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.

The Mound of Venus.

Ami had been working very hard, and she's almost always completely stressed.

As we curled underneath her exquisite tiedye duvet, the coolness of the sheets ensconced us as we listened to the clicking insects singing outside the window. All was dark, all was comfortable.

I smiled as she cuddled close. Feeling her long, auburn locks cascade across my bare chest and shoulder, I smiled to myself as I thought of the
small purple vibrator that she openly kept on the bedside shelves, just beside the egg vibe that I had given to her.

She was stiff beside me. I could tell that she was trying to relax, but to little avail. I kissed her head, deeply inhaling the scent of her russet locks of hair. I whispered in the dark.

"Would you like me to jack you off? So you can sleep better?"

Dark though it was, I have no doubt she she blinked several times as she digested my question. It often amuses me, in a perfectly nurturing way, to introduce her to new experiences. She paused.

"Um," she whispered back as a breeze caught her plants near the window, "would you like to? You're not too tired?"

I chuckled.

Her lips met mine as my right palm began a slow caress down the shoulder that rested on my chest, along her arm, and soon gently clutched her solar plexus. As always, Ami's skin was warm, soft, yielding, just slightly innocent. I pressed my head to her hair again, savouring her scent, feeling a slight stirring in my cock as I took her energy in.

She dropped more weight of herself against me. She began to relax more. I smiled in the dark.

My arm continued to explore under the pillowy duvet. I traced circles around her navel, and after completely bypassing her mound, began tracing a slow finger in circles at her upper right thigh. She sighed gently.

Clutching her thigh now, caressing it wholly, my fingers very almost grazed against the light tuft of black fur she kept between her legs. I opened my palm and grasped her thigh firmly, squeezing her, knowing that her petals were oh so slightly parted as I firmly tugged her flesh. I kissed her temple.

Wiry, feral, just slightly curled fur at my fingers now. How I adore a nest of pubes. My fingertips swirled in slow circles as I enjoyed the texture, the faint coarseness of her forest thatch, and my cock grew alongside her leg as I closed my eyes and licked my lips.

But, no, I wasn't going to taste her tonight.

Instead, my fingertips found themselves darting lower, and soon both index- and forefinger found themselves making gentle caresses at her labial mound. I lowered my hand further and gently cupped her, holding the entirety of her feminine essence in the hole of my hand, embraced, possessed, adored. I felt the Mound of Venus of her vulva against the Mound of Venus of my palm.


I brought my fingers up to my face to lick them liberally. I returned them to her core, and this time, my first and second phalanges angled themselves convexly so their nubs could press sensually just above her hardening clitoris. I began to swirl them, feeling her nubbin against my fingers.

Fast, slow. Clockwise, counterclockwise. Hard, soft, hard, fast, clockwise, soft, counterclockwise, wetter, firmer. A probe within, just so slightly.

Slow. Very slow. Firmer. Clockwise. A few gentle pats. Another probe, feeling the new wetness, a finger trailing it upward. Clockwise, soft, softer, hard, harder, harder still, faster, even faster, spinning, my left hand caressing as she rests her head on my chest, firmer, wetter, spinning.

My hand is a swirling blur under the duvet, but the actual pressure against her flesh is moderate. I'm jilling her. She's going to cum in my hand.

And in another few moments, as she rested herself against me in the dark, the summer breeze whispering through the window, Ami let out two... three... four quick and deep gasps in succession. I felt her wetness against my gradually-slowing fingers. I felt her tense up upon me, hold herself so still, shake, quake, and soon drop her weight against the bed and my broad chest.

She had cum.

I slowed my fingers down, but not exactly right away.

She kissed me deeply, moaning into my mouth.

We fell asleep.

And now for something completely different.

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.

Favourite blog images of 2010.

Deliciously displayed, a perfectly tender playtoy in Finding Tribe

Tasting her core in Fireworks

Celebrating Bacchus' gifts in In Vino Veritas

A sensual sister shows her sublime submissiveness (g'head... say that ten times fast) in Kinksters Helping Kinksters

Straighforward, au naturale, coed brazenness from Women Of The Dorm

Sensual, skyclad, and unashamed from Women Of The Summer Vacation

Crossing my path.

The rock salt is sticking between the treads of my black steeltoes, making my feet crunch and clack against the concrete pavement. The sky is winter grey, and a streetcar slices its way near me as I approach the corner.

She is ridiculously short, and at first I think she's a kid from the neighboring grade school. She's wearing a clever red and white striped toque, smart little eyeglasses with gleaming rectangular steel frames, and unhitched red suspenders dangle across her jeans-clad thighs. I like her combat boots. She's busily punching into her Blackberry. Because she's so tiny, and so cute, and I bet she's so smart, I could easily see myself hoisting her over my shoulder and carrying her home like a kitten to rumpus with.

I'm smirking at the thought when, almost immediately, a brunette is passing me by. Her head and face is completely surrounded and framed with scarves and the hoodie, and as she stares at the pavement ahead, it's her cheekbones and soft pudgy nose that get my attention. It's the most fleeting of images as we pass one another, a split second maybe, but already I've seen her face when she's in deep thought, and the image stays with me. At almost the same instant, as was actually pass one another, the scent of her in caught in the snowy air. She smells like vanilla cupcakes, warm and just pulled from the oven. I smile.

The beach.

My chest widens, my shoulders broaden, my lungs are swelling as I drink deeply of the scent of you over that of the crashing surf. The faint whisper of patchouli salt from underneath your warm, sandy arms blends with the spray from the sea and I am left transfixed in a moment of pure, feral pleasure. My eyelids close and, unconsciously, I feel them roll back as my most animal nature tightens my face in complete and total bliss. Stars explode in my head.

The breeze cascades the long locks of my hair across your shoulders and face while I hold you close. I breathe deeply, continuing to take your essences in, and the palm of my hand tightens around your belly with my coiling arm. I hold you close. My toes slink deep into cooler layers of sand, and the grit is wonderful between them. I lower my face to your shoulder.

The sun elicits your sweat into a mingling with the coconut oil that glistens on your golden skin. I taste the nape of your neck, sand upon my tongue, your necklace and your bones meeting my tender lips. I harden. I feel my blood swelling into me, lengthening me, thickening me, my heart beating faster to push my life quickly and throbbing into me until I am sliding at the small of your back. I slide along coconut oil and nodules of sand as I hold you closer, tighter, ignoring the grit because to move away would be unthinkable.

I cup your breast in my palm. I rest my head on your shoulder. We watch the gulls and the motion of the waves.

Women of the summer vacation.

... and eating her too.

She had had a rough day, and so it began with a bath.

I caressed her hair as we talked, soothing her shoulders with drizzles of hot water as she told me of the trials in her day. Being a scrappy rake, a well-dressed rascal, or a nasty-ass leatherdaddy certainly doesn't prevent me from my moments of indulgent adoration and pampering. She is, after all, my pleasure. I watched contentedly as I dropped the bath bomb between her ankles as she sunk deeply into the antique claw-foot tub. For all the times I had given them as gifts, I had never actually seen one in action, and I smiled as the roiling scented froth filled the steaming water with her.



Later, naked, I stood in her kitchen and drizzled a swirl of organic chocolate sauce on the pottery plate. Setting a slice of vegan chocolate layer cake upon it, I flanked this sexy creation with four slices of fresh, ripe blackberries and made my barefoot way up the white stairwell to her bedroom.

I really have no idea where Cake and Cunnilingus Day came from, but when I happened upon its site during a casual netsurfing moment, I knew it was something I had to indulge Kara in.

She smiled at me from over her Laurel K. Hamilton novel, and her eyes popped open when she saw the cake in my hands.

"OoOOOOooo..." she cooed, holding her hands out eagerly for her treat, batting her eyes in oh-so-(not)-innocent fashion. The four layers of dark cake, fused by the rich and near-black icing, slid along the tip of the silver fork as she tried her first mouthful and held it on her tongue. Her eyes closed, her chest heaved with indrawn breath, and she chuckled very quietly as I drew the thick duvet from over her body and slid into bed with her.

Mammoth pillows firmly supported her back as she sat semi-upright in the bed, and my knees met her feet as I lay atop of her. I cradled her hips in my warm hands and began nuzzling into her taut belly as she slowly took another mouthful of decadence.

Pressing my lips to her soothed skin, I nibbled along her hips and thighs as I reached around her to caress her lower back from over her pillows. We each languished in our respective feasts for the senses as we relaxed. She nibbled on a blackberry, the juice staining her lips. I nibbled at her navel. She licked her fingers. I licked her thighs.

I smirked as I looked up, and with a teasingly small drizzle of chocolate sauce staining her lips, she smirked back. I leaned upward for a long, sensual kiss, tasting both sauce and flesh, before I bit my own lower lip as I started to part her thighs with a taunting finger. She chuckled as she opened her legs further, and soon I was breathing deeply in and smiling inwardly as she revealed her dark mound and pillowy folds to me.

She set the plate aside on the duvet as I leaned closer and began nuzzling my face into her soft, warm, downy, trimmed and womanly fur. The scent of the bath and her skin made sparkles in the back of my head as I drank her in, and it wasn't long before my hands were firmly grasping her upper thighs as I tilted my head to gently dart the tip of my tongue just above and around her raising clit.



I teased her, and when she opened her legs further for me, hunching lower onto the bed, I coated her puffy mound with slow and sensual swabs with my wet tongue. I slid it between her folds. I nibbled on her thighs. She moaned quietly and began to seethe lustfully as she eagerly enjoyed my attention, and when she began thrusting herself closer to my mouth I gave her what she wanted.

Slowly, I slid my tongue into her as she opened like a feral orchid, and I tasted her elixers joyfully. Kara has such a clean and feral texture to her, as if she were a polite fruit with a scorchingly auburn center and fragrantly sweet nectar underneath her smooth and charming skin. A mango.

I bobbed my head slowly as my tongue trailed circles around her clit, which always sends her into a frenzy. She gyrated on the bed when I began to suck on her nubbin, gasping and tugging my hair, almost sending her plate of cake to the floor. It was then, as I heard the fork clatter and clink, that a deliciously naughty idea occured to me.

I knelt up and held the plate before her. Kara blinked, then smiled when she watched me scoop a rich, black chocolate icing flower from the edge of the slice upon the tip of the fork. Still holding it, I brought my mouth back to her drenched and gorgeous pussy and began swabbing her clit even more earnestly then before. She bucked and groaned, and I brought the fork to her mouth. She chuckled again.

Both of hands now held her hips as I began licking and sucking her clit deeply into my own mouth, her tiny pebble darting in and out between my wet lips while I sucked, as the dense icing swirled along her tongue. Immediately, Kara was awash in a sensation of complete and total decadence, every nerve and synapse in her faerie body responding to combined heights of pleasure. In both tasting the rich chocolate at the very same time she was getting sucked in the way that always sends her off, she cascaded into blissful oblivion.

She came almost immediately, and didn't seem to know whether to laugh or cry while she tried to scream through a mouthful of chocolate. She shook uncontrollably under me, and I held my sucking mouth firm to her as she thrashed through her waves. All the while I caressed and held her thighs until she finally began to slow herself down. I lessened my pace until my tongue was only barely touching her with short little swirls.

She took a long time before she caught her breath, and even when she did, it was the rapid blinking of her eyes, her deep gasps, her spechlessness that told me just how much fun she had just had. Mmmm.

Fireworks.

She was already on the bed when I walked through the door, a Laurell K. Hamilton novel in her lap as she relaxed. She was wearing those camo pants that make her ass look so deliciously spankable. Between the pants and the black tanktop, Kara had a potent soft butch look that never fails to make me catch my breath. She smiled when she saw me, setting the book aside as I started to remove my shirt.

Kara has keys to my pad, and when she has a full weekend free, she's begun to enjoy using my place as her personal oasisn when I'm at work. When I come home, sometimes she greets me, half-naked, at the door with a dirty martini. Sometimes I find her engrossed in my DVD collection, or in the shower, or quietly sleeping on my deeply cushioned futon bed after she's been using her little purple vibrator and exploring my library of erotica.

Our New Year's Eve plans required some last-minite adjustment. The tickets for the Skin Tight Outta Sight rebel burlesque show were tragically sold out, but we more than adapted to the situation.

She met my kisses warmly, expectantly, muffling soft moans into my mouth as I slid my way up the bed and held her tight. A hand at the back of her head and she was turning her jaw up to me as she arched her back, her mouth open and hungry as she feasted on my kiss and slowly writhed under my body. She hooked her ankles around mine. She reached around my broad back to caress me. She ground her pelvis into my package. She began to pant quietly.

We kept making out under the glow of the faux Tiffany lamp while my hand slowly reached under that tight tanktop to press against her taut tummy, her ribs, and up to cup one of those small, pert, faerie breasts in my palm. Her nipple was already awake and eager, an erasertip that proudly proclaimed how much fun my little tart was having. I squeezed her little tit gently, enjoying the way her flesh rose between my fingers while I grasped her. She bit my lower lip with a sigh.

Our plan was to shower and dress for the night once I had come home, but once I was holding her close and feeling her warmth and sinewy gyrations underneath me, I decided that the evening could wait. Who knew... we might even stay in: bringing in the new year during a long, sensual fuck didn't seem like a terrible idea at all.

I removed her tanktop slowly, teasing myself as her delicious teacups came into view. Her mouth was just slightly parted now, her short raven-dark dair getting tussled by the pillow under her head, her eyes beginning to glaze over. She licked her lips as I brought a hard, proud nipple to my mouth, my hand continuing to hld and squeeze and tease her other, untasted breast. She gently raked her nails down my back and across my shoulders. I rained kisses down her chest, tickled her ribs with the tip of my tongue, and resettled myself on the bed until her adorable wee navel was just under my face.

I have a thing for tummies. I think there's something unique about pressing my face close to my lover's stomach and breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her skin. It's totally nonsexual, not exactly a fetish, but it arouses my appreciation for the sensual... and it feels like an important first step toward sucking pussy. Once my face is there, kissing and relaxed, and my hands are beginning to caress those thighs and grasp at the waistband with playful tugs and pulls, it's just a matter of time before I want, need, crave warm and joyfully wet cunt in my mouth.

And sucking Kara's pussy is awesome fun. Her mound is gloriously pronounced, a pair of pulsating, vertical pillows that open and spread like a wild orchid to reveal a tight curleque of glistening, taut skin and an eager nubbin under the slightest of coral folds. If Kara herself tends to be a somewhat introverted person, her clitoris is clearly her incarnate alter-ego, because when she's in heat, her pearl yearns and pleads hungrily and demandingly for attention.

I opened the button to her pants and smiled as started to wiggle herself free from them as I tugged them down her legs. She raised her ankles into the air with a big smile, knowing full well what she was in for, and I laughed as I pulled the camos up her strong legs and over her wiggly, sock-covered feet. Now she lay on her back below me, wearing nothing but those socks, tight white panties, and a naughty look in her eye.

She parted her legs for me as I tasted the skin just above the waistband of her underwear. I could easily see how her pulsing mound strained against the cotton, and so I filled my lungs with a deep breath, brought my opened mouth to the seam between her covered thighs, and slowly exhaled against her crotch to roast her with hot breath. Sucking air in through my nose, I did this several more times, slowly exhaling and heating her core as my mouth pressed firmly against her, until I allowed my tongue to begin darting against the cotton and her tight folds underneath. Kara wiggled under me.

Tugging the panties aside, I brought her dark and trimmed mound of fur to my face. Tilting my head, I nuzzled a cheekbone against her short, black pubes while sensing her arousal. Kara's feral scent is gentle, subtle, and reminds me of roasted nuts with butter. By the time I was swabbing her labia with gentle, slow, upward swaths of my tongue, I wanted a cup of hot, spiced rum beside me to 'go with it.' This made me smile to myself as I feasted on Kara's glowing and reddening centre.

My hands began a massaging dance on her belly, her thighs, her hips as I moved my tongue and mouth within and throughout her. The tip teased her seam with butterfly kisses and, interspersed with being curled and flicked just above her hood, I held her thighs firmly with both hands. Tilting my head to one side, I slowly sucked her grrlshaft between my wet lips, pumping it in and out between them and sliding my wet tongue across it when it was inside my mouth on the instroke. Kara adores this, and I've learned that it's the fastest way to make her cum.

We did still need to get dressed if we were going to have dinner and go out for New Year's, so I decided to give in to her craving for her. The night was just beginning, and I suspected that we'd have much more to do once we got to our venue for the evening.

Not that she would have complained. Kara was panting under me by the time my tongue was aggressively and rapidly flicking her pebble, sucking it into my wet mouth and giving it a bath with my hot saliva. I pumped it between my lips, feeling her labia pull under her clit like a curtain, and relished in the contrast between the softness of it and the hardness of her little bead. One palm was at her tummy now, fingers gently clawing into her abdomen while the other hand had reached under her and cupped her left asscheek in the fullness of my hand. Once I had done this, Kara's breath quicked even more: she loves having her ass held, and she arched her back again as she quivered and humped her pelvis against my face. She rode me. She drenched me. She did everything she could to get her pussy to my mouth and tongue harder, firmer, wetter, unti, she finally began to cry out and shake. I withdrew her clit from my mouth and started flicking my tongue again, and this sent her over her crest as she both pressed harder and tried to push me away as she furiously came.

I squeezed her ass with both hands now, holding her up with hips tilted, as she rested her weight on her upper back and shoulders on the pillow. She held my head, controlling my movements, forcing me back when the sensations overwhelmed her. Cruelly, I darted the tip of my tongue against her clit once or twice more, sending shocks throughout her body and leaving her in a shaken, writhing mess.

I caressed her as she drifted into a blissful zone. Later, I got up, strolled naked into the kitchen, and selected a bottle of wine.

And now for something completely different.

Teneramente.

She has secrets deep within her. There are shadows, smooth as rich chocolate, sultry as black silk, wicked as a deerskin whip, that slowly swirl within her breast and in the unawakened fissures of her not-so-dormant imagination. These are places she rarely had opportunity to go, rarely had opportunity to delve within unto herself, and almost never had been able to breathe life into with another whom she cares for and is cared by.

This is fragile like a blackbird on the wing. Fragile like the flicker of a freshly lit candle. Fragile like trust caressed with fear and excitment. Discovery. Epiphany. Fecund, feral illumination.

And for the satyr, the psychopomp possessing the privilege to escort a tender faerie such as this into a delicious underworld of unseelie sensation... blissfulness attained. Responsibility. Mentorship. Possession. The making and the shaping of the mythic dimensions to another's sexual self in such a way and manner that can never be forgotten, regardless of whatever else may come. The power possessed is given freely only after the earning of trust and love, and must be wielded with the best interests of the pet in mind for these reasons.


She was kissing me. Her tongue swirled across my lips and into my mouth in the way that is so unique to her, so wanton in its feel. Her tiny waist thrilled my caressing hands as I pulled her closer, tighter against me, my palm at the small of her back. She groaned into my mouth and her lips crushed against mine even firmer than before, snaking an arm around my back. She tasted like wine. She was warm. She nudged a leg between my own, her thigh pressing against my own as I raised my arms to hold her lovely head in both hands.

I tugged her closer still, my fingers gripping gently at the small hairs at the nape of her neck as I returned the kiss. I lifted the shirt over her head, revealing her small breasts for my view and touch. She began undoing my belt as I pulled my own shirt off as well. Pants followed between kisses until we stood in the darkened parlour, aglow with candles and resonant with trance music, during this sensual evening not long after we had just begun to date.

My sense of kink intimidated her. My sexual openness was new for her. The kind of communication I had become accustomed to, and insist on in my relationships, was still something sought for and yet to be found for her. Yet here she was, and yet, things were beginning between us. I liked it, and I saw potential. I think she did too.

And so when our kiss was broken for a moment, I knew I was taxing on the sense of trust I had begun to build when I winked, pecked her on the cheek, and departed briefly to my bedroom as I asked her to "hold that thought."

From my toy chest, I returned to the parlour with my leather ankle restraints and few other naughty items. This evening, I had decided, would be about sensations.

"Do you trust me?" I had pulled a chair from another room and set it in the centre of the parlour. Nude, lithe and beautiful in the golden glow of the room, she took my hand to help her stand upright upon it.

"Yes."

I smiled and kissed her taut abdomen that beckoned before me while slipping the thick, heavy leather restraints around each of her ankles. A metal clamp clikked into place as I secured them together. Looking up and into her slowly widening green eyes, I tugged and yanked on the clamp like a magician demonstrating the effectiveness of his equipment. She kept her balance and I kept my smile.

"Your hands to the ceiling. Do it."

She hesitated, and I punished her with a look. Later, she would tell me that that was when she felt a pang of fear and came close to aborting our little game. But she persevered through it and, much to her surprise, was glad she did.

As am I. I may have never sought to play with her in this way again. For us both, it was a test. We passed.

Fingernails grazed along her ribcage as I walked to stand behind her, taking in the delectable sight of her pert little derriere. A pet should have an excellent derriere, not only capable but prone to enjoying whatever torment I can muster, and her ass is delightful. I caressed a peachy cheek with my palm, squeezing her as she began a faint shudder. I cranked the music up. I sipped some more wine. I smacked her oh-so-available ass that was delightfully presented to my eye-level with a smirk of appreciation. And then I smacked it again. And again, enjoying the slightest movement under my fingers that bespoke of her firmness. I parted her shamelessly, exploring and inspecting her nethermost treasures in a way that surely left her feeling utterly exposed.

I slithered moistened fingers past her thighs and sawed them gently through the swelling folds of her darkening, lovely cunt. She was hot. She was soaked. She gasped aloud.

Holding her hip with one hand, I began a series of spanks with the other until her cheeks just began a shade of pink. I caressed her thighs with rabbit fur. I reached around her to run my nails along her tummy, up to her faerie tits, pinching her nipples. I jilled her lengthening, engorged clit betwen my fingers as she struggled to keep her hands to the cieling above her.

Inspired, and with a sense of indulgent come-uppance, I reached for my most recently-acquired slapper, a token from ribald days and nights in Chicago. I enjoyed an irony. With a self-indulgent smirk I returned the mental gesture that the loss of one becomes the gain of another. It was a subtle, personal return on a theme, fully warranted and enjoyed from the lesser deamons of my nature. And it left lovely, loud red swats on my fabulous, healthy, joyful new lover's exquisite ass.

Both this spirit and the spirit of escorting her through these newer sensations then had me at my kitchen freezer where I reached not for ice, but for clusters of frozen strawberries that had been waiting for attention since last autumn. With fistfulls of the hard, gooey fruits, I laughed aloud as I caressed her legs, abdomen, tits, and face with pink pectin.

By the time I was done, she had been through multiple experiences as she wobbled on happily unsteady feet. It was time to let her cum. Reaching again between her thighs, my fingers returned to exploring her, and at the risk of entirely compromising my Topspace, I indulged in giving her my tongue. She began to quake and suffer, now uncomfortable standing on the chair as orgasm eluded her.

I showed mercy. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I hoisted her up and tossed her into the parlour futon in one rush. She screamed aloud as I roughly parted her thighs and sunk my cock deeply into her drenched, quivering, strawberried pussy, her ankles high and around my neck as I fucked her fast, hard, and deep. I held her legs up by gripping the clamp betwen the restraints, the steel clacking loudly with each demanding thrust of my cock. Her knees framed her face as she gasped aloud. Her nails raked down my back as she came.

I removed the ankle restraints. I carried her to my bed. I threw her down. I raised her lovely, reddened ass into the air to fuck her from behind before we coiled together and drifted into sleep, fruit still on our tongues.

Kara was introduced to kink, and was intimidated no more. She's begun exploring her secrets.

Playing with experienced partners is always a pleasure, but I cannot think of a more rewarding privilege than to succesfully introduce someone to heretofore unexplored nuances of their sexual selves. It transcends the tenure of relationships, and makes priesthood to Aphrodite's temple out of those who have the opportunity to know its joys and responsibilities.

Love you, Kara. Dacquiri?

A kitten in the corner.

The sight of her as she passed me took my breath away and almost brought me to tears with appreciation.

It wasn't her makeup, for she wore little. It wasn't her attire, for her spaghetti-strapped top was modest and plain. It was her vibe, her allure, the natural sculpture of her features alone that caught me. Her shortly cropped hair, shocked with streaks of blonde, rested sofly upon her adorable head. The gentle and yet calmy confident statement on her soft, young face. Her modest chest, lithe muscles like tender veal, and the moonlit tone to her soft, alabaster skin. Apart from her lobes widely scooped in plain, heavy-gauge silver, she wore no visible adornments. Somehow, deep within me, I knew she was completely and totally shorn, and pondered whether her mound was enhanced with a christina.

Her half-lidded and slightly detached eyes, the soft pout to her small lips, the almost genteel way she observed her surroundings, her silent gait reminded me of a cat I have known, one belonging to a former lover. No... she resembled this cat exactly, and memory took me. How feline she was, this tender thing who could not have been older than eighteen but whose aura slowly cascaded with a knowing, supine grace. She was a nymph.

Were she Mine, spoke the Taskmaster within me, she would not serve Me victuals, nor pour My wine. she would not be My fucktoy. No. she would be collared and kept to a silver rung in the brickface of My blackroom wall, adoringly captived by a shimmering, fine chain and a little platinum bell.

There, as My pet, she would simply be. A thing of beauty for Me to rest Mine eyes upon as I languished in My favourite chair, enjoyed a glass of 2005 Cotes du Rhone, and rested between caning reps on the plump ass of some wayward, iniquitous, misguided, narcissistic wench who had incurred a just and potent wrath. she would be as a kitten in the corner for My pleasure to see, like a pillar of amethyst by lamplight, a Rodin on a dais.

Three lives conjoined.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Mysterious ink.

I dream of my dreaming as I lay, deep in slumber in the dark. I dream of my waking as you approach the bed, undress, and slide in beside me. I have felt you, and it's been so very, very long. I've missed you... not as badly as I used to, but I've missed you.

I have felt you beside me again, and my eyes open to the clouded wonder of your presence in the room.

The covers are thick and grey and warm as we entwine in them. You're fitter, thinner, than I remember you being, but it is you, and my spirit is soaring. You're nude. I'm nude. Your beautiful back takes my caresses with softness and memory, and I relish in the pleasure of massaging your muscles again. I remember.

It's just been so very, very long. You feel wonderful. Are you really here with me?

Your shoulders are tense, and I smile deeply to myself as your skin yields to my touch once more. You lay on your stomach, the grey covers curled about our limbs as my working hands make their way to your spine, the small of your back. My fingers push your flesh into slow waves. Your delightful bottom is before me, and I want to bring my face close to you as my hands continue roaming, massaging, releasing tension from your muscles.

It's then that I see the patterns. You have new ink. It's almost raised like some neolithic image on a stone wall in Tanzania. New tattoos. Dots upon dots just under your ass, stark and black and strong within the sensitive skin at the back of your thighs. And, under them all, you bear... inscriptions. There are words in poetic meter, bold and small letters that have a message. What does it say? Is it about you? Is it something I must know? What is this in, upon, across your thighs that I must read?

But I awaken. I wake and you're gone again. Only I remain in the bed under the thick, grey, warm covers, and the inscriptions inked into the back of your thighs remain as mysterious to me as you yourself.

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.

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.