaches between her warm thighs and holds me. She knows what she wants and there's no dance about it: she simply takes my shaft in hand and quickly presses my mushroom head firmly against her nub. I can feel myself getting burrowed between her wanton petals, her juices slickening my silky skin, and we languish in the wetness and noise of it. She's moving my cockhead from side to side, feeling her button meld into the notch of my glans, reveling in the feel of my dick against her. Her palm is holding me down, her fingertips firm against the length of my shaft like splints. She arching her back now, gyrating her hips, pushing her glorious pussy upward to change the angle of her approach. She's grunting again, gritting her teeth again, gasping for air as she masturbates herself with me.

When she's cum, harder than before, she aims my drenched phallus toward her and her pussy sucks me in. I grasp against her thighs and tug her closer, and her calves are against my shoulders as I thrust deeply. She biting the pillow as the fullness of me spreads her, my heavy sac slapping against her ass, my fists above her shoulders as I pin her down and take her.

"Badlands"

As usual, it was goddamned hot. If he were in Canada, where he heard that people still lived in igloos, they would have said it was forty degrees. He'd give anything for it to be forty degrees. Eighty, even.

As usual, it was also quiet. No one had been around for days, save for the snakes and the armadillos. The sun beat down silently on the currogated aluminum roof, where he and his grandfather had knelt together in old clothes, sharing cans of bright red paint so long ago. The roof was dusty, battered, and a shade of pale pink now, faded like most of his other childhood memories. Sitting in the shade under the awning, he reached for the crushed box rolled up in his sleeve. He lit another Marlboro and rested his boots on the stack of tires. He dozed. A gentle breeze blew by.

Only the snakes and armadillos noticed the growing cloud of dust in the distance, and at least the snakes were wise enough to seek shelter. He didn't notice a thing until the faint grumble coaxed him away from the pair of soft arms and hard kisses he had been enjoying in his slumber. His cigarette had joined the pile of broken butts in the sand, smoldering.

Bikers, he realized. Probably the Angels, or if trouble was coming, from the Outlaws or Bandidos out to scope something out. They'll want beer, he knew.

"Fuck," he thought to himself. He only had four left, and planned on enjoying those out back when it got dark and he could roast his dinner over the fire. Looks like he'd have to drive all the way into town after all. Bikers.

He heard the engine roar behind him as he stood up and opened the glass door on the old Coke machine. No Coke salesman had been around for months, which was just as well, since the cans would never fit in this thing anyway. Reaching inside, his fingers grasped around two ice-cold bottles as he listened behind him. He popped the caps.

No V-twin engine there, he realized, and knew immediately that he shouldn't have opened the bottles. That's a riceburner, and only one. Not an Angel, that's for sure. He could have kept his beers after all. Closing the cooler, he looked over his shoulder. Yup. One fucking guy on a Honda. No colors. Dammit. Too late.

No point in being inhospitable though.

"Hey," he said, walking toward the bike. The guy was removing his helmet, his short blonde hair getting tugged by the foam. A dripping bottle in each hand, he strolled behind the rider and stepped over the kickstand as he past the guy.

"Dos Equii?" he asked, extending the bottle forward. "Too damn hot, huh? Bad day to be out."

He blinked.


"Bad day to be drinking this while riding too," she replied as she raised the bottle to her lips. Another long pull and the bottle was half drained. "But I'll manage. Thanks."

He had barely swallowed his own small mouthful when he realized that he was standing there with his jaw open. She noticed, and grinned.

"Fill it, willya?" She jabbed the cap with her key and unscrewed it open. "I'll be back."

"Uh, yeah, sure," he stammered. He forced himself to focus as she lifted her leg away from the saddle, obviously straining to stand for a moment before walking inside.

Swallowing down another sip, he rested the bottle in the sand as he reached for the gas nozzle, watching her walk. He couldn't help but notice how well she fit into her chaps, and how the dusty black leather harnessed her strong behind. The denim was faded there, accentuating each line and countour of muscle. Looking upward, he saw the patches of sweat on her back and under her arms, where the faint darkness he could see through the material revealed that this was no woman prone to worrying about what her underarms looked like. In the shadow beside her as she walked away, her breasts swayed freely with a gentle firmness. He needed another sip.

He slipped the nozzle into the canister and squeezed. As the gas poured, echoing in the near-empty tank, he watched her stroll around in the store. She still held the bottle in her hand as she peeked along the magazine rack, and he realized that she was watching him too. Was that a smile?

Capping the tank, he forget all about his bottle in the sand as he walked toward the store, toward her. She leaned against the door jamb with a welcoming grin, and motioned her head toward his arm, requesting.

He smiled and unrolled the pack from his shoulder. Lighting a cigarette, he handed it to her. Her eyes met his as she leaned foward a little and took it in her fingers.

Her persperation smelled sweet and heady, mixed with some exotic oil that made his pulse quicken. Her breasts bounced very slightly as she leaned and returned her shoulder to the door jamb. He tried not to stare. She sized him up through the haze of smoke. He thought she was looking at his boots, but if she was, her grin seemed misplaced.

"That'll be, uh..."

"Got a sink here? I wanna splash my face."

He swallowed. "Uh, sure, over there, near the car stuff." He gestured.

Following his gaze, she made her way down an aisle toward a large utility sink. And old hose lay coiled on the stained wooden floor, and their boots clacked and echoed in the small store. At one point, she stopped suddenly to reach for a can of something on the shelf, resulting in having him stumble slightly. He had bumped into her, making contact with her waist. He thought he head her giggle as she moved on.

He felt himself begin to get thicker, knowing that she had just pressed herself against him. He stopped mid-aisle, awestruck. He knew for absolute certain that there wasn't another soul, save for snakes and armadillos, for miles, but that didn't stop him from looking around.

She had bent herself into the large porcelain sink and was pouring water over her head. She cupped handfuls and pressed them onto her face and along her arms. She sighed and cooed, and hissed as the coldness slithered along her neckline and down her back. He saw the faint outline of a tattoo. She turned around.

Soaked now, shivering slightly in the contrasting temperature, he could easily and plainly see how exquisite she was. Her nipples extended beautifully from her Tshirt, and he could clearly each nuance of her build. She short hair was slicked back now, revealing a marvelously sculpted face with piercing blue eyes and a seditious smile. She leaned against the edge of the sink, resting her thumbs into the belt on her chaps, a boot kicked back. She tilted her head in invitation.

He swallowed, approached her, and slowly snaked an arm around her waist. His kiss was tentative, unsure, amazed, but her passionate response gave him all the confidence he needed and uncertainty found itself cast aside. He pressed her against his chest and held her waist firmly. She reached for his shirt and stripped it off him, soon leaving him standing before her clad in jeans and boots. A palm found itself pressed against his crotch, shamelessly exploring him, gripping him, fingers coiling around the girth and length of him, sizing him up yet again. He twitched under her touch, and her kisses pressed all the harder. A second had caressed his chest, slithered across his ribs, and clutched his ass firmly, gripping, pulling him closer.

She began to pull him downward, setting him to his knees. He looked up and saw her smile as she began to unbuckle the belt of her chaps, then the buttons on her jeans. Still dressed, she turned around and bent over the sink. He held her thighs is disbelief, only to find his hands being reached for as placed to the hems of both chaps and denim, as if he were being told to finish the job of pulling them downward. He obeyed.

She began to fill her hands with water again, splashing her face as she felt herself become exposed to his touch, his kisses, his mouth. She cooled herself casually, parting her legs as far as bundled leather and denim around her boots would allow, and thrust herself backwards to give him easier access. She felt the faint stubble on his cheek against her own, and soon the soft, hungry, darting, probing warmth to follow.

Outside, only the snakes and armadillos outside caught notice of her cries that afternoon.


© 2005

Pamela.

The strains of a harpsichord fill this room as I enjoy a sedate 2003 private reserve cabernet sauvignon bottled from a friend's family winery.

During my work day today, I couldn't help but observe a number of gorgeous black women. I particularly remember one woman whose short, spiky hair immediately caught my attention (such is one of my greatest vices), until I drank enough of her in to have my breath caught from me upon seeing her small, round, firm behind ensconced in a pair of tight faded jeans. I had to stop what I was doing, as I sensed that she possessed the kind of attitude that virtually always captures me.

She reminded me of Pamela.

Ten or so years ago, I was working at a godawful call center while putting myself through university in New Jersey. The office featured three or four rooms where computer terminals had been affixed to temporary tables, and on this particular day, it was a warm summer Saturday afternoon. My attire was rugged, with tight jeans, and a black shirt under a sleeveless denim jacket. My long, wavy hair was down as I wore the headset required to do the job. I was in one of the rooms alone, having stolen myself away from the noise and clatter of the main boiler room, and enjoying the solitude that otherwise came with working on a Saturday.

Pamela was a fairly new hire, or at least I had never seen her before. For whatever reason, when she arrived for work she located herself in the same room as I, and we sat reasonably close to one another. I was focused on doing the job, and it wasn't for a while before I realized that she had deliberately moved from one computer to another, available one next to me. We did the "Hi, how are ya," thing. We worked beside each other and discussed work when we weren't taking calls. As I worked and afternoon turned to evening, I started to notice her checking me out.

Pamela was dropdead yummy. She was black, with a rich chocolate skin tone that glowed. Her hair was extremely short, which is practically a fetish for me. She was dressed casually, with tight jeans and boots. She was trim and taut, maybe a size 8. When I was certain that she checking me out, my throat started to dry. When we exchanged names, I knew immediately that I'd remember her uniqueness, being a black woman with a Scottish surname.

Over time, she began shifting herself closer and closer to me, and soon she was twirling her fingers through the rich ringlets of my long hair. We removed our headsets, alone in that ugly, paneled room as our co-workers stressed in another room down the hall. "I love your hair," she told me, placing her warm hand on my thigh. "I can imagine how it would feel moving across my breasts."

I had to take a breath. As much as I love to flirt, it's being flirted to that stops me in my tracks faster than most anything else. For me, attitude from a woman often transcends any other factor to attract me, and here was an incredible, equally rugged, sensual creature who was making her interest straightfoward and clear, direct and honest. I was hard instantly.

There was a dark, Teutonic bar not far from the dreadful office, and there we went once our shift was over. The basement there was full of wide booths with high wooden backings, and it wasn't long after we started sipping our Guinnesses that we were embracing. Her kisses were passionate, hungry, as direct as her personality. She bit, and she darted her tongue across my lips and into my mouth as though it were a garter snake. When I held her waist, I swooned at how muscular her hips and stomach felt. Her hands held my head, her fingers knotting themselves in my hair, and soon were caressing my shoulders and chest. In time, we didn't really care who else was in nearby booths, though I was glad for the relative privacy we had between the darkness and the arrangement.

She had reached around me, and was holding my ass as we continued to kiss. Soon, she was gripping my stiff cock over my jeans, rubbing her thumb over the straining head of my pulsing shaft as she lifted her shirt enough for me to caress her stomach, hinting my fingertips along the undersides of her small breasts. She was biting my neck, chewing on my ear, gasping, and it wasn't much longer before I had my hand in the front of her jeans.

We arranged ourselves so that I could explore her, and she leaned back against the wall, looking at me squarely in the eye as she lowered the zipper. My hand slid inside the denim, found its way past a pair of panties, over what clearly felt like a tight stripe of wiry curls, and soon my fingertips discovered her folds and the tiny, coral nub inside them. I stroked her. I wiggled my fingers as she held me close. In the dark, in the rich wooden booth of the bar, she came in my hand as I teased and flicked my fingers across her clit.

After she had cum, we calmed ourselves a little and finished our beers. I was still utterly stunned that this gorgeous, tomboyish creature had come on to me and that we had shared this moment. I tried to regroup and regain some amount of composure, and soon we were just talking. Soon after that, well after it getting dark outside, we got ready to leave.

There was a construction site nearby that Pamela had asked us to walk through, being a shortcut to her place. Amidst the silent bulldozers and cranes, we walked through an alley. She pointed out her apartment building and sighed to herself because, she said, she wanted to take me home... but that her housemate would be there and awake. I made an effort to politely show grace, and suggested we see each other again another time.

That's when sexy-black-Pamela-with-the-Scottish-surname bit her lower lip, looked at me in the eyes, and pulled me to a corner alcove in the alleyway where the streetlights couldn't brighten. Pushing me against a raw brick wall, she looked from side to side before dropping to her knees, tugging at my jeans. The air was crisp, and the sound of traffic was close by. Tugging the button and zipper, she looked up at me as she reached inside for my cock. When she had blissfully freed it, all I could do was lean my head against the rough brick behind me, steady myself, breathe deeply, and listen to the honking car horns as I felt her tongue begin to swab my widening cockhead. Her hand was wrapped around the shaft, and she playfully tapped my dick against her face between licks. Her quiet moans of pleasure made me harden all the more, and soon I was feeling the warm wetness and increasing suction as her mouth began to engulf me.

Her hungry slurping drove me wild. Her hands held on to each of my thighs as she knelt in the gravel and blew me. Her head alternated between slow, taunting motions and becoming a blur of noisy movement. I grasped her head, my fingers caressing the sides of her face, feeling her cheeks cave inward as she suckled and slurped me. I started to fuck her wanton mouth, and soon I knew she was feeling my balls gently slapping against her chin.

She stopped. She was reaching into her pocket. She asked me to help her stand. She started kissing me hungrily. She was looking around again. She began to unbuckle her belt and drop her jeans. She stood next to me, pulling me beside her as she uncapped a tube. Lathering her fingers, she brought her hand behind her to her bottom... she was lubing herself.

"Fuck me," she urged. "Fuck my ass."

She pressed her forearms against the brick wall, still wearing her shift and jacket, her jeans down and tangled around her ankles, and her delicious, almost boyish, chocolate ass jutting backward as she bent herself slightly. As much as I craved to fuck Pamela, there was something I needed to do first. Dropping now to my knees, I caressed her beautful bottom in the dimness, enjoying how the light played against the texture of her brown skin. Her ass was smooth and firm like a swimmer's, and I parted her sexy cheeks to open her. Nibbling on her thighs, I drunk her clean scent deeply in, and soon was taunting her with my tongue as I flicked across her tight, dark core. Finding her nub, I sucked it into my mouth between darts from my tongue inside her. She was drenched. Soon after, I got into position.

Her hips were warm and I could coil my grip around her torso. Stroking my cock, I tapped the head on her cheeks. Reaching under her, I gently stroked her clit again, although now I could easily feel her hot and dripping folds. She looked at me over her shoulder. I slipped on a condom.

"Fuck me in the ass," she repeated.

There's something special, incredible about the sensation of pressing one's cockhead against a lubed, willing rosebud. As I pressed more firmly, it was easy to feel her smoothly open up. The sense of being committed to this act, knowing without question that This Was Going To Happen, came when my cockhead had slithered deeply enough that the glans of my cock had finally, softly, wetly popped past her tight anus. Now it was just a matter of sliding in deeper. And I did.

There, in an alleyway of a New Jersey urban construction site, late at night and barely feet away from being illuminated by streetlights, the hum and honk of traffic nearby, black-Pamela-of-the-Scottish-surname bent herself against a brick wall and got a solid ass fucking. Soon I was inside her as deeply as I could go, and held on to her hips as my thrusts quickened and became more demanding. Pamela gasped and clawed at the brickface, and I could feel her anus tighten as she tightened her eyes in ecstasy. When she came, she muffled herself by forcing her face against her shoulder, and when I came, I was pulling her delicious little ass harder and harder against my pelvis. I pumped my come while deeply inside her, feeling her cloying heat and grip.

When it was over, and when we each had composed ourselves, I walked her to her door. We exchanged numbers. I tried to stay in touch, but life must have happened on her end. It was months before I ever saw her again.

When I did, I definitely sensed that she regretted not staying in touch. By then however, she was clearly with another man, and was proudly showing me the ultrasound images of the child she had conceived by him. We talked and hung out like old friends as she invited me into her new apartment, and I got to meet the guy she found herself with. I smiled to myself when I noticed that, like me, he was white. I guess it's her preference.

I moved from the state not long after that second meeting with Pamela. Part of me wonders what life could have been like had we stayed in better contact. Sometimes I think about how she's coming along, how her baby is, what life has been doing for her. I have hopes that she's well, especially since I'm confident that I'll never see her again in my life.

Watching the wildlife.

I sipped my tea slowly, and was already enjoying the delicious view of her curvaceous, pear-shaped bottom in the drab khakis she wore as part of her uniform. Her back was to me. She dropped a spoon. She squatted rather than bent herself downward, and as she did so, I had to hold my breath while two or so inches of her bottom's seam presented themselves exclusively for my view.

I love those rare opportunities (not as rare as they used to be, given current fashions) when Fate presents a quick glimpse of inviting crack to view. There's something so subtle, but also adrenalin-rushing, about viewing the seam of an excellent ass. Full nudity doesn't quite have the same appeal as this... it's like a wink, or a blown kiss, or that unexplainable sparkle that one feels when the right flirt happens at the right time with someone you pass on the street... but more clandestine than any of these things.

In the warm glow of refracted light, it was easy to see that her skin had a very slight brownish tone, as though she was suntanned not too long ago. The texture of her skin looked enticing enough that it took know effort to know how her warm flesh would feel were I caressing her. There was a fullness to her cheeks, easily revealing that were she nude and lying on her belly, her ass would be high in the air, and as round and warm as a loaf of bread fresh from the oven. Her brunette hair told me that her rosebud would likely be crinkled and dark, presenting an intoxicating contrast to her skin.

This was Steph, who was my server at the superb breakfast restaurant on Bloor Street that I just came from. Steph is adorably cute, perhaps in her early 20s, possessed with a winning smile and an achingly delightful young-womanly shape that desperately deserves to be straddled across my lap for a long, sensual session of spanking and handling.

I work in an environment that has me outdoors for most of my day, and affords me hundreds of opportunities to enjoy observing the comings and goings of women. Even when I was a boy, women have intrigued and fascinated me, and throughout life, almost all of my best friends have been women. Perhaps this is also why I enjoy the company of lesbians and bisexual women so much, and why among all women I'm most comfortable in their company; it's not so much the fantasy of women-loving-women that captures me (although, yes, it's lovingly enticing, and I've been there), but the fact that I adore women so much that to be cordial with women who also adore women is like being close to a living Rodin sculpture while mutually admiring an oil by Van Gogh.

As I type this in one of Toronto's multiple internet cafes, I sigh deeply with memory of the various delicious women I've enjoyed seeing today. There's been a scrumptious visual feast of fine bottoms today. I've also been torturing myself with memories of Bree, of whom I'll eventually write more, and the one night of mutual body massage we shared that led to some very intimate caresses on her exquisite, toned Spanish behind.

And I'm craving companionship. Tragically, the Grrl is away to the States to visit some friends, and unless another option presented itself, I'm on my own with my hunger.

I think, when the Grrl gets home, I'll duly administer some warranted punishment on her wayward flesh for having been away.

This first post about my first time.

Before the bondage, before the orgies, and before my real coming-of-age, there was Jackie.

We were alone in the apartment, still dressed, and she had straddled me on the couch for a long session of deep kissing. Her kisses were passionate, and she darted her tongue in my mouth as I gently held her soft, warm face. Her dark Asian eyes misted over as our hands roamed over each other, and I loved the way her thick thighs felt inside her tight, fashionably 80s designer jeans. Her large, soft breasts pressed firmly on my chest, and she reached down between her legs to grasp at my thickening and anxious cock as it strained against my left thigh. Over the denim, she wrapped her fingers around my girth and squeezed while we kissed noisily.

The denim covering her mound couldn't hide her heat or wetness, and I loved how my hand seemed engulfed by her seething moisture, like a rainforest, as I pressed her firmly and moved my palm in circles. I wanted to get her jeans off, but when she started to kiss and bite my earlobe I collapsed in the sensation and could only hold her and gasp. Her tongue darted in and around my ear, and I knew immediately that I would never forget how it felt.

That's what I most vividly remember about sex with her: those moments before we moved to my bedroom and got naked. Odd, isn't it? One would think that more details about one's First Time would be ingrained on the memory.

Jackie loved to fuck. Missionary was her position of choice, and I enjoy remembering how her thighs pressed against my ribs when I mounted her. Matching the rest of her short, thick body, her labia was delightfully pronounced enough that it was easy to feel engulfing my shaft as I pumped hard and deeply into her. She would get drenched, and when she came she would do her best to stifle a scream.

As a couple, we lasted only a few months, which is probably what should be expected for a pair of teens. I ended it because I had dreams and intentions of getting out of the old neighborhood, and I sensed early that had she and I stayed together, I'd find myself slowly locked into the ways and means of people that I latently wanted to be away from. I was growing then, and as much loyalty I had in my roots at the time, I knew I had to be elsewhere.

And, despite the enjoyable memory of her tongue playing with my earlobe and how she enjoyed a good shag, I actually remember little about my First Time. To my surprise, I was actually somewhat disappointed: not because Jackie did anything wrong in any way, but because I saw it coming so early in our "relationship" that she would be the first to fuck me that it kind of took the surprise out of it. Most boys, I'd expect, would be ready to blast their load at the thought of that First Time. Me, I remember approaching it casually, as if I was simply accepting it. It was still fun, but I think I learned then that the best sexual moments are the serendipitous ones, even before I knew what "serendipity" meant.

It was a late start and an anticlimactic beginning to a skyrocketing world of lust and passion.