Thursday, February 26, 2009

4:20.

The pungent smoke sifted through my parlour in low-laying waves of grey haze. It swirled as we strode through it, as our limbs reached up into the air while we stretched ourselves, entangled, on the cushions. Her legs raised upward, her toes curled as her feet were shaking, her calves moving in unison to the hard thrusting I was giving her as she lay on her tiny back. Our clothes were in chaotic piles on the floor. Between her spread thighs, my hips and ass bounced insistently while her arms held me tight and close, her nails biting under my shoulderblades from spread, thin fingers.

She liked to fuck, her blowjobs were the stuff of dreams, and she was one of only three women I've ever known who uncontrollably and beautifully ejaculated when she came.

Stefany was an elf, a dirty little sprite from the Unseelie Court. An early30s disgruntled telemarketer, she was petite with sharp facial features, thin limbs, the tiniest of bubble-butt asses, the slimmest of hips, and breasts so small they were little more than perky raspberries atop thin spongecake. She was a faerie that came from the Other Side Of The Tracks and seasoned on the fringes with urban grit and persevering struggle. A carefree, lithe shorthaired brunette whose diet almost entirely consisted of two-litre bottles of Diet Coke, weed, and Du Maurier cigarettes, she was once an interesting part of my world.

As with several women I've come to know since the Grrl, we met online and enjoyed a fun email exchange before our first date. That evening was fun and relaxed, and as expected, sexually uneventful. She was playfully coy that night, which made both of us smirk. Maybe she was teasing me. Maybe she was testing me. But when we got together next, ostensibly for dinner and a DVD at my place, she melted against me when I casually reached for her as we stood near the bedroom door and gave her a slow, lingering kiss.

Dinner-and-a-movie was soon forgotten when I turned on some jazz and she prepared a green bud that she revealed from her bag. I smiled as I fetched something to serve as an ashtray while pouring the wine. The blown glass pipe glowed as we shared it. It wasn't long before that spectacular sensation filled us, relaxing every tension in our bodies and clouding our senses with soft, pinprick comfort. This was a light indulgence, a gentle whisper to ease the senses, and a rare treat for me.

We cuddled and relaxed, enjoying the music. Our kisses became hungrier and deeper, and her hands tugged through my hair as she pulled me close. Her tongue darted past my lips when she tilted her head. Our mouths explored one another, and she felt lithe and taut and small in my arms and hands.

My shirt was lost first, and then hers, her incredibly tiny faerie tits straining their nipples outward like hitchhiker thumbs. Losing sense of time, we made out like eager high school kids and slowly peeled the rest of our clothes off one another. The room was scented with green life as her hands stroked my back and biceps, as my hands clutched her flat stomach and caressed the seam of her small ass. My fingertips were barely sensing her heat and wetness when she began undoing the buckle of my belt and tugging my jeans down as she sat beside me.

Both naked, our warm hands continued to sensually roam on one another, heightening the sensations inside our body from the smouldering pipe. We sat side by side, just slightly facing one another, arms entwined our bodies, constantly kissing, constantly touching, constantly caressing. She panted when I bent my head down to rain kisses on her perky little breasts, holding my head against her. I panted when she reached between my crossed legs to gently cup and squeeze my sack. My cock was hard as stone, a pillar that spiked straight upward from between my thighs.

Her hand moved in circles as she squeezed me, feeling my fullness, gently tugging each individual ball between her tiny fingers. Suddenly, she stopped kissing me, planted a hand firmly to the center of my chest, and pushed me back. Moving her squeezing hand upward to stroke my shaft, she gave me one look into my eye, panting, before her head dropped into my lap with an open mouth.

I gasped as I watched her, leaning back against the cushions, my legs still crossed on the futon. Sitting beside me, she bent her tiny naked self completely over and immediately swabbed a wet tongue onto the swollen head of cock. My head shot back and I tried to maintain control as her mouth enveloped me, her lips just under the ridge and her tongue darting down the length of my shaft before she started to suck it.

Her head slowly twisted as her mouth coated me in saliva, bobbing as she fed. Gradually, more and more of my shaft was in her mouth, until I felt the back of her throat against my cockhead. A hand returned to squeezing my balls as she slurped and sucked me, her spit coating my length and gradually sliding between my thighs.

"Mmm," I groaned to her. "You like that? You like sucking my cock, Stefany?" She replied with a rapid flick of her tongue across my glans before going back to sucking me some more.

I ran my fingers through her dark hair, easing back and totally relaxing as I felt her mouth devour me. There aren't many pleasures in life that can surpass getting oral while pleasantly high, and her moans made my balls throb as I felt her throaty vibrations to my root. Her lips were getting swollen and wet with cocksucking, and she could have easily milked me completely, but I was determined to taste her too.

Tugging her upward from her hair, I planted a strong kiss on her wet lips that she returned eagerly. I shifted my legs from under me, scooting down the length of the futon on my back until my head was near her legs, then motioned for her to straddle my face. She laughed and carefully placed her knees above my head and lowered her glistening pussy to my waiting mouth. On her elbows and knees, she reached for the pipe again, relit it, and enjoyed a puff or two as my hands reached up and over to caress her back. I closed my eyes as languished in having her sweet labia at my lips and tongue.

I loved holding her little butt as it squirmed above me. I loved it when she thrust her head down and pressed her pussy hard against me. I loved it when her calves against my ears muffled her cries aloud when my tongue was slowly circling her clit, or probing deeply within her, or slickly exploring the contours of her sex. She was tight and teeny, light and virtually weightless upon me. Her tiny pebble thrummed and danced as I sucked and licked it teasingly.

I was holding her ass in my hands, spreading her open as I gently pulled her pussy onto my extended tongue, fucking her with it, when a slow and rumbling shudder began gripping her. Her hips started bucking as she ground her beautiful cunt into my face and her body began to stiffen. My tongue lashed her clit and she suddenly jolted, went completely solid and still, and then let out a long, enduring, deep and grunting scream that arched her quivering back and brought her head high. As my tongue continued flicking at her clit, suddenly I was awash from my chin to my chest with her exploding cum as she gushed completely on me. I had not expected her to squirt, but once I realized what was happening and that I'd safely be able to breathe (my mouth being just at her cleft), I relaxed and languished in this incredibly rare, sexy experience. Her squirt gushed from her again and again and again and again, and in split seconds my chin, beard, chest, abs, and the futon under me were completely soaked in her essence. Had a spigot been held above me to release floods of water from a hose, I wouldn't have known the difference... except that her essence was warm and nicely scented with her most intimate self. I was awestruck, and once the initial surprise went past me, happily continued caressing and squeezing her ass and sucking her clit until her uncontrollable shaking so very slowly began to subside into a state of blissful numbness. Oh. My God.

Never before, and never since, have I known such an experience. I felt like Columbus, charting some new and astounding dimension with my experience with women's sexuality. The Grrl and Molly have ejaculated during play with me, but only Stefany had ever done so to totally soak me drenched and dripping.

I just had to fuck her.

After she found herself again, I stood and shared a sip of wine with her. She sat on the futon, watching my swaying dick before her face as I drank, my chest still drenched in her fluids. She leaned forward and took me again in her mouth, pulling on me with her sucking lips as she made me harden all the more. Again I withdrew myself from her expertise and moved to hover over her eagerly spread legs as she revealed that naughty pussy to me in all of its lurid and ejaculating goodness. Her tiny feet rose in the air, and I enjoyed the sight of her wee bum spread on the futon under her glistening folds. I kneeled down to her, I held her calf, and I slowly aimed and slid my thick cock inside her elven body. I leaned in close and she wrapped arms around me. The room smelled of weed and her cum. I started to fuck her.

My eyes were shut tight as she panted into my ear, her face against my cheek, the fused scent of her clipped hair and her grrlcum upon me filling my lungs as I groaned above her. I felt my balls, heavy and full, slap against her ass loudly while she lay on the futon. I pumped my cock as deeply into her as I could, blissful in the blended feeling of her warm and small body, my straining and gripped dick inside her, the cannabis that tickled and thrummed my every nerve ending, and her nails into my skin. I would thrust, fuck, pump, stroke, and then stop to stay still while pressing my cockhead gently but firmly inside her. Flexing my abdomen, I forced more blood into my cock to make it twitch and swell even thicker, then would circle my hips to grind my spongy cockhead throughout her, only to return to vigorous, hard pumping again. She was lithe enough that I could easily move myself to a slight side angle, brushing my swollen head against the interior walls of her wet and flexible vagina in a slow, deliciously agonizing downstroke until I hit bottom, and then to return to deep and resolute pumping. Her tight, shaven, drenched little pussy gobbled my phallus eagerly. I felt her thin outer labia get tugged along my shaft as I withdrew. Her eyes were screwed as tightly shut as could be, and her mouth formed a perfect O as she panted loudly under me, her hands clawing my back as she got herself soundly and thoroughly taken.

"Jesus Christ!" Stefany panted underneath me. "You know how to fuck!"

Words I'll never forget.

We saw each other for about four months two summers ago, and it was a surreal but good time. Stefany loved to suck cock, and she was exceptionally good at it. She didn't get my seed in her mouth on the night that she came on my chest, but she definitely did during several nights thereafter. Crashing at her place, we would smoke up with her friends, and she would deftly slide between my legs later to blow me before we cuddled to sleep.

She would stroke me to hardness as she rested her face on my thigh, her tongue darted across my glans with rapid flicks before she would swab my cockhead with a strong tongue. Licking her lips noisily, she would bring her mouth around my girth with a slight sexy moan from her throat, and the audible slurping from her deliciously slutty lips would harden me like stone. She would engulf my cock to the root, and while her lips slid upwards again, her slurps increased an amazing suction around my entire girth.

When I had her on her knees, she literally worshipped my throbbing dick with her tight, wet mouth. I would hold her head in place and fuck her lips as she breathed rapidly through her nose. I'd touch her cheeks and feel them tugged inward as she sucked. She moaned and squirmed, never taking her lips away, when my pumping increased just before I let loose with a torrent of seed across her searching tongue.

Nice, very nice.

Sex with Stefany almost always included getting high, and with mutual inhibitions gently eased at the corners, our fucking became wild and hard. I adored her tiny chest, her faerie titties with rose-capped nipples that begged to be teased, and for a woman so modestly endowed, she languished in my attentions there with gyrating hips and quiet moans. Her lithe stature made intricate positions easy, but it was the depth I could reach inside her from friendly ol' missionary that always thrilled me. Moving her legs one way or another, I found intense angles for my cock to burrow into her with. My cock found a freedom of movement that enabled me to shake Stef's world, and I loved it. There's nothing quite like escorting a lover into heights of screaming ecstacy.

But dating Stefany was a bizarre experience. Like a good polyamorist, I was still seeing the Tomboy at the time, and between these two women I found myself in an unenviable but funny dynamic. The Tomboy, for all of her neuroses, had her life somewhat together and was a lot of fun to be with, but the sexual energy often left a little energy to be desired for me. Stef, on the other hand, was a sexual dynamo, but her life was in total disarray. I was torn. Further, despite the skills she had, there were sexual limits with Stefany that would have frustrated me completely if we were to be monogamous, and that was a forseeable problem.

In the end, we stopped seeing each other. She realized that she disliked a polyamorous approach, and I sadly realized that she was ultimately looking for a meal ticket. Her complete lack of goals, apart from "getting married and being taken care of," filled me with red lights, so it ended casually over a nice dinner out. It's a shame, really. We've spoken from time to time since, and I've wished her the best.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Black leather afternoon.

Last Saturday afternoon found me enjoying a beer as I leaned against the brick wall of my local pansexual playground, Goodhandy's. My leather shirt creaked comfortably as I shook my head in admiration while watching Derek spin. His muscles strained under the thick red ropes, the knots around his boots securing his weight to the pulley dangling high above the stage. Also weighty and dangling was his dick, clearly aroused by the work his Top had been putting him through. Tony knew exactly what he was doing.

Suddenly my weekend entertainments seemed miles away from the upscale condominiums of horny, longhaired, blonde Catholic women with big tits.

With my new friend, Bootblack Boy, the Fates found me enjoying the 2009 Leather Sir/Leather Boy Canada competition. I hadn't been to this club since last summer, when I attended one of its playparties, but this afternoon was all about the guys in black.

I arrived just as the competition was ending, the muscular and tattooed jocks strutting and bending over for the smirking panel of seasoned leathermen. Sipping my beer, I enjoyed reading the colours on the vests surrounding me, and it took me back to the days when I lived in Boston and was the token straight guy when Diva and me hung out with the all-women T-Bears MC. The competition over, guests were treated to an extraordinary shibari demonstration by expert Tony Buff and his partner Derek Da Silva that can only be described as suspension bondage gymnastics. Tony handled his ropes fluidly, coiling them in decorative knots around Derek's thick biceps and chest, followed by loops around his boots from which he would balance his weight. But rather than move into a bdsm scene, the demonstration showed impressed onlookers how the bondage allowed for varieties of movement as Derek twisted himself prone, into sitting positions, spinning, and various other postures with twisted leg and bent knee that revaled how an imaginative Top could easily have access to any angle of his body at any time.

I've remarked before about how impressed I am with the gay community when it comes to the leather scene. The het kinksters in my region have a strong crossover with the goth crowd, and often it seems as though that playspace has more to do with music and fashion and emo posturing than with down 'n dirty, old guard, straightforward (sorry...) fetish power exchange. Even before the hot on-the-job training I enjoyed while working the bdsm clubs, I remember cutting my teeth on Larry Townsend's Leatherman's Handbook as my primer for leathersex. God knows that Townsend's detailed descriptions about power, protocol, and the various forms of S&M got me off just fine, the fact he wrote about man-to-man sex regardless. It didn't take much to adjust the gender specifications and still get a lot out of it.

And speaking of 'adjusting gender specifications,' I have to say that my new friend is really very cool. Bootblack Boy is a early40s transman (FtM) with an expertise in (wait for it...) bootblacking, and we share common interest in over-the-knee spanking play. He's relaxed, open-minded, informed, and playful. Thank you, Fetlife.

I haven't witnessed proper bootblacking technique since dating the Tomboy, and that was only because she's in the Canadian Forces. I've been intrigued with this nuance of the kink community for some time... and, for that matter, have been intrigued with transgendered dudes (an extension of my dyketyke tendencies, mayhaps?)... so it'll be interesting to see what happens. Boy and I agree that straightforward (dammit again, sorry...) OTK play almost seems like a 'too-vanilla' subtext for most in the broader kink scene, so I'm pondering and pondering.

The post-Leather Sir Canada schmoozing was fun and relaxed. Before Boy and I left for coffee and a chat about engineers, Rangers, and my new pair of Snap-On steeltoes, it was a treat to shake hands with Mr. International Leather Sir 2008 Raul Mendez II, who had come up from Florida. Miss Toronto Leather 2001, a very cool woman with a very hot vibe, bought me a Jager shot while we discussed kink-community networking. And it's always a treat to be around good-natured, sex-positive people no matter what sexybits bring them to orgasm.

Boy and me hooking up at the club? Boy, Morgan, and me hooking up together at some fetish night? He and I have already talked about the possibility of his genderqueer ass across my lap, and God knows I also miss tugging down Morgan's panties. Hrm.

But really, it was just another snowy Saturday afternoon in Toronto.

Ho hum.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

An apple for teacher.

Irony. As I carefully drove through the falling snow, I laughed to myself about the total irony of it all.

All of my life, I've usually found myself attracted to almost the opposite "type" of woman that advertising media, pop culture, and standard-issue porn insisted I get attracted to. When my high school buddies drooled over Loni Anderson, I was (and remain) weak in the knees for Annie Lennox. The buxom blonde bombshell looked great on the fuselage of a fighter plane or in a classic pin-up calendar, lovely to admire in a centrefold, but for all my appreciation for bodily diversity, my libido usually fell prey to Rosie the Riveter. Punk grrls. Tombois.

And yet here I was, en route to the Schoolteacher's condo. Schoolteacher Karen, with the long blonde hair and huge tits. Part of me feels as though I've crested the definitive peak of male vanilla heterosexuality. My father, tit-man that he was, would undoubtedly be proud. For me, it's a little weird. But I'm still smirking.

After several days of hysterical emails and fun phonesex play during our first conversation together, she won me over. I liked her confidence, her intelligence, and the fact that she seemed to have her life together. Nice. She's making up for lost time following an unsatisfying marriage and dating "nice" guys with passive-aggressive issues. I can handle that.

And how could I resist the opportunity to further corrupt a successful, middle class, parochial school teacher? Oh, the fantasy potential. Schoolgirl uniforms would be redundant.

Her elegant and charmingly spartan pad was already aglow with candles, and lasagna warmed in the kitchen as we opened the shiraz that I brought with me. I hadn't been there for more than fifteen minutes before, as we languished on her leather couch and discussed our lives, that she leaned close to me for a sensual kiss. One became several. The generous cushions on her chest pressed firmly to me as she leaned forward, her mouth slowly exploring mine.

We talked about mutual interests, the swinger's events that former dates of hers had brought her to, my past in phonesex and the leather clubs. We chuckled over the divergence between our respective spiritualities. We discussed sextoys, and it felt completely casual and relaxed when we briefly peeked online to peruse options we could potentially share. She liked the idea that I review them, and apparently her girlfriends had already been teasing her about that fact of me.

I smirked to myself when, following dinner, she simply took my hand and led me into her bedroom. She matter-of-factly showed me her small collection of toys, all cleverly locked in a fishing tackle box. From under her collecton of rabbit vibes, lubes, and the massive Ziploc baggie of condoms, she withdrew a pair of Velcro restraints.

And I thought she needed corrupting. Silly me.

"Put them on me," she asked quietly as we stood next to her bed. "I... just like the feel of them on." I smiled as I undid the Velcro and wrapped the straps snugly to each of her wrists.

But as we made out on her bed, her quaint Catholic girl sensibilities tried in vain to limit her enjoyment. Had a pesky angel truly reared itself on her shoulder and cool the evening down, naturally I would have relaxed; I hadn't any preconceived notions about the evening at all, apart from lasagna and shiraz. Yet watching Schoolteacher push away those prudish anti-sexual spirits elated me. She wasn't listening. She was giving in to her desire. How lovely.

Whilst my nibbles teased the nape of her sensitive neck, my hands explored her almost-intimidating breasts, my fingers sending shockwaves to her clit as I gently rolled her nipples between them from over her sensuous and expensive bra. She lay on her back, wrists dangling above her head and over the edge of the bed, as I gripped both D-rings of the restraints in my right forefinger. Laying beside her, I teased her large breasts while tugging her wrists firmly, and Schoolteacher squirmed her hips in slow gyrations from the slow torture. She moaned how she enjoyed the firmness of my left hand as it caressed her arm, her tummy, her thighs, and her gyrations quickened when my palm cupped her mound from over her bluejeans. Her kisses became insistent. My hand seethed in moist warmth. Feeling the heat from under the denim reminded me of heavy petting during after-school parties. Ironic.

That angel on her shoulder must have huffed and puffed impotently when her bra was removed, those incredible goddessly tits bared before me and my tickling tongue. I'm certain that by the time the jeans were being tugged down her thighs, that angel had departed to seek out some other sinful Catholic girl to aggravate, leaving the one under me to her imminent perdition.

Begone, spirit, begone. Lovers would have their way here.

Schoolteacher lay before me, clad only in white cotton panties and her long, blonde streams. Her bare and bountilful breasts swayed gently as breathed heavily, looking up to me while I stripped off my shirt. I slinked atop of her, gently cupping a breast in each hand, and she groaned aloud as my lips caressed her body. Brief nips at her areolae sent her into spasms, and her hands tussled under the pillows at her head. Kneeling up, I smiled.

"How'd you like me to go down on you?" I asked casually.

Not a pesky angel, but a troublesome imp appeared at her shoulder next, for she paused. In a brief time-out, we cuddled as we talked about some past experiences with less-than-ideal lovers that had left her unsure in that regard. I caressed her leg as she shared some apprehensions, and alleviated her tension that, yes definitely, I do enjoy sucking pussy. Inwardly, I rolled my eyes at the insensitivity of some men.

Schoolteacher decided to trust me. Schoolteacher rolled over when I asked her to. Schoolteacher showed me her generous ass when I lowered her panties.

Raining her bottom with kisses and nips, my hands explored her back and tugged strands of her long, blonde hair. I hoisted her to her knees, and chuckled when she looked at me from over her shoulder.

"Like this?" she asked, perplexed.

My reply was to hold her bum with my hands as lay on my stomach and tilt my mouth to her, swabbing her shaven mound with the full of my wet tongue. Immediately, she bucked forward slightly with a heavy groan, and began faintly shaking as my mouth explored her while she relaxed. With genuine assurances that I was having oodles of fun with her clean and soft folds at my mouth, I could feel her apprehension ease as she gave herself permission to admit her pleasure in my pleasure. Her groans became more intense, her moans deeper. Had this women ever received good head before? I settled my weight on the bed and decided to completely take my time, wanting her to enjoy herself. I teased her slowly, gently, the tip of my tongue flicking at her hardening clit and sending her into shudders. When I moved upward and began swirling the tip around her winking anus, she quaked uncontrollably.

"No one's ever done that to me before!" she ecstatically cried out, her face in the pillow and her ass in the air, between her deep gasps. As I alternated between her backdoor and her pussy, sliding first one and then two fingers inside her quivering body as I teased her clit, she moaned and screamed and whimpered deliciously. Rolling on to her back, she stared into my eyes as I feasted on her until, finally, her legs scissored around me as she crested into a massive, shuddering cum. She kept repeating my name as she came down from her crest. I smiled as I caught my breath.

Catholic girl sensibilities were tossed to the wind by the time my jeans found themselves on the floor. She stroked my shaft slowly as I lay back, her passionate kisses feeding me. Coiling an arm down the length of my body, she kissed her way down my chest to my throbbing cock and hoisted herself on her hip to bring her head above me. I caressed her long hair as it cascaded on my abs while she took me in her mouth, her tongue teasing the crown of my cockhead in slow, wet swirls. There's something very relaxing about getting sucked in this position, a lover beside you and bent to face your legs, watching her head bob slowly from behind. There's more mystery to what she'd doing because I can't see her face, and more surprise when she does the unexpected. Schoolteacher did something nicely unexpected when I felt her mouth suck me deep, the base of me almost to her lips, my cockhead sliding against the roof of her full mouth. Nice.

She adjusted herself, kneeling between my legs to blow me more vigourously, and she looked into my face as she did so. I became thicker and harder as she nursed on my cock, teasing my smooth balls with her tongue as she jacked me. Schoolteacher likes cock, and I gave her as much as she wanted, for as long as she wanted.

"I want you to fuck me," she whimpered past her puffy, wet lips, just slightly and naughtily swollen from pumping up and down my shaft. I thrust my dick into her mouth for a few more strokes, and she slurped me noisily, her face moist with spit. I wanted the scent of me on her face when I took her.

I tugged her up for a slow kiss before leaving the bed. As I wrapped my twitching cock, she assumed the position with her feet on the floor and lay her head down on the bed. Her ass swayed before me saucily, and I rested one foot on the edge of the bed as I gripped her hips and aimed myself for her tightness. She gripped me snugly as her hands pressed into the bed's comforter, and I slid myself slowly inside her until my balls barely met her clit. Pushing that much further in, I stopped when all my length was comfortably burrowed in her pussy, and then I gradually withdrew and started a slow fuck. She groaned and closed her eyes, her face down onto the bed as she gasped quietly. I built up speed and insistence, holding firmly to her hips until I was tugging her back toward me and my balls began slapping noisily against her wet flesh. I was fucking a schoolteacher, and the schoolteacher liked it.

"I love the feel of your cock in me," she panted, begging me to fuck her harder. I moved my hands to her haunches and held her ass against my palms as I thrust deeply. She shook against the bed as I took her, and I watched the falling snow through her bedroom window while her pussy cloyed and gripped around my pumping dick. She started to moan as her orgasm built inside her. She cried out my name.

"Fuck me! Please fuck me!"

Pushing her down to the bed, I held her ass as I mounted her from behind, biting the nape of her neck. When she came, she spasmed deliciously.

We took a breather, enjoying the wine. She laughed at how furiously she had cum as I went down on her, and it was clear that any apprehensions she had were gone. I enjoyed that. She made serious I'm-having-fun eyes to me, and I enjoyed that more.

As we cuddled, I playfully spanked her ass and she shrieked satisfyingly. Teasing her rosebud with a lubed fingertip, she went into her own world of bliss as I happily discovered how she enjoyed attention there. Gradually, one, and then two of lubed fingers began exploring her backdoor, and she met my strokes with an upraised ass and a quiet sigh or two.

Now how could I resist this? Palming some lubricant, I stroked my reawakened cock until I was slick and glossy. I shifted on the bed to mount her from behind again, slowly sliding my cockhead between her pert asscheeks until the tip of me found the crinkled doorway I was seeking.

"Are you ok?" I asked. She nodded. And slowly, I slid the tip of me into her until pausing after the fateful breach with my glans. Caressing her hair, I took a deep breath and steadied myself as I slowly, purposefully fucked the Schoolteacher in her pretty ass. Her face contorted beautifully as she felt me take her, my thickness filling her up as she panted under me. I raised myself up, fists near her forearms, my ass pumping downwards and upwards as I thrust my cock deeply. She was tight and took me readily.

It was a long night.

The following morning, she almost made herself late for school (!) because she wanted a little more cock for breakfast. I snuzzled into the warm sheets as I gently thrust my morning wood into her slurping mouth before she darted into the shower. Later, as we approached her car, she fumbled for her keys while her hands were full of assorted stuff. Frustrated, she passed to a handful of things into my hands as she reached into her pockets.

I found myself holding a handsome granny smith apple, and I burst out laughing.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

The rhythmic tempo.

1am. I've just begun drifting, the cat beside me, after pondering about writing.

The soft moan would never have been heard were it not for the darkened quiet. It's brief, but deliciously feminine, and when it's followed by a few gentle thumps from the ceiling of my bedroom, I smile. There had been a small party upstairs earlier in the evening with giggling and laughing. Their foreplay would have happened as I was preparing for sleep. As I cleaned my snake's cage, she was kissing him. As I spoke on the phone to Biting Tina about dinner tonight, she was sucking his cock.

They are so lovely, the women upstairs. Two at last count, possibly three, including a fit and trim brunette and a smiling blonde with a spankable, heart-shaped derriere. They're both friendly 'n cool. Last summer, they held a party on the back patio, and the brick walls were playfully scrawled with chalk reading, "Gin! More gin! Gin, the panty remover!" They're a riot.

I still do not know whose chambers it is that are right above my own. Sometimes I enjoy not knowing.

Almost immediately, the gentle thumps become insistent. His tempo quickly shifts from andante to vivace, and as a man, I know that means that he's fucking her deeply, the full length of his cock pummeling into her hard and fast. He's showing no quarter. Only his pelvis repeatly pounding against her inner thighs would make her bed shuffle so quickly, the mattress descending firmly enough to shudder their floor and the adjoining wall with his rhythm. For such a heavy downward stroke, he must be on top. I picture her legs wrapped around his waist.

But it's only the pumping I hear. She's quiet. Housemate modesty? But the fucking that she's getting is solid, confident, steady. She's getting taken. Her eyes must be screwed tight as she resists crying out because his cockhead is meeting her cervix with every rapid stroke. And then her moan. It's brief but deep, and silence soon follows. They're cuddling.

I drift into sleep, my cock rigid and thick, the cat purring contentedly.

7am. I've just begun waking, the cat beside me, emerging from a dream about painting.

The room is blue with morning, and my eyes open at the sound of more music from above me. The bed is moving again. The tempo is a little slower, a little more casual following last night's hunger and insistence, but the passion is still evident. After sleep, my guess is that she's more relaxed because she's much more vocal now, moans and gasps and whimpering cries echoing quietly.

The movement of her bed 'feels' more horizontal than vertical, so as I listen and as my awakening cock begins to swell against my thigh, I'm sensing that she's climbed on top of him. Did she awake first and begin to suck his dick? I remember having been awaken in such a way, and how Diva would climb on top of me for her pleasure.

Is her chest pressed to his? As he hardens for her, I picture her reaching for his rigidness underneath her as she straddles him on the wayward sheets, guiding his cockhead into herself, her hair tussled from sleep. I picture her laying upon him, his hands holding her supple ass as he fucks her from below. Now who is taking whom?

The bed shifts repeatedly above me, and her moans are delicious to hear. Now fully awake, I start to stroke myself as I completely enjoy her throaty pleasure. He's silent, the bed stops moving, but her groaning continues. I see her grinding herself down to him, her hips circling, her pussy getting filled as his cock swirls deeply in her depths.

And then, for the first time, a manly groan. He's cumming. He's cumming inside her. It falls to quiet, and then giggling, and then the tender thrum of lover's talk. I hear feet pad from a bed across the floor. I hear the upstairs shower go on.

I pull myself from the bed, my cock rigid and thick, the cat mewling for breakfast.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Teacher likes bad boys.

When there are decent dating sites out there, sometimes I wonder why I still bother with Craigslist. Maybe its because the anarchic nature of it appeals to my sexual politics. Maybe its because, while there are definitely some lunatics on there and one's screening process really needs to be acute, there are also Morgans and Stacys who can make the winnowing worthwhile.

Moving forward from my more recent misdventures in dating (have you seen that new reference in the updated header?), I cast a net for the helluvit recently, wondering if an option other than one-night stands might actually be out there. I really didn't expect any replies. I received eight. Of them, it's been with Karen that I've enjoyed some hysterically fun and funny emails over the last few days.

An early50s blue-eyed, longhaired blonde, happily divorced schoolteacher, Karen may be a wee bit older than I, but we seem to have empowered singledom in common and she's intelligent, outspoken, and wellness-positive. Despite the charming pictures she's sent me however, I know precious little about her physically other than her hair and... that she's "proudly endowed" with 34G breasts. Good God.

Being a man who's usually attracted to more modestly adorned ladies, the light dinner we're planning for this evening should be interesting. But, hey, if the attraction turns out to be mutual, I'm all for diversity, because her smarts and attitude already have me smirking. Which, frankly, considering the kind of women I've been meeting lately, would be a plus.

That, and the confessed fact that she loves to suck cock.

I had told her about my past as a phonesex worker, and she responded to say that during a recent "wild women's weekend" with her "accountant friends" (oh, how that got my sarcasm going...) she and her buds had been discussing setting up that very thing. Must be the economy. So, upon hearing about my former semi-sexworker status there, her interest was piqued.

"I am one of those girls attracted to the bad boys!!" she had emailed me. "And the phone sex... now THAT makes me curious, hungry, and... well.. HOT. Sex is all about having fun, and driving your partner WILD, and it's a neverending adventure. Well, I really do want to hear a PROFESSIONAL in action... so, how much do you charge, mister? Could I afford the very best?"

We spoke for the first time last night, and the truth is that I really wasn't planning on pursuing anything randy. We talked about her kids, our exes, Jonathan Kozol's work about race and funding in American schools, what we like about being single and what we'd like to see in possible future partners. We laughed about "wild women accountants." We flirted casually. And then I asked a fateful question. Honestly, I was just curious.

"So, what are you wearing?"

A deep chuckle came from her throat. "Um... I'm naked. On the bed."

Relaxing on my futon, I smiled silently and nodded. "Oh, really? Did something inspire you?"

"Uh huh. And I have a little toybox here. Do you wanna play?"

I blinked. Ooo. Ok...

I had been working out earlier, and was clad only in a pair of my alma mater sweatpants. I smirked, lay back on the futon, and felt the slight twitch through my awakening dick under the white cotton. I hadn't enjoyed a phonesex session since a chat late last summer with Carly, I've missed it with Shayne, and it felt overdue.

"Tell me about your toy," I asked, smirking.

"Is it ok with you? It's not too kinky for you if I use one, is it?" she asked, sounding defensively concerned.

If she only knew. I tried to stifle a laugh. "Um... no, it's not weird for me... at all." Already, I was asking myself when I was due for my next shipment from VibeReview, what she might like if we actually did hit it off well (am I generous, or what?), and whether or not I would share this blog with her. "Uh, relax, no, you go right ahead." She sounded relieved, as if I taken an old burden off of her shoulders. I liked that.

I reached into my sweats and gently tugged my growing cock as I listened to Karen, this delighfully randy blonde-blue-eyed schoolteacher, play with herself. Really, what a privilege it is to enjoy listening, watching, a woman explore herself. I smiled as I listened to her sighs and how her breathing became softly ragged.

"I'd like to tell you that I'm really wet," she breathed. I thought about our emails over the last few days. Nothing explicit, but funny and flirty.

"Mmm. Have you been fantasizing about me, schoolteacher?"

"... Yes."

"I see," I smiled, holding the cordless close to my ear. "So tell me then, what have you been thinking about? ... My cock?"

There was a pregnant pause before the deep inward breath. "...Yes... ... I want... ... ... Can I have it in my mouth?"

Well, my. I lowered the sweatpants to around my ankles as I lay back and relaxed, stroking myself now for true.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, schoolteacher? My cock gets really warm and nicely thick..."

A moan.

"... and you'd like to feel it sliding between your pretty lips, wouldn't you? To feel it throb and pulse on your tongue, feel it twitch, to taste it, know the scent of me is starting to seethe along your wet mouth. Yeah, I think you'd like that."

I could her her breathing quicken. Her staccato rasps told me of the movement of her body as her jilling became faster, hungrier. She was fucking herself with a dildo, likely on her back, her legs spread wide and her long hair scattered across the pillows. I pictured her knees up, her thighs splayed, the blonde racing stripe she had told me of gradually dampening with her desire. It was fun.

"I love sucking cock... I do..."

"I'd want to feel your tongue swirl around the head, feel your wet and sucking mouth..."

A deeper moan. "... I'll suck it deep..."

"I know you will. And I'll gently hold your pretty head in place and fuck that sweet mouth of yours. Suck that cock..."

The groans became more intense. My cock swelled in my first, the spongy head thoroughly enjoying the sensation of my closed fingers as I pumped my fist. We stopped speaking for a while, simply listening to one another. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the wicked sensuality of going in this direction with a friendly, but really total, stranger. My own thoughts started drifting into wayside tangents, memories of lovers, memories of phonesex, as I listened to the schoolteacher thrust her dildo deeply into her drenched academic pussy and daydream about blowing my bad boy phallus. I enjoyed her whimpers. She listened to me stroke.

"Would you cum on my face?" she panted, slightly out of breath. "I like... I like..."

And then I heard her cry out, gasp, and shake. When she did, I felt my balls tighten and the happy tubes of my body fill with me as I burst across my abdomen in two or three streams. I growled, panted, and gasped too. She continued to moan quietly as she came down from her crest. Soon after, we were chuckling.

"Goddammit," I said to her in a playful, feigned anger. My fist and abs were soaked with me. "You made a mess. Look at this."

"I love safe sex," she whispered appreciatively, "and it doesn't get any safer than this."

Sunday, February 15, 2009

The razor's edge.

When you're usually up for work and rushing out the door before four o'clock in the morning, it's total decadence to enjoy shaving in the early afternoon, completely taking one's time.

My parlour is thrumming with Peter Gabriel and I'm still tasting my tea as I strip and stroll into my bathroom. The cats slink around my naked calves, mewling to their Daddy. They vanish at the sound of hot water rushing into the sink.

I set the trimmer to the shortest setting and slowly crop my beard until it's just longer than a shadow. When I shower later, I'll be caressing conditioner inside it... experience has taught me that the softer my beard is, scented just slightly with sandalwood and oak moss, the more a lover enjoys my kisses.

Or my passion for gently feasting upon her fabulously flushed, feral folds. We can't have chafed thighs, after all.

Draping a towel across the sink, I tie my hair back, tug my ponytail over my shoulder, and bite the end between my teeth. After aligning the hand-mirror so I can see the back of my head on the wall, I clik the electric razor on and start trimming. I'm making a neat line just under the rear of my ears so that, when the hair is tied up, I won't have tiny strands of hair under the pull-line. When I'm finished, I'll look like an Apache from behind and the upper neck will be smooth and kissable.

Peter is singing about how he loves to be loved. I smile in agreement as I cup handfulls of hot water and caress the back of my neck with it, my jawline, my throat. Rivulets of hot water slither down my back and chest, twitching its way across my nipples. I lather soft vanilla soap in my warm hands. I look into my long-lashed babybrowns as I spread the lather across my face in small circles. The steel blade in my hand gently carves my short fur into a pleasing shape, revealing enough of my face that I'm not hiding, framing my mouth and my cheekbones with supple, teasing brushes of beard.

I splash myself. I can feel the water making a path down my chest, across my abdomen. My cock, soft and thick against my bare scrotum, receives the tiniest rivulet of warm water down its length. I feel a drop against my frenulum. It tickles.

The water curves upward as it follows the contours of my soft skin, and slowly I feel wetness at my full testicles. It's warm and relaxing. While washing my jawline clean, I smile in the gentle pleasure of it. It's worth making the bathroom floor just a little wet.

I enjoy being a man.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Pencil it in.

Now, I ask you, am I the only one who sees something delightfully wicked and disturbing in seeing Friday the 13th precede Valentine's Day?

Tell me this wouldn't make an excellent date for a gothic bdsm playparty. Something I really must remember for 2015.

Is Cupid using broadheads?

"Where would I be without you?" Shayne wrote to me this time last year.

Apart from my lover's birthday, Valentine's Day resonates deeply in my heart as a highlight of the year to share. This annual celebration of love, romance, and sex is something I've long treasured and used as an excuse to pamper my partner silly.

I remember, as a kid in junior high school, going far out of my way to hand-deliver a box of Russell Stover chocolates to a sweet, geeky girl. She was tall, with frosty Farrah Fawcett hair, and she had made eyes to me in gym class. It was raining as I stood at her front door, handing her the box, and she guffawed like... well, like a schoolgirl. It was sickeningly charming. I was totally embarassed.

In high school, I would hide flowers in my leather jacket for chica bonita Mandy and heavy-petting Ambimbola. I would pass Valentine's love notes to headbanger Solange and cocoa-skinned Tinitrias. I would get expensive cosmetics for soft-punky Maria, with whom I would discover the rudiments of phonesex and never lost my crush on. And all the while, mostly in secret, I swooned over hardcore Joan.

In the years we were together, I learned to love making elegant and romantic Valentine's Day dinners for Diva. I would involve her lovely daughter in these culinary decadences, which was always a treat. Long after her wee one was fast asleep with her Teddy Ruxpin and My Little Pony dolls, Mommy and Stepdaddy would languish in their own private celebrations on the colonial waterbed. For seven years we had fantastic sex, and to this day I have known precious few women who possessed oral skills and backdoor desires to match hers.

I loved Diva very deeply, but I was comparibly a boy in those days, and the ending of that relationship initiated me into so many important mysteries of myself as a man and as a lover. After so many years, we're cordial friends now and I'm pleased for it. Her daughter continues to call me Daddy to this day. I never completely fell out of love with her.

I still think of her sometimes, and I miss our better days.

With Heidi, my ex-wife, I discovered the pleasures of Valentine's jacuzzi baths with strawberries and a bottle of Cave Springs chardonnay. We honeymooned at their vineyard estate.

The first Valentine's I shared with the Grrl was amazing. I was in a terrible apartment with some equally terrible housemates, but somehow I managed to make it a winning evening. After picking her up at the airport, roses in hand, I made a sumptuous dinner of garlic steamed mussels, French bread with taramosalata, chicken kiev with cremini mushrooms and lightly buttered cauliflower, and all followed with chocolate mousse made from scratch. I drafted the most charming "menus" for our in-home dinner, written in both English and French.

That was the night I had one of my most memorable sexual experiences ever, after the Grrl and I smoked some herb and polished off some wine in my candle-lit bedroom. The energy was vibrant and resonant between us, and we writhed like lions for hours. I saw stars when she mounted me, slowly gyrating her hips as her thick thighs clutched my own. I felt all the world's tension leave me in a rush as I came during the first of many blowjobs she gave me. I remember her panting voice echoing for me to take her ass as I pumped deeply into her body. I can still remember the scent of the spiced candles in the room, the feel of the sweat at the nape of her neck, the glowing light as I shot images of our passion together. That night was five years ago now, and it's difficult to believe.

Three or four years later, we had our final Valentine's together. We languished in a charming Victorian bed-and-breakfast in a quaint Ontario village, and as it was off-season for tourists, totally enjoyed the whole place to ourselves. We almost peed ourselves laughing when the jacuzzi began overflowing, water and rose petals cascading across ceramic tile and threatening the thick carpeting of the bedroom had I not soaked it up with the Egyptian cotton towels. Like a pair of kids, we had take-out Chinese on the floor beside the bed. A romantic drive along the Lake Ontario coast. Cuddling under thick blankets. The box of Godiva truffles that I graciously allowed our host to mistake as his tip.

I still think of her sometimes, and I miss her when I do. I enjoy nice memories.

... But what I really came here to say is this:

Had my desires come true, right now I would be on Interstate 196 with a dozen roses and a box of panties beside me.

Following my last trip to celebrate Thanksgiving with her and her excellent family, the coming week was supposed to have been my next visit to Chicago to be with Shayne. My plan was to surprise her by arriving early, and sending her a sexy textmessage to join me at Small Bar, one of her favourite haunts. I had thought of taking her to dinner at Coco Pazzo, the elegant cafe where the evening of our first bondage play session began, and from there perhaps to the Galleria Domain dungeon for a night of more intense debauchery.

"Where would I be without you?" she penned in glittery blue ink in the pink Valentine's Day card. Pink is so Shayne. "My anarchic gypsy awakening would be who-knows how long off? I would never have had a delicious 3some! I would still be wondering how kinky I am and still believing the naysayers who mistake poetry for passe`, dreams for immaturity, and magic as fantasy fodder. I would be the unsure, bound up, fear footed wretch I was if not for you. You, with the intoxicating voice. You who makes belief possible. You who listens as well as (if not better than) teaches. You who create surprize when I doubt. You who would never laugh when I pontificate on joy. I love you."

I love you too, baby. I really do.

But, no, that isn't happening. Our romance had ended, and of late we haven't even been in the kind of cordial contact that we both expressed strong desire for. (Although she called me last night and sent me a cute huggy meme thing on Facebook.) Perhaps we're still adjusting, and that can be ok. We're still important to each other, and I don't necessarily need constant assurances to be confident that that remains very true.

I think of her every day, and I miss our romance deeply. I understand what it means to nurture a friendship following romance, and I can happily treasure her as a close friend, though I know I will always love her too. I had really wanted to show Shayne a perfect Valentine's.

I haven't sent her a Valentine's card or gift. I'm respecting "the way things are now." It confuses me because I'm drawn to, but experience has also taught me to step back if I intend to nurture the Best Possible Outcome. Or maybe I'm finally learning something important.

But, perhaps out of simple optimism or for the lark of it all, I've decided that I'm still going to harvest some fun out of Cupid's sacred night as the single man that I am.

Diva, I am told, is single again also, her cigar-puffing boyfriend of these last few years finally scurrying away after she brought up the topic of marriage. Heidi, I am sure, remains with her cuckolded new man in her downtown condo. I wish I knew what was happening with the Grrl, but whatever it is, I'm certain she's found a way to make something spiritual from it.

Shayne, I understand, is delightfully smitten with her new love, a lovely woman who plays viola for a chamber orchestra. I'm happily jealous for the grace and elegance I am certain she finds herself exposed to these days, plus I understand that the lady's quite the cook. Truly and honestly, my heart swells in pleasure for her, and I'm glad she's not enduring the dating headaches I have been of late.

She would probably tell me that I haven't been following my intuition, but since our romance ended, I've been dating up a storm throughout this winter. On some level, she is right, that part of my dating is to distract myself from my wounded heart, and because I knew this Valentine's was approaching. Was I trying to fill a void, or was I opening up to new options and possibilities, allowing myself to have fun for fun's sake? In these last few weeks, I likely would have given different answers depending on my mood.

Shayne can't and won't be "replaced." She's Shayne, and I love her as and because she's Shayne. There are no voids that can be filled, because there are no other pegs to complement those places. There are no other Shaynes any more than there are other Rogues.

A Valentine's with delicious Morgan would have been excellent fun, but as I've written previously, she isn't available. For his sake, I certainly hope her spouse doesn't forget to give her something for Valentine's... as he did with both her birthday and Christmas. God.

This winter, I've dated and had disappointing experiences with Redhead Carla, Control Freak Hannah, and the Insane Iranian. I had an omfg moment with Lee. Stacy remains characteristically elusive. Biting Tina has interest, and I may get together with her later in week, so long as she promises not to treat my nipples like doggy chewtoys.

This winter's experiences have reminded me that dating just to assuage my heart may not be a "wrong" reason, but its not the best reason. Sometimes I forget the benefits of being single and to enjoy the simple pleasure of just meeting, shaking hands, and conversing with interesting women strictly for its own sake. I've always known this, of course, but I find that sometimes its important to remind oneself of these basic truths. It's healthy.

I probably, really, owe it to myself to let go of Shayne completely.

But I'm having a just little bit of trouble with that.

Just so you know.

So, hey, it's Valentine's 2009 and I'm not in Chicago, enjoying laughs and romps in Pixie's delightful bed. So I've decided to do the previously unthinkable. I'm attending a Valentine's single's party tomorrow night, my very first "singles" thang ever. My eyes are already rolling in sarcastic anticipation of a totally vanilla, totally tacky evening of overdressed desperantes swaying their throwback wardrobes to the cat-wranglings of some drunken second-rate wedding band. (But, no, I don't have preconceived notions, nope, none whatsoever. Really.) My intent is to do nothing but simply to have a few drinks, dance a few steps, and maybe enjoy some new introductions. At the very least, it'll beat being around scores of huggy couples at my local haunts.

My Valentine's date is me, and dammit, I'm a fucking good time.

In praise of love incarnate.


Leave Crete and come to us waiting where the grove is pleasantest,
by precincts sacred to you; incense smokes on the altar,
cold streams murmur through the apple branches,
a young rose thicket shades the ground
and quivering leaves pour down deep sleep;
in meadows where horses have grown sleek
among spring flowers, dill scents the air.

Queen! Cyprian!

Fill our gold cups with love stirred into clear nectar!


- Sappho


Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Le Salon de Punition avec Alise et Vivienne: une fantaisie.

A slow and gentle snow whisked against the panes as I awaited you.

Beaumonde, long my family's manservant, had seen to it that the crystal was filled with one of the estate's finer vintages, that the fire was suitably roaring, the bedding properly turned, the glass oil lanterns suitably filled. I smiled as I stood at the window, observing the chestnut mares weave your carriage through the snowy and dormant garden. It had taken more than a little intrigue to arrange for this night.

"The evening's pets have arrived, Beaumonde," I purred over my shoulder. "Do straighten my waistcoat and then attend to them." He nodded, only the barest amount of powder from his wig sifting into the air as he did so. Having first refilled me, I savoured the wine on my lips as he departed with a quiet bow.

I heard the door in the foyer open, and tried to decide whose giggle it was I heard. You both had been to my home before, but never before together, and while your own family estates were leagues apart from one another, I knew that our common interest would make for a most neighbourly, if scandalous, evening.

I listened to your approach up the stairs, my back to the door as Beaumonde opened it. I continued enjoying the sight of the soft snow, the smile on my face likely reflected on the glass. All of our eyes met through our reflections upon the glistening pane when my manservant opened the parlour. Our eyes laughed together, only your shoes creaking the wooden floor and the crackling fire filling our ears.

"The ladies madame Alise and mademoiselle Vivienne, sir."

I turned, my smile unflinching. "Thank you, Beaumonde. The wine, if you please, and then you may retire to the ballroom unless and until summoned for."

"Sir," he repeated, and served you wine from the silver platter that the king himself had bestowed upon my uncle so many years before. Bowing first to me and then, perhaps for a moment too long, before each of you, he closed the door behind him and finally, we were alone together. No more pretenses, no more deceits in Paris, no unchaste smiles reserved from public view by the flurring of a fan or lace kerchief. The three of us alone in the parlour, far from the capital. At last.

My bow felt deliciously tawdry, an elegant ritual that almost contrasted with the purpose of our fair salon. Your returning curtsies seemed equally naughty, like a flash of ankle under a virgin's pannier. The fire glistened upon the buckles of my shoes as I stepped forward, taking each of your hands for a tender kiss. Your faces were clearly flushed already.

"
Candide, then?" I asked you, Alise. "You expressed such admiration for Voltaire, and I'm afraid even saucier works are difficult to come by in Marseilles. I suspect his adventures, and Miss Cunegund's torments, shall keep us aptly entertained... whilst the mademoiselle bares herself from her lovely petticoats."

From deep downstairs, the quiet echo of the harpsichord daintily filled the house as Beaumonde began playing a Spanish sonata. Soler, whose compositions were deemed plebian by the less than sensual, enriched my sense of bawdiness for the evening. Beaumonde played him rythmically.

Our affair unfolded charmingly, the two of you elegant ladies and me. With superb wine and cordial conversation, we discussed the affairs of the day, matters of art and state, religion and poetry, and all the while catching knowing and flirtacious glances to one another. Madame Alise, you looked resplendent in your silken corsetry of emerald hue, your luxurious golden locks cascading upon your bare shoulders like mythic fleece from a Mediterannean island. And you, naughty Vivienne, your dark curls tried vainly to hide your blushing face as your beating heart thundered under your peach chemise. Even Alise indulged in the occasional leer toward you, and I myself enjoyed watching the licking of her painted lips when she would discretely glance upon your heaving bosom, dear Vivienne.

And then the churchtower struck ten and all fell silent and ominous between us.

Beaumond's playing continued unabated, gentle and ethereal, elsewhere in the house, but the echoing chimes resounded through the icy trees and windswept fields outside. The agreed hour had come, and the three of us knew perfectly well what would follow, as arranged from the many secret notes we had shared over the weeks before. I stood, reached for the bookcase, and handed you, Alise, the volume bound in soft, red deerskin. Your smile was scandalous.

"But first, monsieur, the basket, oui?" you asked. I nodded with a grin. Poor Vivienne only sat still, her breath quickening. Her eyes blinked in anticipation.

You stood and located the wicker chest on the floor beside the fire. From inside, you withdrew the thick, burgundy Oriental ropes, soft and heavy velvet, tassled with small bells of ivory and silver, and stood with them before tender Vivienne. She raised herself, and you assisted her in the gentle removal of her bodices and skirts, revealing her intimate chemise. She blushed all the more, and knowing the game, you then bound her wrists with the ropes fashioned by hands from mysterious China. I sat on the chaise beside the window, where I have always sat for the torment of my pets.

You gently eased tender Vivienne across my lap. Her hands dangled to the floor, bound at the wrists. Once placed, you bound her ankles as well, assuring that her balance was so slightly off.

"Please read, darling Alise," I softly spoke to you, my hands resting on Vivienne's back. You smiled, sipped the wine, sat near the fire, eased the volume open, and began.


"The baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for his castle had not only a gate, but even windows, and his great hall was hung with tapestry. He used to hunt with his mastiffs and spaniels instead of greyhounds, and his groom served him for huntsman..."

I pet your hair, sweet Vivienne, my attentions to you as you lay upon my legs. Your curls sifted across the rings on my fingers as my free hand gently caressed your exposed ankles. That hand soon began slowly drawing your hem upward, your milky calves revealed, the rear of your knees, those magnificently tender thighs graced to you by Our Lord God, and finally...

"My lady baroness was a person of no small consideration, and then she did the honors of the house with a dignity that commanded universal respect. Her daughter was about seventeen years of age, fresh colored, comely, plump, and desirable..."

"Oh, Vivienne," I softly whispered. "How blessed by heaven you are. Such a derriere deserves painful and yearning praise by cloisters of frustrated monks from all over fair France."

The winter wind whisked more ice and snow upon the leaded windowpanes as I raised my hand and administered the first strike of the evening. The seam of your saucily exposed round bottom was met with four firm fingers and a flattened palm, the sharp crispness of its smack only matched by the snapping wet logs in the fire. You shook, cried out, and were still. Alise paused, perhaps to look up from her vellum pages before returning to read aloud. I am certain that I witnessed a grin.

"The baron’s son seemed to be a youth in every respect worthy of the father he sprung from. Candide thought Miss Cunegund excessively handsome, though he never had the courage to tell her so..."

Caressing your tender skin, shameful Vivienne, brought such swelling under my breeches. How I adore the feel of the breach between your budding cheeks. Whilst my striking palm continued to rain tender torment upon you, I became doubtless that my pike could be felt stabbing upward to your covered navel. Was it the fire that brought droplets to my brow? Had I too much wine already? Between strikes, both fierce and fluttering, your warm and curvaceous bottom became my north star, guiding me toward pleasures deep withn my breast as I exposed and explored you in a fashion only known to the rudest of Versailles ladies.


"As Miss Cunegund had a great disposition for the sciences, she observed with the utmost attention to her experiments. Quite pensive and filled with the desire of knowledge, she imagined she might be a sufficing reason for young Candide, and he for her. When she happened to meet the young man, she blushed, and he blushed also. She wished him a good morning in a flattering tone..."

I smiled to beautiful Alise as she read on, and enjoyed the sparkle in her seductive eyes as she shared my visual pleasure in your lovely arse, Vivienne. I smirked as I listened to her alluring throat dry itself in the warmth of the room, and for witnessing our activities, and paused to taste my wine when she did the same to aid her voice. But you, raven-haired vixen, not so virtuous Vivienne, you hung unsteadily tense and firm across my knees as you awaited my next blow. When it came, fast and harsher than before, raining haughty evil upon your mother's baby's skin, you could not help yourself but raise your head high in your exquisite distress to look straight into Madame Alise's conspiratorial face as you screamed aloud. You continued to cry out as my hand became a savage blur, your head shaking from one side to another as I held you tightly. Your whimpering, sniffling screams, your pants and sudden gasps for merciful air, your tearful pleas resounded throughout my parlour to little avail. There was even the briefest pause from the far ballroom as Beaumonde likely heard you as well.


"The next day, as they were rising from dinner, Cunegund and Candide slipped behind the screen. The miss dropped her handkerchief, the young man picked it up. She innocently took hold of his hand, and he as innocently kissed hers with a warmth, a sensibility, a grace, and their lips met. Their eyes sparkled. Their knees trembled. Their hands strayed..."

I caught my breath as I paused. I wiped my brow with a kerchief. I slowly caressed your burning seam. Your flesh is aflame with loving punishment.

In an act of the utmost rudeness and manly daring, an act which would scandalize the lot of your entire family history were it to become known in the streets, I then teased your nethermost flower, obedient Vivienne, your petals, and from which withdrew a lustful fingertip of Venus' own nectar from your most secret of jewels. Lifting the offending finger to my gaze, I admired the gloss upon my flesh with lamplight. With a gentle moan from deep within me, I then committed the most profane act of indulgence to paint the very underside of your tender chin with this, your own elixir. Can you not feel how your torment entices you to sin? Can you not love the incubus who escorts you into your desired perdition? Your womanhood is as a moonlit field on a warm early May morning, though your dew is not the fruit of kisses or love notes or poems from unrequited farmboys, but from the firmness of my punishing hand feeling, striking, opening, taunting, probing, and using your ladyship's exquisite and beautiful derriere for my own pestilent pleasure.

With a soft caress, I eased the discomfort upon your fiery flesh, for by now your skin glowed like the smouldering coals beside Alise. I eased you to the floor as she lowered the book to her lap, and the three of us smiled to one another in a tender silence. You raised your wrists to me with a pleading look in your eyes, and I undid the magnificent Peking bonds. I permitted you to withdraw the ropes from your ankles by yourself, and you seemed to enjoy this moment of return to your more courtly, more respectable sense of presence. Offering you my hand, we stood together, and only then did we share a kiss.

Alise waited, enjoying the lovliness. I motioned my eyes toward her, and as I sipped the wine from the crystalware, you carried the ropes back to her. Even in your crumpled chemise, smarting with the sting of my love, you were as regal as any lady of His Majesty's court.

But you too knew the next step in our salon, in our game. As if on cue, your eyes met with Alise's just as the churchtower in the village began to strike the eleventh hour. With a smirk upon your face and a flutter of your dark eyes, you held the burgundy ropes before our panting reader of Voltaire.

"Madame Alise," you whispered as you reached for her wrist. "Monsieur believes it is now my turn to be reading aloud."




© 2009. All rights to text reserved. Portions quoted from Voltaire's Candide, public domain.

This is completely gratuitous.

I enjoy porn. So do you.

But, perhaps unlike others who make picture catalogs of their sexblogs, 'sharing faves' and the like, I prefer to use a hot pic to enhance or illustrate something else in the story that I'm sharing with you.

So if I find myself making a small exception and simply offering a hot visual for the hot visual's sake, I hope you'll agree that it'll be worthwhile...

I think there's something worshipful, sensual, but also intensely hot about watching my lover's face when she climaxes. And, I ask you, is there anything more arousing than a woman in the fullness of her sexual, shameless confidence?

I can't embed this video, and the provider will likely keep it freely available for only a brief time, but trust me on this...

She wants you to watch. Give her what she wants.


Sunday, February 8, 2009

Please pardon our appearance.

Rogue looks up, sees you strolling in, and sets down the tea he's been sipping from his nifty pottery mug.

Oh, hey, hi, c'mon in!

Great to see you. Hey, you look good... how've you been? Help yourself to a croissant.

Don't mind the mess... I'll be tweaking the site off and on throughout the afternoon, so things may look a little weird for a short while. I'm trying to figure out how to get a picture into the header bar and improve some of the blogroll links. But rest assured that all the posts are working just fine, so you just go right ahead, scroll down, and enjoy. If you're here with your partner, help yourself to the bedroom... I just changed the sheets to the awesome high-count silk ones. They're sooo nice.

I especially like the recent post about spanking... check it out! And sometime soon, I'll tell you about my latest date with a mid40s Iranian artist...

And leave a comment, willya? After all, I showed you mine...

Great croissants, huh?


Saturday, February 7, 2009

On spanking.

"Why do you enjoy spanking so much?"

As I turned the car onto Queen Street, my beautiful and delicious friend Morgan asked me a question that immediately had my penis, pressed against my thigh in my tight Lee's, swelling. Spanking. Oh baby.

"God," I said, smiling, palming the wheel. "Just hearing you ask me that is getting me hard."

She blinked, surprised, and smirked. "Really?" I looked at her and nodded mischievously.

Every time we get together for one of our lunch dates, the thought of having Morgan draped over my lap again, on my bed or on the futon in the den, comes to mind. At this point, we've been together socially more often than sexually, and while she's somewhat off-limits at the moment, I still enjoy tawdry memories. Gently tugging her panties down her thighs, revealing her delicious backside. I want to spank her again. Often.

Mmm.

While there is debate about whether or not power-exchange fantasies in themselves consist of a paraphiliac mental disorder, researchers often agree that many sexual fantasies begin during childhood. I find it curious that often these early childhood-based fantasies frequently seem to have more to do with power structures than genitalia. Could it be that, in not necessarily comprehending the details about penises and vulvae, but in comprehending the differences between submissive and dominant social roles, do very young humans thereby sexualize the environments they are most familiar with? Do heinies stimulate even before wee-wees and woo-woos?

They certainly did with me. Speaking from my own sexual development as a child, I remember finding behinds fascinating even before I completely comprehended what dicks and pussies were all about. I remember innocent kiddie games of "House" that somehow included "Nap Time," which somehow included some amount of sensual cuddling with Elizabeth the babysitter. Over time, this would become kiddie games of "Doctor," especially with a childhood friend (whose nickname really was), Binky. I remember one session of "Doctor" where, in our purely childhood-consensual, positive-and-healthy body-discovering explorations, she bared her behind to me for an "examination." It was the first time I had seen a girl's underwear, a girl's bum, more, and it struck me like a thunderbolt. Sure, there were genitals to be viewed by my plate-sized, healthfully curious eyes... but it was her heinie that so enraptured me. The curves, the curves.

Was it because my kiddie brain wasn't quite comprehending "labial mound" yet, but oh how I comprehended "behind"?

Not long after those experiences is probably when my childlike sexual imagination went into gear, and I remember having the most bizarre and imaginative fantasies that usually involved observing girls in their panties. Panties started to excite the hell out of me, and long before I had ever heard of Playboy my barely pubescent self was having heart palpatations over the women's underwear pages of the J.C. Penney's catalog. Ah, innocence.

What I would have given in those days if the Super X-Ray Specs advertised in the back of Spiderman and Thor comics were really true. I bet almost every boy who could read has had the same damned thought.

You can see them in their panties...

Not entirely unlike Jade Chan hentai (which I only recently discovered), among my more intense proto-spanking childhood fantasies involved conveyor belt devices. Big, ornate conveyor belt devices. Conveyor belt devices where sniffling, submitting girls would be "forced" to endure having their pants lowered, followed by the panties, and then yielding to swats and "Doctor"-like "examinations." Pinches. Measurements. Thermometers. Baby powdering.

Looking back on this as an adult, I think it shows a lot of sexual imagination, but I also think these were the foundations for some of my Topspace. These fantasies were all about power, and all about a boyish passion for the feminine derriere. To this day, while I'm adept at the use of crops and chains and floggers and whips and clamps and other delicious toys of torment... my favourite kinky niche remains good ol' fashioned OTK play. I needs to see the butt.

When I bounced the clubs, when I attended the playparties, sometimes I felt just slightly apart from my leather colleagues. Most of my friends were interested in glorious bondage techniques or developments in electro-stimulation play, or something else that was very esoteric. I enjoyed these things also, but sometimes it seemed like the simple pleasures of hoisting a willing, skirt-clad tart over my knee seemed, well, vanilla by comparison.

...That is, until the night Diva and me attended a private party where our play was the centre of attention, with her on all fours on an ornate Oriental rug, our hosts and their guests seated on chairs surrounding us, as I spanked and cropped her bare bottom hot and red and angry.

I have daydreams of organizing a private spanking club, hosting private playparties for OTK enthusiasts. I've wanted to do this with a kinky partner at my side (and over my knee), but I may even try on my own.

Discovering my sexuality, I found asses and anuses captivating long before other elements of a woman's sexybits ever sparked in my libido. Saying I'm an "ass man" is too general... it's virtually the root of my lust, and I think it's because it grips me somewhere deep in my medulla where only the oldest, most primal of my sexual awarenesses remain.

So part of the reason why I love to spank is the sheer devotion my sex has for a beautiful woman's behind. I've written before about how I see learning a woman's anus is to learn the most intimate part of her, and God knows I adore sexual intimacy. I could devote hours to sensually snaking myself around, upon, with my partner's bum, raining it with nibbly kisses and bites and explorations with warm, relaxed, friendly hands. To begin gently spanking my partner's bottom is for me to become entranced with the movement of her muscles and skin, the way her flesh yields and ripples and returns, to enjoy the gradual glow on her dermis, to hold her as she sighs and breathes and gasps. The curves, the curves.

When she's across my lap, I love the feel of her ribcage trapped between my bicep and my chest as I bend forward, my face even closer to her derriere, clutching her firmly as my free hand rains delicious torment to her. I love the feel of her imbalance as her toes strain for the floor, her hands grip the legs of the wooden chair we're upon. I love the yelps and the bleats and the sharp intakes of breath. I love feeling her slick wetness between her thighs after she's been given a good reddening, and then the blushing on her face and in her eyes as I bring moist webs of her excitement across her ashamed cheeks, ashamed for being so excited from being so punished. And so another part of it is the naked domination, the act of controlling, the administering of consensual wrath, escorting her through her own sensual shadows.

And then there's the element that's simply playful fun, in that grown-up version of cowboys-and-indians kind of way. The dress-up that comes with games like Student And University Professor, or Rush Pledge And Frathouse, or Ale Wench And Highwayman (an especially fun game for larger and buxom partners), Inefficient Secretary, and more. The role-play. The power of masks. Cosplay.

I love it when my partner feels so safe that she completely lets go and drifts into her own sexually submissive bliss, her body becoming relaxed and accepting of her fate as my toy, my pet, my tenderest source of care and admonition. I smile deep into my sexual spirit when her own lust sifts free, when her hips begin raising her lovely ass in higher poise, wanting to be spanked, needing to be spanked, deserving to be spanked. When her need to satisfy my desire becomes such a hunger, when her ass has reached its limit for punishment to the point where it's dropping to her knees to passionately, wetly suck my thick cock that becomes a craving.

How I love to catch my breath as I tower over her, her as she kneels crumpled and soaked on the floor, her fiery-red ass shaking as her beautiful mouth thanks me for delivering the attention that she's been longing for. I like to have her hold her own ass at such moments, to feel the burning heat that sheds itself from her tender body, as my cock gently taps moist hardness on her beautiful, sexy, worshipful, slutty face.

Or turning her over on her belly, raising that raging behind into the air and taking her. Fucking her hard, feeling that fire against my own thighs as my cock searches and swells deeply inside her. To give her another reason to scream my name into a pillow, or against a wall, or across a kitchen table, or upon the dripping tile in the shower, or into the blackness of the starlit woods with the dry leaves between our toes and not another living human soul for miles in every direction.

Yes.

Spanking Shayne was always fun, and I didn't get to do it nearly enough, or often enough with her in her schoolgirl uniform, or simply nearly as vigorously as I wanted to. The Grrl realy liked a solid spanking, especially when she felt my hard cock against her as she lay splayed across my lap. And then, long before any of these excellent ladies, my first love, Diva, of whom I have yet to write anything of substance, enjoyed spanking to the full.

I may not have been Diva's first spanker, but I'm confident that in what was our seven-year relationship, I was among her most memorable. I escorted Diva into a dimension of spanking so intimate that she wouldn't be fully, wholly complete with the end of a session until she was shaking and in tears, her ass devilishly red, her labia puffy and glowing with excitement. I spanked Diva in private, before audiences of masturbating men and women in BDSM clubs and in private parties. When our relationship ended, she was posting fetish networking sites for a new partner that could fulfill her need for "an attitude adjustment." Without spitefulness, sometimes like to think she never quite found again what she lost.

Given the opportunity, there are some sexblogging friends whom I would love to introduce to a view of the floor as they dangled across my lap. The deliciously alluring Coy Pink. The vivacious Swingerwife. The extraordinary and breathtaking Ms. Inconspicuous. The electric, sensual sexblog matriarch Catalina Loves. Would you ladies care to come into my parlour? I have something special for you.

The sensuality. The beauty of her lower body. The grace of her form. The intimate and raw discovery. The curves. The taking. The imaginative games. The childhood excitement. The power. These are reasons why I like to spank.

"It's like fucking," I said to Morgan, my hands leaving the wheel long enough to grip the air, full-palmed and open-fingered, as if I would grip her lovely hips. "It's a taking, something passionate." The act of fucking, to fuck a woman, to take a woman, to hold her firmly and tug her toward you as your swelling, twitching, living hardness is slipping past and through her tender, wet flesh and into her tight, yearning core of femininity. To fuck, to be fucking, to fuck her good.

After responding to her question, there was the briefest pause as I turned the car onto Bloor Street. It was snowing. Morgan smiled and nodded as she digested my answer.

"Mmm. Yeah," she finally said. "And getting fucked is pretty awesome too."