Happy Thanksgiving, America.

Thanks, Mac.

Hey. Remember me?

Yeah, I've been wondering where I've been too.

Truth is, it's been tough to keep the blog updated lately, partially because I have yet to replace my home puter. But here's just a little heads-up to share that that may be amended very soon now.

Stay tuned!

Coming up for air.

I know. I know. Apart from some straightforward images (as enjoyable as they are) and public notebook quips (all conversations guaranteed overheard), I've hardly blogged at all lately.

But believe me when I tell you that that isn't because things have been quiet over here at Rogue Enterprises, International. Oh no, baby.

So I'm taking this brief moment to come up for air and share with you that these last two or three weeks have been extraordinary, and so far they're capping what became one of the most sensually outstanding summers I've enjoyed in a long time. God knows how long it's going to take me to share it all with you, but I'm going to enjoy trying.

I've already shared the most recent experiences with my amazing friend and occasional partner, the Tomboy, and when it was good over a few inspired days, with Cupcakes. I have yet the share the sordid, delicious details involving two surprises: a never-saw-it-coming re-meeting tryst with Molly again, and encountering a deliciously charming, cosmopolitan, and elegant former hippie, Rose Red, who came to me through (to my pleasant surprise) reading this blog. Glorious and extraordinary lovers, excellent people, all. Yum!

Also keeping me smiling is having encountered and begun enjoying the company of the people behind the Ontario branch of the Human Awareness Institute. Along with several other body-positive associations that you'll see listed on the "Sexual Wellbeing" column to the right, HAI has begun to deeply intrigue me. It isn't only very rarely that I choose to plug some organization or enterprise, but having begun experiencing what these people have to say has definitely raised my spirits.

Briefly, the Human Awareness Institute facilitates a series of workshops that, in my view, can be incredibly relevant for couples and singles of any preference who are looking to expand upon their relationship communication skills and individual self-awareness. I encountered them following an introductory workshop presented at a Unitarian Universalist church (not that HAI is religious in any way), and later participated in a weekend camping retreat event they've developed. As one who is drawn to sensual expression and relationships dynamics issues in general, it was a no-brainer for me to take a closer look at their platform and process, and I'm very pleased to have done so. Heartily recommended.

And then there are the more private hot tub and sauna parties that I've been enjoying lately with other new friends. Life is grand, sensually grand.

Do I sound boastful? Not trying to. Just enjoying Her gifts.

Through various people, I've been enjoying more discourse about subjects relevant to polyamory, and I suspect they'll make for excellent thought and reading here in due time. A few sexuality-related news items have been hitting the papers in my region that I also think deserve some attention.

Halloween is coming. There's a wide variety of sex-positive and fetish-related events happening here in Toronto, and I'm still deciding where I'll be. But one thing I know I'll be doing is making my 2011 blog anniversary post, where I enjoy sharing updates with you about the people you've been reading about over the last year.

But, in time, soon, there is someone else I would really enjoy introducing you to. She's a mid30s shorthaired actor who has to be among the most sensual and breathtaking creatures I have ever known, and she has me completely smitten.

And I may well be falling in real love again. Yeah.

Her name is Dorian.

Panties and petroleum.

At the King Street border between the pretentious, yuppie, upstart Liberty Village and the historic, downtrodden, depressed Parkdale 'hoods of Toronto stands a high-walled, gated, ominous compound. It's the city's Road Operations and Transportation Services building, where the heavy machinery and working vehicles that maintain the city's streets are kept. Inside, boiler room dispatch offices respond to emergency calls regarding flooding, fallen trees, and other city problems.

My current work routine takes me past this building several times a day. And every single time, I'm reminded of the Grrl. It isn't just because the West Queen West pad that we shared is only a few blocks away; that happened later. It's because of the dark evening when we were inside that compound together and where I first saw her (mostly) bare body.

Flute was a friend of mine. A sometime handyman and fulltime freespirit, he played a charming First Nations flute when he wasn't helping someone put up drywall. He worked inside this compound at the time, handling dispatch calls to ferry emergency repair vehicles to Toronto homeowners who were freaking out over this thing or another. And he had access to city vehicles.

My situation was different then. I didn't own a car at the time. For reasons that escape me, I was unable to pick the Grrl up from the airport, and Flute was more than happy to offer me a ride with a van that he was using regularly. He and I had a bond about the women in our lives, and he was totally cool with helping me out when it came to Someone Important Coming To Visit.

It was the first time she had come to Canada, the first time we would be together. After our first meeting, we were touch-and-go for a while as she mediated matters with a previous partner. By the time we were planning her visit, she had left that boyfriend and I was excited to pieces about the all-clear signal.

I remember watching her stroll down the walkway at the airport. The roses I gave her. Our first, real kiss. Taking her and her luggage to That Van.

That Van was not exactly a chartered limousine. A bluecollar working vehicle, it was an awful shade of sky blue with countless scuffs and dents and marks and stains. The interior was packed with plumbing and electrical equipment, used rags, safety gear, hardhats. Flute was a smoker, so on the grimy dash was a mayhem of crushed Du Maurier boxes and snubbed filters along with the old Pepsi cans and dozens of torn road maps, fuel receipts, work orders, and the like. Both the seats and flooring were stained and worn. A side mirror was cracked. Rust bordered the double panel doors on the side. And throughout it all, the lingering, dense odor of old oil, gasoline, kerosine. It was a scent that was so deep that it almost had a texture, as if you could feel it entering into the pores on your face if you found yourself around it for too long.

Romantic, no?

I loaded the Grrl's luggage into a reasonably clean spot in the back, she found some acceptable space on the rear benchseat, and the three of us laughed as we pulled away from the airport.

She was hungry. I already planned on taking her to dinner, but as it turned out, traffic had kept Flute away from his duties longer than he had hoped. It became necessary for him to stop by the Road Operations compound for a short while. The Grrl smiled through the minor inconvenience. We decided to do dinner first, after this detour, and go back to my pad later.

It was growing dark. After we pulled into the compound, Flute secured a gate behind us and parked That Van in a small alley before he dashed into an office for almost an hour.

The Grrl and I relaxed, talked, passed the time. We kissed some more. I was feeling the first stirrings of what would become one of the deepest love affairs of my life.

Practical-minded, the Grrl asked me to fetch a few things from her luggage. Since we were doing dinner first, she decided to change clothes. Here and now. Then and there. In a dirty van that was parked in a narrow alley between two foreboding municipal buildings, on a stained and cruddy backbench. I fumbled a little in the twilight, but found and returned with some fresh pants and a very bohemian sweater.

Still seated, she smiled. Both of the van's center doors were wide open as I then watched her slowly remove the black Tshirt she was wearing to reveal a tight sportsbra. We talked, casually. She kept smiling. She removed her Doc Martens to lower the khaki camoflage pants she had on, leaning back into the seat as she reached for her belt buckle. She kept looking into my eyes, smiling as I listened to the clink of metal clasps, the zing of a lowering zipper. I smiled back as she raised her beautiful, broad ass from the dingy seat and started to wiggle the pants down her legs.

Her radiant, slate eyes. Her thighs. Black thong. Her facing me, her legs open as her knees were level to my eyes as she took the pants from my hand.

The mound between her thighs. The bulge and the faint hint of seam, barely made out in the dark.

She put on the pants. Flute would return shortly after.

Changing into dinner clothes on the stained seat of a workhorse van, and all the while beaming with a wide, toothy smile as she watched me watch her. That's the kind of woman she is, and why it became so easy for me to go crazy over her.

Later, I would learn all about that mound, that bulge, that seam. I would learn all about the way the Grrl's outer labia would flush several shades of red when she got excited, hot, wet, and how that labia would swell like two crescent-shaped pillows. I would learn all about the way the flesh of her cunt would resemble a short-stemmed tulip, as if the flower were simply laid upon her body, the petals ensconcing the tender clitoris that I would enslave myself to for the next several years.

I really miss giving her head. And how she would do me too.

The sex we shared that night was extraordinary. We simply kissed and caressed for longer than I could remember. We smoked some dope, listened to soothing yoga music, and entwined for hours upon hours. I relished in her joy to be taken in her ass, and loved how she moaned deeply as she had me, her eyes crushed tight and her teeth biting her lower lip as she felt my calves to her thighs while I slowly and deeply thrust. She would breathe deeply and groan when I would stop to lay still on top of her back. I remember the soothing, complete pleasure I felt to have my bodyweight on her, holding her, my legs snaked around hers, my fingers massaging her scalp through her short, auburn hair as her opened sphincter gripped the very root of me tightly, snugly, warmly when I filled her with my total all.

Between wine and cannabis and sensuality and beauty, we didn't simply "see God." We became God. Kali and Shiva.

And it began with that moment of seeing her bare legs, her thigh, her underwear in that most unsexy of places. That unsexiest of places that, of late, I pass every day, several times a day.

Wow. That was at least seven or eight years ago.

Yeah. I miss her. Still.

Butt of course.

I planned on greeting her with barbecued steaks during the previous night, but her ride from eastern Ontario was so grueling for her that they turned into a grilled steak and egg breakfast that morning. We hadn't seen one another for a few months, and Nothing Happened during her last visit, so since she was passing through town again she enjoyed telling me that we had some unfinished business.

Since our breakup some years ago, the Tomboy and I have developed a really nice, relaxed friends-with-benefitship. We relate completely as poly people and kinkster Tops, and she has this way of dragging me to motorcycle rides or deepearth caving events or scuba sessions and other stuff that really is quite the awesome.

And yes: there is the occasional moment when I regret having broken up with her. I like to think that that's pretty good praise.

The previous night, we caught up. She told me all about her new dude, a subbie kinkster who's made quite the name for himself in the academic military history world and who recently returned from a tour in Afganistan. She beamed about the new Harley that I heard her roar into my driveway with. We talked about her presence on this blog and how she enjoyed it. She languished on the futon and read the erotic anthology that I've recently been published in. We slept, spooning. Cats awakening us with the sun. I was up earlier, so I fed the furrybeasts so she could sleep late. Her blearily wandering out of bed in one of my tshirts, her lengthening hair wayward and tussled. The steak and eggs on the deck. Showers.

I'm sipping tea on the parlour futon when she's bent over and rifling through her backpacks and travel bags to fetch some bike event swag that she wants to show me. She's wearing camoflage panties now and I'm enjoying the sight of her strong thighs and round ass in them. I'm smiling.

"So," I find myself spontaneously asking, straightfowardly, casually, the mug to my lips, "wanna fuck?"

She's still bent over, an event patch in her hand, when she looks at me from over her shoulder with a saucy smile.

"Yeah. We can do that."



She takes my hand as we stroll back into the bedroom. She's already straightened the sheets and giggles as she nudges the cats out of our way. She takes off the tshirt, revealing her large breasts for me as I step out of my clothes. She's smiling at me. She loves to be nude. A slow breeze is cascading in the room, the ceiling fan humming quietly. Naked, I slide next to her and she rests her head to my chest as I sit beside her, cradling her lower back in my arm.

Her kisses deepen as I begin caressing her legs, holding her impressive tits in my palm and squeezing them gently. I've relearned a whole new appreciation for enjoying breasts this summer, and I've been totally getting off on how appreciated a sensual, firm session of titmassage can be. The Tomboy isn't an exception.

But as her tongue slowly slides across my lips and her panting deepens in her chest, soon I find my fingers inching under the waistband of those camoflage panties. Half sitting, half languishing beside me, she opens her powerful legs wide when she feels my whole hand firmly cupping, and simply holding, her covered mound. I can feel her growing heat. I can feel her pillowy outer labia. She's reached to me and is slowly stroking, petting, squeezing my hardening cock.

I love it when she does that. I love it that she's unabashed about holding me, wanting to hold me, unintimidated about just going ahead and reaching out and holding me. My cock twitches and stiffens more as I think about her brazenness even as I'm feeling her brazenness. Her moan is stifled in her throat with our making out, and that hardens me even more.

I reach into her panties. I'm slowly circling fingertips around her little pebble. She's wet. She's soft. She's hard. And she's collapsing against my chest as I start to jill her in earnestness, my fingers making a rotating tent out of her underwear as they begin to quickly, but gently, spin around and swirl her flesh. I'm using her labia, her own wetness, to massage her clit, and it isn't long before she's starting to shake and shudder and grip my cock tightly as the waves take control of her.

I love to do this.

I give her a few moments to breathe and I enjoy the weight of her back and shoulder against my chest. I'm gripping her hair and breathing in her scent. She's limp and relaxed and languid when I kneel up and, guiding her with a hand at her thigh, roll her over onto her belly.

My eyes are riveted to her bare back and covered ass, and I move to rest my knees at either side of her legs from the edge of the bed. She raises her behind in the air when I start peeling those panties down, and my cock is twitching again as her seam is revealed to me. I firmly grasp her asscheeks, tug her a little higher in the air, reach for the base of my stiff dick and rub my cockhead against her glistening pussy before pushing myself forward and into her body.

She repositions herself comfortably, her hands next to her head and on the pillows. She lets out a long, slow moan.

"Oh, yeah. That's it," she says. "That feels real nice."

Yes, it does. She does. And as the incoming breeze continues to cool us, the quiet in the room allows me to clearly hear her wetness slickly lubing my cock as I gently thrust in and out of her. It's a sound that I adore, and my eyes are closed as I enjoy how she feels, smells, sounds as we take a slow, languid, relaxed, moist, tender between-friends doggystyle fuck on a sunny morning.

Her face is mostly hidden from my view, but when I do see her, her mouth is silently open, her eyes are tightly closed, and she's panting quietly. I'm keeping my torso still, but my hips are thrusting back and forth, pistoning my dick into her juicy pussy in taunting, steady, moderate strokes. I'm withdrawing completely. I'm tapping her clit with my cockhead before returning. When I'm completely in, I'm gripping her hips and cheeks to grind my pelvis as much as I can, giving her as much of my length as I can and staying lostly still before starting the whole process again.

And then, as I was midstroke, she slowly raised and turned her head over her right shoulder to watch me. Her brow was sweating. She bit her lower lip, blinked her dark eyes pensively, and in a very matter-of-fact, casual tone said the most adorable thing. It could have been "what time is it?" or "nice to meet you" or "would you like another cup of tea?" or something equally simple, flat, unassuming. But it wasn't.

"Would it be possible for you to put a finger in my ass?"

My cock was midstroke, and I was just feeling the base of me meet her round butt again when I stopped and burst out laughing. I'm certain that made my dick twitch like hell inside her.

"Um," I managed to say between laughs, "sure."

Still fucking her, I reach into the bedside table drawer and get the lube. She's looking at me and smiling. I smack her ass, stay still again, and moisten my fingers and her tender, winking anus.


Dark, crinkled, the remnants of the tiniest rich brunette hairs. A strong contrast in colour to the rest of her skin. Tomboy has a gorgeous, very fuckable anus.

My forefinger slips in easily, and she groans softly while resting her head on the pillows. She's ass-up and face-down now, and I keep a steady pace with my cock as my finger probes and swirls around her clutching sphincter. She's gripping me. I'm probing deeeper. I'm pistoning my finger twice as fast as I'm pistoning my dick, and she's writhing happily underneath me.

Soon, it becomes too much for me to retain this much self-control. I switch fingers and slide my wet thumb inside her, raising her with it like a hook as my other hand grips her waist strong enough to make my knuckles white. Now it's time to fuck her hard and deep and steady and fast. And faster. And faster still.

For speed, I have her pressed completely to the bed now, and she's grunting my name as my perspiration starts to slicken her bare back almost as much as her happy pussy is slickening my throbbing cock. I'm pounding hard into her now, totally enjoying the sound and feel of her naked ass against my body. I'm getting ready to explode.

When I do, I withdraw. My eyes are focused on her quivering ass now, and I return my thumb to her tiny hole as I stroke my cock from above and behind her. She's reaching underneath to stroke herself as she watches me burst my cum across her upraised, gorgeous butt. Ropes of me mingle with her juice, our sweat, the lube. I'm seeing stars. She's gasping for breath. I collapse to the bed beside her.

We hold each other, enjoying the slickness of so many fluids on our bodies in the August morning heat as our legs intertwine. Cats snooze nearby. The room falls completely silent but for the cicadas rattling their songs outside, the ceiling fan, breathing.

More showers. More steak. More wistful hugs goodbye. More winks from the lesbians downstairs as they see her dressed in her vest and leather chaps. More deep sighs from me as I watch her mount the bike and roar down the driveway again, perhaps until the next time she's in town.

Women on bicycles.

Women and their rides.

Big ones that got away.

The previous post had me remarking (ok, fine, bitching) about how winter probably will look like as far as my dating life is concerned.

That said, it seems like a good time to share three little stories from years past about "possibilities" that didn't turn out as well I might have wanted. I'm sharing these because I think of these incidents often, I really do, and I still wince even when I smile to myself about them. Oh, the pain.


The Exchange Student

New Jersey, 1997. I was the alpha male in what basically turned into an off-campus student house. It was a large, sunny place near a major university, and it was the first pad I had after the break-up of my seven-year relationship with Diva. I took in housemates to make ends meet, and they always seemed to be students.

She was from Japan. Long, straight, raven-black hair and a lithe, winsome form, her English was broken but her grace and charm more than made up for it. She came home with the most bizarre seafood-based snacks, and she laughed at my attempts to make California rolls with the wrong kind of rice.

I knew that she had a boyfriend. And maybe I was being a little clueless, whatwith me in a very strange post-longterm-relationship headspace. But on that evening when she casually stood with her shoulder against the doorframe to her room, oh-so-subtly beckoning me to come in and see the tiny Japanese mat that she used for bedding, something in me just wasn't seeing the signs. Long ago, a female friend had told me that I didn't always See how a woman flirts with a man, and this must have been one of those cases because the Exchange Student looked terribly disappointed when, perplexed, I excused myself away.

Oh, it breaks the heart.

The Flirt I Will Never Forget

Two or so years after it happened, I still think on this lost opportunity with pained laughter.

I was dating someone, and we were going to a then-trendy little out-of-the-way pub that hosted ambient drumming nights. My date had her djembe, and her young son (who was with us) was borrowing my ashiko to play. As we approached the pub from the street, I spotted a cluster of women on the club's patio, including one wee faerie in particular. We made eye contact as I opened the door for my date and her child, and I felt it right in my chest.

As the evening progressed, I would eventually find myself enjoying a pint at the bar while my date and her boy played among a circle of friends. An hour or so had passed by, and I was basically giving her some mother-and-son time to help him enjoy this otherwise all-adult night out. My presence as the-guy-Mommy-is-out-with was still an adjustment for the young man, although not a problem, but I was perfectly game to make things as easy as possible. After all, sooner or later, he gets a bedtime, right? Ain't I a nice guy?

I spill my pint at the bar. I'm totally embarassed, but I'm laughing about it, and that gets the bartender laughing with me as he refills my glass. My self-effacing humour must have been refreshing to those in earshot, because soon others are in hysterics too... and that's when I realize that the person right beside me, back to me, is the same woman who made eye contact with me at the start of the evening. Oh, dear.

She's tiny. Her hair is a cluster of tight auburn spirals, and the face that is framed by this dark coppery mane is full of character, laugh lines, thought, and intelligence. Her eyes grip me.

"Um... hi," I manage to stammer. She smiles. We make small talk. No, I hadn't spilled my beer on her. Thank God.

But soon she's putting on her coat, though she stops for a brief moment when she hears me quietly say, and with genuine disappointment in my tone, "Oh, you're going."

Her face was full of real apology. "Yeah, I have to go. I have friends waiting for me." A pause. "Are you here with someone?"

I can't lie, and I'm sure my face was full of apology too. I was. I was still very unsure about where that was going, it all being new at the time and with me already sensing possible deal-breaking cracks in the pavement, but yes, I was there with somebody. I said so, but I think she also read the underlying message because smiled more and opened up.

But you know what? I had stopped really listening. Not to be rude... but I was totally transfixed by how dropdead beautiful this woman was and how resonant her energy felt to me. She's wasn't glamourous, she wasn't pretentious, she wasn't wearing the look of some woman seeking to emulate a cosmetics advertisement... she was simply herself, auburn ringlets and simple all. So I found myself playfully nodding a lot, smiling wide, jerking my head in yeah-I'm-listening movements that, at the same time, were a comic exaggeration. She got the hint that yeah-I'm-listening-but-not-really and stopped talking. Once she did, I shifted the energy with a joyful smile and a still gaze directly into her eye. She looked right back into mine, and after a moment's silence as we held each other's consciousness that way, I spoke clearly.

"You are... gorgeous."

There. It was out. No nonsense. Straightfoward. A man whom she had never met before just came right out and told her like it was, and she remained completely still for a second before blinking her eyes. "Did he really say that?" her expression read. She stammered for a moment and brushed herself closer. I broke the eye contact to move my head aside as I took a sip from my glass.

"I just wanted to tell you that," I continued. Her face was radiant. She complimented me in return. We locked eyes again.

"I just have to know your name," I asked earnestly. Her smile beamed and her eyes twinkled under the red lighting at the bar.

"Morgan." I laughed, remembering another I have known.

I sighed deeply. I thought to myself that, in my experience anyway, when a pride of women are out-on-the-town together, their priorities are to stay that way. I was torn, but decided to back off gracefully.

Stupid move.

"Your friends are waiting, Morgan," I said with a smile, gesturing toward the door with my shoulder, "Go." Two or three women stood outside on the pavement, chatting and smoking cigarettes. And at that, Morgan slowly, she very slowly walked from the bar and me and this extraordinary moment to go out the door. After a glance.

And to this day I wonder what could have been possible. I shake my head at the thought. Sometimes I wask myself if it's at all possible that I'd ever run into her again.

Bree

It is possible, though God knows how faintly, that a thang with Bree still isn't an impossibility. While we're really very close and have a deep friendship than spans more than twenty years, we both are pro-poly people.

Bree is one of my best friends, and throughout our sharing together, there's always been a delicious undercurrent of sensuality. To me, she is one of the most beautiful, extraordinary women I have ever, ever known, and I mean that in every conceivable way.

A petite, athletic, Latina shorthaired brunette, Bree is an early40s medical researcher with a genius mind and the patience of a saint. There was a time when we were massage buddies, each visiting the other (and our respective partners at the time) to break out the almond oil, strip, and coax away our stresses. Superbly delicious days, those.

We'd go out to dinner once in a while, usually to discuss various projects we were both invovled with, but there were times when those dinner converations would turn to more personal topics. I still remember how she confided in me that her then-partner refused to accept her bisexuality and latent interest in transgendered women. I still remember, as we noshed on Mexican food and had one margarita too many, she whispered how much she really liked being fucked in her ass.

And I have seen Bree's ass. Oh, I have seen. She is sculpture, with a pert heartshaped, dimpled, olive-toned derriere that never failed to make me completely skip a heartbeat whenever my eyes beheld it. And were she to turn about and display that dense, black, perfectly rectangular trimming of fur under her navel... I can't begin to tell you how long I have wanted to drop to my knees, gently grasp her upper thighs, and feast upon her.

And she has seen me too. She was visiting Diva and I once, and I strode from out of the shower. Entering the room where these two exquisite women were, a towel barely wrapped around my midriff, I glimpsed a glaze in her dark eyes as she sat on the hardwood, a glass of wine in her hand, her sight riveted to the penis that swung from beneath the Egyptian cotton.

It was after that break with Diva, and in that same off-campus house, when we Almost Happened. She had come by for another massage visit, the first we would share in a long time, and things were on the skids (but not broken) with her then-partner too. I was skittish... I'll admit it... because, truth be told, I've had a crush (and still do!) on Bree for all the time I've known her.

She sat on the edge of bed as we talked. I was at my desk, which was very close to where she was, so close that when I stood to go in the kitchen for more of whatever we were drinking that I had to pass very close to her. I skirted my jeans-covered ass along the corner of the desk to avoid coming in contact with her... but that only served to have me angling my out-thrust groin very near her face as she sat on that bed. Prior to that, our afternoon together was full of friendly energy alone, but as I skirted by, her gaze went immediately to my bulge. And I saw the change in the look in her eyes.

I wish to God that I could tell you that I stopped, that I caressed her hair, and that I slowly unzipped those jeans while that bulge remained at face-level to her. I can't begin to tell you how often that possibility has crept into my fantasies, how much (and for twenty fucking years) I've wanted Bree to suck my hard, hot, thick, silken, flexing, pulsing cock. But I didn't.

What I did do was give her another long, sensual, hot oil massage. But this time, it was different.

We relaxed on cushions on the floor in a very Bohemian way. Sandalwood filled the air as I blended heated oils in my palm. She had removed her shirt and remained in bra and jeans as she knelt away from me. Gentle music. Quiet talk. Soon, she lay herself down and the bra was removed as her skin glistened in the low light. Like every massage we shared, it was an inwardly fulfilling experience for us both. I miss those days.

She had reached under herself to undo and slightly lower her jeans when I started working my warm fingers around her dimples at the small of her back. She wore no underwear that I remember. It didn't take long for my cock to stiffen as I felt the energy shift from sensual touch to something... else.

Her breathing quickened. At those moments when she might reposition herself slightly, I glimpsed her breasts enough to see that her nipples had hardened. Her hips began gyrating just... slightly. I swallowed and took a breath.

"Ok," I whispered, trying to control my own breathing and the strain of my cock trapped by my own jeans, "how does this sound? ...Just stop me if what I'm doing is becoming too much..."

We already had a deep trust with one another, so I wasn't at all surprised when she whispered just as quickly as I was breathing. "Ok." She looked at me from over her shoulder and smiled. She is so beautiful.

Slowly, painstakingly, I lowered her jeans. My heart was thundering in my chest as I peeled her denim away, and as she raised her hips to launch her behind upward, as her exquisite, perfectly shaped, muscular, naked ass was unveiled mere inches from my starving gaze and dry mouth.

In all of my sexual life, this memory is one of the strongest to ever remain with me.

My massage continued, but by now it was less about relieving her tension than it was about worshipping her body with hot oil and firm, slow, sensual kneads and caresses. Her flesh was tight in my grasp, and I relished how her muscles moved between my thumb and forefinger as I squeezed her in slow, upward, gripping strokes. When her thighs parted slightly, the faint sight of her dark muff and her beautiful nexus made my head swim. I count faintly, just faintly, detect her clean and feral musk amid the swirling scent of oil, and my cock stiffened even more. I desperately, desperately, desperately wanted to suddenly drop to the floor, grasp her ass in my hands, bring my face to her, and slide my tongue straight up the seam of her pillowy labia in a wide, wet stroke.

With a heavy breath of self-control, I leaned back and undid my jeans. I reached inside and withdrew my phallus from its brutal confines. She raised her ass a little higher. I held her cheeks in each hand and spread her open. Lowering myself, I slipped my shaft right into her gorgeous crevasse and began to glide the length of me there slowly, feeling her behind hold me in slick, hot, strokes. Her dark, starry anus glistened with oil, and I bit my lower lip as I felt it against that broad vein at the underside of my shaft. I held my cock from its base and tapped my spongy head against her there, and then rubbing it in fast motions right against that beautiful, winking hole. Bree relaxed on elbows and knees before me, her body glowing after the massage, breathing deeply and quietly. It was a moment that I had longed for, and to this day, long to have the opportunity to do again...

...Because I stopped.

Yes, it's true. I stopped. It took all of strength to force myself to, but I stopped. Why, in the name of God, did I fucking stop?

Because I was trying to be the Good Guy. Because while I was single, Bree really was not, and these were still days when "open relationships" were a rocky, challenging, and only occasionally successful thing among my circle of friends. "Polyamory" wasn't even a word in our vocabulary yet. Because I love her, and in some twisted place in my head, I didn't want to see something happen that might fuck something up. Call me an idiot, but that's how it happened.

Sure, at the time, I thought we might connect again, that we could still make something happen if she still desired it. But the opportunity didn't present itself, and within the next year, I was moving to Canada.

And, sometimes, I see her in my dreams.

She came for another ride: second gear.

In the kitchen, the wine was still breathing, although not nearly as hard as we were in the bedroom.

I was hard as stone, grinding the length of my cock against the soft, flannel sheets as I lay on the bed, my legs akimbo, my chin and tongue drenched with her elixir. Her firm, warm thighs were splayed wide just above my shoulders, and my hands caressed her taut stomach as her shudders slowed down gradually. Her dewy, black stripe of pubes tickled the tip of my nose, and I turned my face to softly graze my cheek against that sexy tuft. It had been almost four years since the Tomboy's pussy had been at my mouth, and now it was time to fuck her. Hard.

I drew myself up to my knees, and her eyes were still clenched shut when she felt my hands begin to grip her lower thighs and splay her in place. She smiled wickedly when she looked up to me, her head wholly surrounded by multiple feather pillows. She knew what was coming: she opened her legs even wider, her knees bent, her mouth open as she sucked for air and looked into my eyes.

Resting her legs on my shoulders, I chewed on her right calf while I slipped on the condom. Holding the base of my cock in my fist, I tapped my cockhead against her eager nubbin, stroking and pressing my girth against her mound. Still on my knees, I inched my body closer to hers until our thighs met and her legs ran upward against me. In one slow, prolonged movement, I gently the slid the entire length of me inside her willing, eager, dripping core, my eyes closing tight now as I felt her grip me.

Her fists gripped the sheets as the look in her eyes shifted from yearning to yielding, her mouth agape in a silent cry, until I felt myself press against her cervix and began to thrust and pump.

Soon, my hands were gripping her legs from under her knees, gently forcing them to bend until they were almost meeting her full and shaking breasts. In this position, my body weight and angle held her in place so I could Take her and give her the full length of me in deep, demanding strokes. Her cunt was completely free to me now, her legs held open, her body in check, and when I started to thrust faster and faster still, she cried aloud in staccato pants and wails. The hardwood frame of the bed pounded against the hardwood floor, and I smiled to myself as the thudding blended sexily with her growing keens and groans.

Truth be told, I never expected that I'd ever fuck the Tomboy again, and now here she was, finally getting something from me that she had told me she had been longing for again.

She is so good for my ego.

I set both of her ankles across my right shoulder and kept the thrusting pace deep inside her. My left hand steadied her in place with a palm firmly planted against her chest, and she managed to wiggle a hand underneath us to grasp my smacking, full sack. I licked my thumb and wiggled it against her hard little clit. She cried out my name.

With a laugh, I pulled myself away from her and spun her around on the bed. Before me was her beautiful, heart-shaped ass, and while I intended to yank it high in the air and take her from behind, I knew I had to enjoy it up-close-and-personal first.

With a satisfying grunt, I cupped both of her asscheeks and brought my teeth to her flesh. Bites and nibbles later, she both giggled and yelped in brief spasms of teasing pain. I parted her open and delved my chin deep between her strong thighs to swab my tongue against her folds again, and upward still to dart a small circle or two around her clenched, dark rosebud. She moaned resonantly in reply.

"Mmm... you like my ass, don't you?" she asked as she pressed her face into the mound of pillows. I replied by pressing a wet fingertip firmly against her anus. Her head shot up.

"Yeah... oh fuck yeah," she said over her shoulder.

I knelt up again and gripped her hips firmly to tug her behind upward, setting her halfway on her knees. Again, she knew what was coming, and pressed her chest down to the bed. I smirked as I held her right asscheek in my grip then, opening her up, and aimed my cock to her pussy with my left fist. I tugged her backward and against me, filling her again. My knees weakened when I felt her behind slap against my pelvis and as I relished the sight of her cheeks below me. I ran nails down her back. Gripping a handful of her ass, I pumped and tugged her, fucking her steadily and deeply. I brought my thumb to her rosebud again.

"Yes, fuck yes," she panted. "Play with my ass. Do you know that the only ass play I ever get is from you or Terry?"

(Yes, she really said that. At that moment, I was so glad that I was behind the Tomboy, because the look on my face probably would have stopped traffic. Only the Tomboy, one of the most aggressively pro-poly women I have ever known, could have the cajones to mention a mutual friend and another one of her lovers mid-coitus. From any other woman, I probably would have been dumbstruck and maybe offended; but from the Tomboy, it was just too fucking funny.)

(And it didn't say much about her dumbass boyfriend if he wasn't giving her something she so obviously wanted. Especially considering that, thanks to a military and outdoorsy life, her ass is fucking yum. But I digress.)

So I bit my tongue, shook my head in amused disbelief, and wrapped her now-much-longer-than-I-remember-it brunette hair around my fist to tug her head back as I gave her two or three oh-yeah-take-this thrusts into that aggressively pro-poly pussy of hers. She screamed. I smiled.

I kept at her that way, fucking her hard and fast, and gradually slipped my lubed thumb into her backdoor. By then, her moans were reverberating throughout the bedroom as I took her, she face down and ass up, until the crook of my thumb made its way past her quivering sphincter.

I didn't fuck her ass. In retrospect, I should have. But I did discover something new for me when I found that my crooked, inserted thumb made a perfectly good hook when I raised my arm high and above her. As I kept the pace with my stiff, eager cock, it was my crooked thumb halfway inside her ass that I used to raise her butt even higher, pulling her upward with it, holding her high with it, my right bicep straining as I hooked her with it while I fucked her again and again and again and again and as she screamed aloud again and again and again and again in reply.

I was pumping hard and fast into her gorgeous, gripping pussy when I felt my balls tighten. Now pressing her down from her shoulderblades with one hand, a tight hold on her hip with the other as I matched her backstrokes against me with strong tugs to my pelvis, she looked over her shoulder to me when she felt my cock swell. Arching my hips higher, I felt burst after burst of me fill the condom as her pussy squeezed me, milked me, and as her bottom kept smacking audibly against my skin. With each stroke, my draining sack slapped against her aching and thrumming clit, and the Tomboy screamed aloud as she quivered and came underneath me.

We laughed. I collapsed. Warm towels. Panting. Riding the waves. Red wine and steak. Long conversations. More catching up. Her warm, naked skin beside me with the coming of sleep.

Women and television.

Women of the great outdoors.

Ha ha.

While we're making tea and relaxing in my kitchen, I grab Kara's camera and take a spontaneous picture of her bum.

I'm so weird sometimes.

Women of the summer vacation.