Monthly Archives: July 2008
Anyone else going to this?
CineKink’s Tawdry Summer Tryst
August 5, 2008, 8pm
The Red Room @ KGB Complex
85 E. Fourth Street (@ Second)
Seems interesting. Just wondering if anyone else out there will be there so I can nervously gravitate towards you and make awkward conversation.
Mister McIntyre part 4 up tomorrow.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
April 19th, 1964
Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.
In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.
Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders.
He towers over her. He stand almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.
He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.
Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.
“Abigail I’m going to need some rope.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.
That’s what I had written in my diary that morning on the train into work. That’s what I had went to finish at lunch when Mister McIntyre came in. I left my sandwich on my desk and slipped my diary back into my drawer. Mister McIntyre called me in to take a letter. When we were finished he sat back in his hair and made a little steeple with his fingers the way he did and he rocked there and looked at me.
“I’d really prefer if business acquaintances didn’t call the office.”
I swallowed hard. Stupid heart revving up again. I wished he didn’t look at me like that. That examining look that makes it so I can’t move, but I can’t stay still. Deer in headlights doesn’t even start to explain it.
“You handled it well, though I’d prefer if you didn’t use anyone name on the phone. You never who is walking by.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I will never happen again.” I wanted to crawl away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get on my knees… on over his knees.
He cleared his throat. “You did fine, I’m just explaining the protocol for the future. You always exceed my expectations Abby.” and with that he turned around and looked out his window, the sign that I was dismissed.
I turned, scampered out, but just before I closed the door his voice pulled me back.
“What was that you were writing?”
Fear, icy and numbing my fingers on the doorknob.
“You were writing something as I came in, what was it?”
Lie. Make up anything. But I knew I couldn’t. I can’t lie to Mister McIntyre. I wouldn’t. He’d probably see through it anyhow.
“Nothing, sir. Just my diary. I… write in-” he cut off my mumbling.
“Speak up, Abby.”
“My diary, sir. I write in it at lunch sometimes.”
He considered this.
“What were you writing today?”
The panic was in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was alone in an alley with a gang of thieves. No where to run.
“Just… a stupid thing. A dream. It was nothing-”
He cut me off again.
“Dreams can be very interesting, Abby. Haven’t you heard of the work of Jung?”
I didn’t know what to say. I just begged that this was the end of the conversation.
“Bring it in here. Leave it on my desk. I want to see what kind of dreams you are having.”
He didn’t say anything. There was silence. There was more silence. I looked up and his eyes were on mine. I almost never look him in the eyes and the power of that icy blue made me let go of the door knob.
“Bring it into my office and leave it on my desk.” he said, standing up and picking up his hat.
“I’ll read it when I get back from lunch.”
He walked towards me. His body suddenly close. He slipped past me, his chest brushing against me, the smell of him, the hugeness of him. Then he was gone. My legs were shaking so much I almost couldn’t sit down. The blood was draining from my body. I was starting to hyperventilate.
I wanted to go home, but I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. There was only one thing to do, it wasn’t even a choice. I would put my little pink and purple striped diary on his desk. I would put it there and it would sit there on his big dark wood desk next to his fancy pens and his big black telephone and all of his newspapers and business things. My heart and my dirty thoughts just waiting.
And so I held my book to my chest and marched in feeling naked. I put it down and my eyes stung. I walked out and closed the door and sat back at my desk.
And then I waited.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
It’s 11:45 and that means that Mister McIntyre is… he is in his meeting. He is in his hotel room right now. He is doing things, things that make me bite my lip just thinking about. How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to act like nothing is going on. Right now at the Pierre Hotel he is fucking her. Right now he is doing it. Are they naked? Does he take off his socks? Does he make noise?
“Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?”
It’s Paula and Regina. Nice girls, but I’m nervous that someone will call. Something might happen. I have to guard the secrets.
“Oh, no thanks, I brought my lunch.”
They shrugged and giggled to each other. Whispering some little joke. Who cares what they think. Paula had a nose like a pig and her boss was that drunk Mister Grifford. Regina was nice enough, but she wasn’t very bright.
The phone ring and I took a deep breath before I picked it up.
“Fitzgerald Investment Group, Mister McIntyre’s office.”
Silence on the line. A sigh. More silence.
“Douglas McIntyre’s office, may I help you?” I said, a little louder.
“Hello. You’re the secretary, right?”
I knew it was her. I never heard her voice, but I knew. My heart was racing again. One of his secrets come to life with a real voice. Talking to me.
“Y.. yes. This is Abigail. How can I help you?”
There was a low chuckle.
“He’s not in, is he?” her voice was velvet. It made her jealous.
“N.. no. May I ask who’s calling?”
A long pause.
“You know who’s calling. I’m not going to be able to make my appointment and I don’t have the hotel’s number handy.”
Marcy Peterson. Daughter of a client. The spoiled brat.
“I’ll um, I’ll find Mister McIntyre and let him know… Miss Peterson.” my voice lowering to a whisper.
“My, but you are the good secretary.” her honey sarcastic voice purred with the trappings of a rich Connecticut accent. “I suppose you schedule all of Mister McIntyre’s affairs.”
I just sort of let out a little meep. What can you say to that? Secrets are supposed to be secret. Notes in the calendar. Instructions from Mister McIntyre. They aren’t supposed to call.
“I.. I’ll let him know, Ma’am.”
“How old are you… Abby isn’t it?”
I should have just hung up. Would that be rude? People walked by my desk and I wondered what they thought. I was holding on to the phone with both hands. I tried to calm down. Put one hand on the desk. Tried to act like this was just another phone call.
“Well, just a little thing. From your voice I would have said twenty at most. Is it embarrassing? Knowing where your boss goes at lunch? He told me once you were very trustworthy and obedient to the last. It made you sound like a puppy.”
My mouth opened but no words came out. He talked about me? What did he say? He actually sat there with his mistress and said “That Abigail is an obedient secretary.”?
“I try my best.” I squeaked.
She hung up. I numbly dialed the hotel.
“Mister Jefferson, room 732, please.”
It rang several times. My heart can’t take this. It never seems to slow down. It’s no wonder I go home and fall asleep.
“Yes?” his slow deep voice.
“Um, it’s um… your 11:30 appointment had to cancel, sir.”
“She called the office?” he sounded concerned.
“That’s…” he trailed off. “I’ll be back in the office in 15 minutes.”
Back to his office, straighten things up. Make sure everything it set for his meeting. Make sure he has his notes.
Standing in his office with the door closed the day finally got to me. He would be back any minute. Pulling up my skirt and reaching down my panties I am soaked through and through. How do I get this bad? How do I let myself get this worked up?
One hand on his desk and one hand in the tight constraints of my panties and pantyhose. Fast fast. He might come back. Fast his footsteps will be in the hallway any minute. Those gray blue eyes, that chiseled chin, those huge hands. I bet his hands are twice the size of mine. His fingers twice as thick.
Rubbing and rubbing, but I am quiet as a mouse. I would be quiet if he needed me to come into his office. I wouldn’t say a word if he bent me over his desk. I’d be his. His anything. I’d never cancel.
My fist on his hard wood desk as I come and come.
Go to the bathroom. Don’t look up at anyone. Wash my hands, fix my lipstick.
Breath Abigail. Breath.
I’m at my desk just as he gets in.
“Abby, I’m going to need some lunch. Turkey Club. Get yourself…” he stopped, examining me as he got to his door.
“You look a little flushed, everything alright?”
I squirm. His eyes on me. He is looking me over. What can he see?
“Oh, I’m alright.” I laugh awkwardly.
Sitting at my desk before he gets to the office I cross my legs and watch helplessly as they bounce nervously.
Every Monday it’s the same. I don’t know why. I get in early, sort the mail, clean things up, change my typewriter ribbon. When it hits 8:45 I start shaking a little. I have to concentrate on not biting my lower lip or I’ll mess up my lipstick.
I keep a little check list under my typewriter on a little board so I can slide it out and look at it. Make sure his glasses are clean, make sure his desk is organized. Garbage can empty. Check the bulbs in his lamps. Dust his globe and book shelf. I get the special coffee he likes and keep it in a thermos. If he isn’t in by 10 I go get some more so it will be hot and fresh for him. I have to guard the milk I keep in the refrigerator, Mister McIntyre doesn’t like cream. The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times on his desk. He reads the New York Times on the train.
By 8:55 my heart is racing. I have to dab my forehead. My legs are bouncing so much I’m going to wear a hole in my stockings.
When he comes in, he is charging down the hall. I can hear him. No one else walks that fast in here. I see his silhouette outside the frosted glass door and then he’s walking towards me. I don’t know where to look. I straighten paper. I fix my pencils. If I look up at those blue eyes I’ll explode or, even worse, blush.
“Abby,” he says in that deep voice. I see his chin, I see his lips.
“Good morning, sir,” I hate my voice. I hate my voice. I sound like a little girl.
He is wearing his charcoal gray suit with a white shirt and a navy tie.
“Eleven o’clock with the Richardson people. Lunch at one with the Morgan Stanley people. Nothing else until the four o’clock review with Mister Donaldson, sir.”
He is looking through the mail as I tell him this from memory. He throws away half the mail. I can smell his aftershave and lingering cigarette smoke. He has a little red nick on his chin from shaving. I want to lick it.
Why am I like this? I’m getting wet just from him standing over me. I’ve been here for four months and I’m still like this. It’s actually getting worse. Do other girls think about there bosses like this? I’m 22 and he’s 38. He’s married to the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen; plus- well- Mister McIntyre has secrets. I would never tell. I can keep secrets. It’s important that Mister McIntyre knows that. I’m his secretary and I would never divulge any of his information to anyone. Except my diary.
He is hovering closer. He takes a step nearer and looks around.
“Abby,” he clears his throat. He was using his conspiratorial whisper. “See if you can move the Morgan thing to two and the Richardson thing to 10. Matt Richardson is staying at the Roosevelt, tell him I can swing by and we can do it in the restaurant there.”
He leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from my ear. I was trying to breath. Just kiss me. Kiss my neck. I’ll do anything you want, Mister McIntyre. Please, sir. Please.
“Call up… the Pierre. Get me that room I get. You know. Tell them it is for Mister Jefferson, they will know what you mean. I’ll be there from 11 to 12:30.”
Then he was gone. His door closed. I would wait 10 minutes and then bring him his coffee.
I only saw her once. The girl he takes to the Pierre. He pays cash at the desk for the room. She’s my age, dark hair. She has a stupid face, but those lips. So full and always perfectly painted red. She looks mean, bitter and bratty. Maybe that’s what he likes. I wonder what they do in there. I mean, I know what they do- I just wonder how it goes. Does he get there first or does she? Does he just pull up her dress? Is he rough or gentle?
My legs are closed so tight under my desk. My fists clenched. I have to stop thinking about this.
He’s rough. I bet Mister McIntyre is rough. I bet he pushes her down on the bed or maybe against the wall. I bet he slaps her around if her bratty mouth goes off. I bet he rips her panties off; if she wears any that little slut.
Is it big? Oh god, I have to stop thinking about this. Is it thick and hard? Does she suck it? Does it hurt her when he-
“Abby? Is there a problem with the coffee?” he says through the intercom.
“One moment, sir.”
I’m out of my seat like a shot. I’m dizzy as I get the milk from the break room. Find a mug for him. Get the thermos. Just a splash of milk. My eyes sting. I’m so stupid. I was daydreaming and I forgot.
I fan my eyes. Stop it. Don’t cry. Put on a happy face and bring it in to him.
Composed. Deep breath. I open the door. I bring in the coffee. He doesn’t look up at me, he just picks it up and sips it.
I make the calls. I have to fight to change the times but it all works out.
“Sir? Your schedule is all set for the day. Just the way you wanted it.”
Silence. My heart racing again.
“Thank you, Abby.”
I try not to smile. I feel like I am blushing again. Oh, Mister McIntyre.
It’s sort of sad when your ex-girlfriend cum fuck buddy (The Musician)tells you she can’t come over for sex and snacks anymore.
In the end I know she will find a nice boy and settle down. Probably she is already on her way.
If she does have a lapse in judgement before then…
Friday night drink with a certain female sex blogger was canceled due to scheduling issues. Sad, but a five minute phone call was an oddly potent assurance of attraction. For me at least. Oh well, I can wait. Hunger is the best pickle, as they say.
Saturday was an interesting day. I went out with someone I have known for something like six or seven years, but never actually met. We cyber geeks have such acquaintances. Meeting her was oddly comfortable. Falling into a familiar banter, knowing each other’s faces if only vaguely.
She is a long train ride away, but close enough to visit somewhat regularly.
We have had an interesting friendship. Usually just two media geeks chatting about this or that, but occasionally conversations become somewhat racy. Perhaps even downright naughty.
This meeting was proposed as a “date” seeing that she is somewhat awkward when it comes to the whole relationship thing and I wanted to just go on a date with her. Though after we met it fell into a wholly friendly thing. A geeky movie to make fun of and a little dinner. Of course as much as I had fun, I couldn’t let the lingering sexual tension just lie. I pulled out the old Jack seduction.
“Hey, I think we should kiss.”
Feel free to steal that gem, boys and girls.
She turned red and covered her face. “Really? Why?”
Adorable in her awkwardness. I really wanted to kiss her for most of the night. She has this bottom lip that protrudes deliciously, as if she is always pouting.
After a few minutes of debate she announced. “Ok. You can kiss me.”
It was hot in that I knew her so well and that lip was very fun to kiss. Plus I am genuinely attracted to her. Plus the fact that it was so awkward kind of turned me on.
It was chaste, though. A few kisses. I restrained my roaming hands, which was difficult seeing that she is ruthlessly buxom. My train came and I was pushed out of the car. Later I was told I had to go because a few more minutes and her clothes would have started coming off. Always nice for a boy to hear that he can inspire inappropriate behavior.
What’s funny is that she reads this. This is sort of my first direct recollection about something that happened that one of the participants will actually read. Somehow I don’t think it will be the last.
Oh I can feel the blushing from here. Priceless.
This is just silly, but it makes me feel sappy and warm inside. No sex, per se, but plenty of erotica. Meta-erotica?
I’m sort of obsessed by this story. The beginning has been hanging around for a while now. I wrote the ending a while back. I had to sit down and force myself to figure out how to connect the two. With the help of a friend I got it. Let me know what you think.
In trying to write a dirty little story with Miss Lilly from DangerousLilly I find myself being far too verbose for my own good. I can’t just jump into the action, I tend to get caught up with characters’ back stories and motivation and all that. Not that these are inherently bad things, it’s just that when you want to write about fucking and you spend 2 pages just getting to someone’s panties you have a problem.
Maybe I need to read more erotica. I went through a phase where read a lot of it. I had around ten of those Best American/Womens/Lesbian/Southern Erotica of 2000. Not to mention the essentials of Anais Nin, Venus in Furs,, The Story of O, what have you. Even the unbecoming Sleeping Beauty series and Belinda. I’ve been on the outs with published erotica for the past few years though. Reading online erotica from places like Literorica or StoriesOnline can be a mixed bag. You get some wonderful things but more often then not you lots of horribly written garbage. Often when you do get well written things they are far too dirty for their own good. This prickles my propensity to pen far to perverse things so I try and steer clear. Thus the reason I try not to read ASSM/ASSTR anymore.
I’ve sort of trained myself to write in a certain way and when I try and write straight sex my head gets confused and keeps yelling “who are these people and why are they on a train?”
Sadly this leads to a folder with dozens of sex stories with no sex in them.
That being said… does anyone have any kinks/scenarios/wet dreams/ideas they would want to read a story about?
They broke up on the train.
Trains push his memories to the surface. All the trips into the country as a child. All the trees passing by, leaves changing to red and gold.
The city fades fast, faster then you can imagine. It is so small compared to the stretches of country to the Jersey Shore, to Upstate, to Boston and Maryland and DC.
Looking at Maggie, he could see her fighting her childhood memories. At least he wanted to think she was fighting them, hoping they were there to be fought. She had her nose in a notebook, making a list of things to do.
They were going to Maggie’s parents’ house because Maggie’s father was sick. He had a heart attack, but it looked like he was going to be alright. She had a big Irish family and it was expected that a good daughter would come home in a time like this. So Maggie and her boyfriend Jack got on a train from New York to Virginia.
Maggie and Jack had been living together for three years. They had been dating for four and known each other since college six years ago. She was going for her BA in Fine Arts and he was going for his Masters in English back then.
She had their life planned out. She had a good steady job and he did freelance work. They had a nice apartment, which he loved, but she wanted to move out to the country soon. She wanted to get married, but he hadn’t asked her yet. She had plans and he wasn’t playing along. She didn’t break up with him because she had already put too much time into him. He didn’t break up with her because he was lazy and didn’t like confrontation.
There was something about the trip that started pushing Jack’s buttons from the start. They were taking the train out to her parents’ house and there was this air of expectance. She expected him to go, to be excited, to ask her to marry him, to want kids, to want a better job… but none of that was going to happen and both of them were starting to realize it.
A third of the way there after arguing over signing another lease for the apartment she said “If you don’t want to grow as a couple then maybe we should just break up.”
It wasn’t a threat, it was something that people said in the heat of the moment, but it just pushed Jack over the edge.
“Yeah. We should. This relationship is a joke. You don’t love me; you just need someone to help you afford a mortgage.”
And she cracked. She cried. There was no putting things back together.
For the next hour they agreed on things. Jack would be nice for the three day weekend with Maggie’s parents. They would take care of the breakup when they got back. And then like a switch when they got to their stop Maggie fixed her makeup and was back to herself.
They entered the big old house just after 4pm. It was an old southern house with white pillars outside and a big porch and a huge white door.
They entered to find silence and emptiness. Walking up the staircase they came to a long hall. Pictures hung along the walls, old school pictures of Maggie and her sisters Molly and Megan. Three smiling girls with white skin and black hair and matching skirts and sweaters. Three princesses at Halloween. Three girls on horses.
Jack followed Maggie as she navigated pass a dozen doors and finally found her old room. Jack was a stranger in this place. He was not a Smith.
Maggie’s room was white walled, filled with 2-foot boxes in one corner, an uncomfortable looking bed made up with yellow sheets and a pink and yellow quilt. One wall was all white bookshelves, but they were only a quarter filled. On one wall hung a large framed sketch of Maggie. He remembered her sitting in front of the mirror, sketching herself for her final project in still life, back in college.
In that frame was Maggie, the girl. Quiet in class, but boisterous when she was excited. Level headed, list making, but deep down an artist. Deep down filled with the same curiosity that Jack was filled with. Curiosity about books, history, art… and sex. The more he remembered their college years the more he realized that the Maggie he knew was gone.
When did she start longing for mediocre satisfaction? When did she stop needing to explore and started needing a bigger house, a better job, some mythical security she constantly talked about. When did she put her paints and her charcoal and her pads and canvas in her parents’ basement to go untouched?
The same time she started thinking of sex as a duty and rolling her eyes at the mere mention of sexual adventure. Sex was just relieving them both of some energy or maybe a way for her to get him to leave her alone so she could get enough sleep to wake up at 5 in the morning to jog.
She sighed and put her bags down.
“Listen, you can stay here. I will go to the hospital. Then everyone will come back for dinner. I know you don’t want to be here… but let’s just do this and then we can get back and…” she just trailed off. A horn honked outside and she looked out the window.
“That’s my aunt. Unpack, ok?”
Jack nodded. “I like your family. This weekend will be fine. Go check on your father, make sure he is alright.”
She looked at him, unsure if a hug was still ok. Then she just turned around and left.
He unpacked, he looked around. He ended up on the bed, drifting off into a nap. The train ride, the fight, all of it melted away.
When he awoke in darkness. He could hear people downstairs and smell the warm homey smells of chicken and potatoes.
He saw movement, the door opened and closed.
“Hey. You ok? Sorry I fell asleep… the fight and everything…”
“I don’t think your talking to the right Smith girl, mister.”
The light came on and that’s when he found out Maggie’s little sister grew up.
She was Maggie, but different. Shorter, but only slightly. Bustier, a little more hip, a little more ass. Same nose, same ears, fuller lips. Her eyes were blue, while Maggie’s where green.
The last time he saw her it was about four years ago, she had just turned fifteen. Sitting up fully he couldn’t quiet comprehend that it was the same person. Molly the Mole, skinned knee tomboy who made gagging sounds if she saw him kissing her sister.
The first thing he noticed was a red and black nautical star tattoo between her neck and her breasts, half hidden by her white cotton tank top. Half perfect black and red ink on her white skin, half dark shadow under the thin cotton.
She squirmed under his eyes. “Thanks.” Her arms came up and she folded them over her breasts. She was trying not to smile.
“So you two having a fight?”
“Um. No. Not really. Just an argument. Sort of.” He knew he had to look away from her, but he couldn’t. It was like looking at all the missing parts of Maggie, melted into a younger curvier tighter form. He walked over to the window and looked out at the greens and the grays.
She came into the room and walked to the bookshelf, looking at the remaining books, letting her finger drift over the spines.
“I was wondering what you would look like now,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Oh? Do I look different?”
He looked over to her and she nodded. “You look old, but basically the same. You look better with your hair short. Your hair looked pretty dumb long. Plus those glasses are better, the dark frames. You’re still ugly, though.” There was the smile, the wicked brat smile. In those eyes was pure curiosity.
“I always thought you had
a crush on me.”
She let out a laugh, but she blushed.
“You wish.” she said, but eyed him and smiled.
He looked at her from the side now. It was like a lecture on the effects of puberty. At fifteen she was all legs and arms and wild nervous energy. At nineteen she was all hips and tits and calm sultry sex.
He noticed other tattoos, one on her wrist, this one just a black star. He could see the shadow of something on her back, it was large and not one of those little designs girls get right at their tailbone, this was long and it came up from around her butt to the middle of her back.
He stood up and moved closer to her, slowly and she tensed. She was still facing the books, pretending not to be curious about what he was going to do next. He walked behind her, moved closer until he was two feet away. He looked at the books, he looked at her neck, he looked at her eye as she turned her head to look at him.
“You got a tattoo on your back, too?”
She nodded, still facing her body away from him, but looking at him from over her shoulder.
He moved in and put his hands on her waist. She froze. He touched the edges of her thin shirt.
“Can I see?”
She swallowed and nodded. Their eyes met. Curiosity, lust.
He pulled up her shirt slowly and saw that there where two jet black f-hole, like the ones on a violin or cello. It was a lot of ink, a lot of time. He touched the edge of it and he could feel raised scarred skin.
Her back was smooth and her ass curved out from just below his hand.
“Wow. You got all this done in the last year?”
She moved forward, pulling her shirt out of his grip.
“Yeah. I was dating a tattoo artist for a while.”
He took her hand and looked at the tattoo on her wrist.
“Did they hurt?”
She smile. “That’s the best part.”
A voice from downstairs said “Kids… dinner.”
Dinner was huge and southern. Jack had forgotten that people ate like that. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes, greens and a million other things. Everyone was so busy catching up with Maggie and Molly, who had been off at Art School and also with Maggie’s older sister who had just had twins that no one really bothered talking to Jack, which was just the way he liked it.
Molly watched him though. Watched him like a cat watches a bird. It was a very different look then the fifteen year old awkward kid gave him four years ago.
When it was over Maggie said goodnight to all and went upstairs with Jack, got undressed without looking at him and then went to bed.
Jack laid there, uncomfortable because of the small bed and not really wanting to be too close to Maggie. He found himself thinking of Molly every time he closed his eyes. The way she looked in that white tank top, tough and sexy. He wanted to know what those tattoos looked like up close. What it felt like to trace them with his tongue.
Thoughts like that and the moonlight coming in from the window kept him up half the night. It seemed like only minutes, but the next time he opened his eyes it was morning. He awoke to feel the familiar sensation of Maggie next to him. He had turned around to face her in the night and now he was spooning her, with his arm around her.
She felt warm, she smelt good. Her ass against him made him stir inside. Without really realizing, his hand came up to cup her breast. It was such a natural thing.
She sighed and pushes his arm away.
“Yeah, right.” She said with disgust.
She sat up and climbed over him.
“Go back to bed, I’m taking a shower. Everyone is going to go to church in an hour. I know you don’t want to do that, so I’ll probably see you at lunch.”
She looked him in the eyes.
He nodded. He was still hard under the warm sheets. Memories, warm blanket comfort and the smell of her hair on the pillow made his mind swim. If he just relaxed he could fall back asleep. And then there was nothing.
He awoke to the sound of the door closing.
The room was too bright, the sun coming in through the half opened curtains. He was groggy, as only waking up from oversleeping can make you. The room was a dull white blur, then the blinds were closed and the curtains pulled shut so that the light filtered through the rust colored fabric, making the room dull yellow and red.
Then Maggie slipped into bed. Her arms around him, her lips on his neck. He pushed her hair back and kissed her. Her lips felt soft, there was some sweet lip gloss… and then he opened his eyes wider and saw who was really in bed with him.
There was Molly. There was Molly in her white tank top.
“Hello mister bedhead.”
He tried to comprehend what was going on.
Then Molly’s lips are on his again and he got the rush of the taste of a new mouth. Then Molly, squirming and turning around, and her soft round ass is against him. His arms are around her and they’re spooning. His mouth is on her neck and his hands are on her hips.
It is an interesting thing when you are so used to one person’s body, your hands remember where to go on them, your body understands how you are supposed to fit together, but now he was lost in this new geography. Her lips were too hot and soft, her kisses were too rough, her breasts too big, too heavy, too perfect.
Her hips flared out, giving him something to really hold on to when he pulled her against him. Her ass was soft and cool and when he hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and pulled them down, he slipped right between her cheeks and it was perfection.
She moved her head back as he moved forward and he was lost in her kiss again. She arched her whole body against him and her lips were on his ear, sucking, then biting, then whispering.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
Jack grunted and pulled at her hips roughly. His cock touching wetness and heat as it rubbed between her legs.
“You have to say it. I like to hear it.”
Her voice was steady, but wanton. It was new, not the silent simple sex Jack was used to. Jack liked this.
“Damn,” he groaned into her neck. “I want to fuck you… so badly.”
His hand squeezed her breast once more and then moved down to between her legs. He groaned again when he felt smoothness where he expected coarse hair. Then his fingers felt wet heat. Silk softness, perfect folds that made him growl.
As his finger passed over her lips and one finger slipped into her she pushed her ass back against him.
“I want you to go down on me.” She gasped, pushing his hand away and laying on her back.
Jack looked down at her, her face was red and a red blush ran down her neck and on her chest where his unshaven face rubbed against her. He went to push her shirt off, but instead smiled.
“Take off your shirt. I want to see your tits.”
She smiled wickedly and pulled off her shirt and then unhooked her bra and took that off.
He saw that red and black star on her chest and lower down another tattoo… a heart on fire with a gold crown above it, right over her heart.
He moved until he was kneeling between her open legs, then he moved down and kissed her neck again, then traced his tongue around the slightly raised thick black lines of each tattoo on her chest. She arched her hips and her breath caught.
He kissed down her chest and stomach until he got between her legs. By now she was growling and purring.
One lick and he was addicted. Her body moved like a snake as he licked at her and she whined and gasped.
“More.. fuck. Make me come.”
He licked her lips teasing and bit the tight skin of her thigh, then he moved in circling her clit and flicking it and he moved one hand up to slip one finger into her.
r />That was all it took. Fucking her with his finger and licking her made her body buck and made her grab the pillow behind her and squeeze it as she came hard.
Jack sat up, watching her come down from her amazing orgasm. He had never seen a woman come that hard. Maggie took a half an hour of work.. sometimes even a vibrator.
She smiled and looked into his eyes and then turned to look at the clock.
“Fuck, we only have 20 more minutes…”
She pushed him away and stood up, looking at him wickedly.
“I guess I got to make you come fast… stand up.”
He did and she kissed him hard, licking his bottom lip and tasting herself on him.
“What gets you off? You want to fuck me from behind? Want me to get on top and ride you? I want to make you get off hard.” She said all these things into his ear as she reached down and gripped his cock tightly.
Really, he didn’t even know. He was so used to getting what ever sad sex Maggie would give him he didn’t know what he really want. He had never been with someone so forward.
“You like that this is dirty? That my sister could come home any minute?” She whispered, jerking him off.
“You like that I am fucking 10 years younger then you?”
“You want me to be a little girl for you? I can bend over and you can fuck me?”
She turned in a flash and kneeled down, taking the head of his cock in her mouth. She sucked and licked around the head. Then she sucked half of his cock.
All thought disappeared. She broke every rule her sister set in bed. She was like a wet, writhing, perfect id of sex.
She stood up and then leaned over the bed, sticking her ass up in the air.
“Come on… fuck me… fuck me… fuck your little slut”
And then he was looking down at her back with the tattoos that looked like a cello and she was groaning and then he was inside of her. And it was tight wet perfection.
“Fuck me.” She whispered it over and over, like a mantra.
It took seconds for him to come. It was the most violent, mind numbing, powerful orgasm he could remember. He almost fell down, his knees went so weak.
He collapsed on the bed, hardly aware that she had laid down and started fingering herself.
Jack turned and weakly kissed her nipple, wanting her to get off one more time.
“Bite it hard.” She begged.
He bit it, reaching up and squeezing her other tit. Then he moved up to her ear and whispered.
“Come for me…”
And she came, loud against him.
And that’s when the door opened.
I recently had an interesting conversation with Lumpesse about internet identities and specifically sex blog identity.
At 32 I’ve been a pretty active watcher and member of the various online sex related subcultures. Not to say I was “part” of these subcultures, but I was aware of them, I watched them and occasionally I interacted with them. BDSM, erotica, LGBT, poly, Fan Fiction/Slash, all kinds of fetishes, henti, furry, you name it. I have certainly not been active in a lot of these groups, I’m definitely not into half those kinks, but I have watched them with facination. Back in the heady days of BBS’s and MoDems you put batteries in, to back when AOL was 1337. I have always been on Usenet, the single greatest place to get porn and find weirdness to this day. I am a firm believer in Rules 34 and 35 and I have watched them in action for more than half my life.
As for online identities, I’ve had more than a few. AOL chat room names back when I was in my teens. Changing my name, my age, sometimes even my gender. I had the prerequisite online romances, cybersex encounters, even awkward hookups. I am a child of the internet, it gives me information, entertainment and sex even now.
The problem comes when I started growing up and I realized that I have a more and more fragmented identity, online and IRL. I made friends online and off that knew certain sides of me and I tend to keep them separate. Sometimes worlds would collide by choice or happenstance and I would freak out.
Growing up I realize this was even true in my family because my parents divorced when I was an infant and thus I had two separate families that never spoke and whom in a lot of ways knew very different Jacks.
In relationships the same things tended to happen. I would have a girlfriend and we would be very vanilla and I was fine with that. We would break up and I would be with a girl that would be a practically 24/7 power exchange and I was just as happy with that, though somewhere in the middle was where I was happiest.
About two years ago I started posting very dirty stories on various forums online. I had a rather large following, mostly made up of rather creepy people. Still I liked having this little give and take. Posting things in that manner brought immediate and almost always positive feedback which is ego crack to someone like me.
About a year in I met the Librarian and we had this insanely passionate relationship. It started with a Craig’s list hook up that turned into this love affair type thing. She was very fond of the few pieces of writing I showed her and out of curiosity she decided to hunt down other things. A couple of the stories she found squicked her and I think it was one of the contributing factors that ended the relationship.
One of the many reasons why I only tell people and show people what I know they can handle.
These days, though, I’m getting tired of separating things. I find my circle of friends gets smaller as I cut off the people I don’t feel I can tell things, though my friendships get stronger with the people I actually trust.
On the other side, I like having secrets. I like having different identities. I even like having the ability to close out whole identities and start new ones up on a whim. It’s one of the many things that make the internet great. As I get older online friendships don’t really appeal to me as much. I tend to meet people online and then press to meet them in person because real life is a lot more fulfilling. Knowing real people and having real friendships make separate lives a lot more messy.
Does this happen to anyone else? How many people in your life know about your sex blog or fetish or kink? How much do you tell a new lover and when and has anyone ever reacted badly? Has anyone ever found you out?
My most recent ex, The Musician, and I have a pretty friendly relationship. Basically I broke up with her because I don’t think we would do well together for the long haul, we are too different.
That being said we are still good friends and she occasionally calls me and says something like “I really need to get fucked can I come over? If you cook for me and fuck me I will blow you and and let you do what ever you want to me.”
This works out well. It’s sort of funny that my cooking is just as much of an impedes for these booty calls as my cock. It’s nice to get my sex ego and my cooking ego stroked at the same time.
Deep down, hell most of the time even on the surface, I am a nice guy. So fucking a girl who is in love with me takes some moral sidestepping because I know she is going to get hurt. I brought this up and she said she is ok with it. She’s a grown up and the sex is amazing, so we will see how it works out in the long run. I’m expecting her to find a nice boy with a nice job to take care of her pretty soon, until then I will enjoy our little sleep overs.
She came over last night, but just for a home cooked meal. She was rather emphatic about this.
Chicken, potato and carrot curry over rice. Naan. Followed by a carbohydrate haze. We played a little Scrabble. We lounged on the couch. When my hand lazily grazed her breasts she said “No sex, mister.” which honestly I was fine with. I was tired. Of course knowing her the way I did all I had to do was not try and have sex with her if I really want it. So I smiled and eyed her and put on the television.
She tried to kiss me during a commercial, but I pulled away. She said no sex and so we shouldn’t even get started. She pouted. I smiled. She nuzzled my neck and I gave her a obviously fake look of annoyance. It was amazing how well ignoring her worked. By the next commercial she straddled me and pulled off her shirt.
Oh those tits. She is this tiny thing, 5 feet tall, those tits look like they are going to make her topple over. That size ten waist with those DD tits that she doesn’t even know what to do with, and damn how I missed that ass. So thick and so spankable. It’s too bad she can’t take much of a spanking. The first few slaps make her eyes glaze and her lips pout. Then she winces and squirms away. There are so many things I like about the Musician, but she is so very vanilla in a lot of ways.
Still, the fact that if she rubs her clit while I fuck her slowly from behind she squirts. The fact that she will come over just to suck my cock because sometimes she just needs to suck cock. All of this makes her a lovely pet to have around.
I remember a cute little moment. It was one of the first times we were together. She was trying hard to talk dirty, but her little girl voice made it almost comical. It was adorable.
“You like that big dick in my tight little pussy? Give me that dick! Do me with that dick!”
It was dick this and dick that and it sounded oddly childish the way she said it. I grabbed her and said “Cock. Say cock. And fuck!”
She kind of giggled, turned red and timidly tried out the harsher words.
“Fuck me with you thick… cock.”
For all of her vanilla she does have a streak of dirty. Wrist restrains and rope were out of the question, even calling me sir wasn’t her taste (let along Daddy… that was an awkward conversation). She does like to be called a slut, though only when she is primed for it. I pushed it a little farther and told her I should pay her for sucking dick so well. The idea made her eyes roll back in her head with shame and pleasure. The fact that I was rubbing the head of my dick over her clit at the time might have helped.
I wondered if I went to far for her, but in a few minutes when I had that big ass in both hands she looked back at me, hair across her face and asked how much. She said I should offer her money to fuck her. This led to a whole little prostitution game.
She ended up not even staying over. Leaving me alone on wet sheets to ponder what happened. She IMed me later that night to tell me the idea of me paying her for a blow job was all she could think about and she fingered herself in cab.
I tend to talk big online, but most of the dates I go on are relatively boring. I was in a five year monogamous relationship that ended badly a little over a year ago and ever since I have been on a dating tear. So I tend to go on a lot of dates with new people all the time, most of which I find online. I’m looking for someone to hold my interest, but so far none have held it for any more than a week or two with the exception of The Librarian who I dated for about three months and met on Craig’s list and The Musician who actually lived with me for two months and who I met on some forum somewhere.
More than anything else online dating has become a thing to do. A hobby almost. I’m not specifically looking for sex most of the time. I’d actually be happy enough with some new friends, but new playmates are equally important. The primary qualification is intelligence, with sexy and open minded close behind.
Often my luck in dating over the last year has surprised me. I don’t consider myself a catch really, I’m a chubby sort of overly sarcastic wannabe intellectual who has fits of shyness and is much better on paper than real life. Still in the past 13 months I have had a good run. Before my long relationship I had some interesting times as well.
I’m giving you a little back up so that my stories make a little more sense.
This is leading up to last night and The Mouse.
The Mouse is a little thing, although roughly my height she is somehow shorter somehow. She doesn’t have the best posture. She is 22 and works in a museum. She finished her degree early and is going for a Masters in something vague and obscure. These are things that tend to turn me on.
When it comes to dating (as well as all things) I compartmentalize. I filter. I pre-judge. There are sex dates, kink dates, fun dates and smart dates. This was definitely the later.
It was our second date, the first time we just met for a drink and some dinner. It went well enough, nothing really memorable. She seemed painfully shy, which made me bolder and more outgoing. She has braces, which I find odd. Combined with her body language and sort of awkward Pretty in Pink handmade clothes she seemed even younger than her age which is already ten years my junior.
After the first date I had to go on a trip out of the country and I came back to a few messages from her wondering how things went, wondering when we would go out again. We made plans for a museum, discussion, possibly dinner after.
We ended up on my couch.
I have specific tastes, but sometimes it is fun to find someone with completely opposite (physical) characteristic from what I am used to. The Mouse is somewhat thin. Maybe a size 8. Hardly any breasts. Maybe an A cup. No tattoos here. No fancy underpants. Hell, she goes to church.
We flirted in the museum, we brought up a shared love of rice pudding. She commented that I should make her some. She commented on me making her something or showing her something at my place a few times. Eventually I got the point and the next thing I knew we were headed to my apartment.
On the couch after the perfunctory look around the apartment and banter, the kissing started. It’s always interesting finding new lips, new necks, new buttons to push and mysteries to solve. She is such a good girl I kept keeping my eye out for some speed bump, some stop sign. I didn’t want to go farther than she was comfortable with, but before I knew it she was naked on my couch and there didn’t seem to be any doubts.
I often find awkwardness attractive. She was certainly awkward. In nothing but glasses and braces she had an enthusiasm that was comical and hot at the same time.
She got shockingly wet. Impressively wet. I kissed every inch of her and when I went down on her she seemed shocked by the sensation. I wondered exactly how inexperienced she was. She mentioned in passing during the date former boyfriends, various dates, so on. Still as she came and then collapsed into a fit of giggles I felt like I was an experiment or an adventure.
In bed she grasped my cock with one hand tightly. It reminded me of high school. She pulled and examined.
“Show me how to… touch you…” she said, not meeting my eyes.
I took her hand, we played, I let her explore. Then we rolled around together, rubbing and gasping. I wondered exactly what I should do next. I moved to my nightstand, she watched with a questioning look. I pulled out a condom. She settled back.
Inexperience doesn’t turn me on, per se, but as I said variety is always interesting and taking a break from aggressive girls was fun.
What happened next was a little odd. You see… things didn’t exactly fit. There was certainly a lot of good intentions, not to mention lubrication, but it seemed like it just wasn’t happening so we settled for a lot of rubbing and grinding and so on which made her happy, but left me unsatisfied. She realized this and took me, awkwardly at first, into her mouth. I was concerned, her braces, her inexperience, but things went well. When I felt myself nearing I groaned out a warning. She kept going, never letting up.
We then fell asleep.
Today she told me she knew all along that this was going to happen. She even brought a change of underwear. Who would have known? This mousy girl who wanted to walk around in museums with me was a second date fuck.
Thus proving again that I am old and I can’t read women.
I don’t know if these are fetishes, but over the past few years I have become very keen on certain things. None of them are essential to any sort of sexual attraction, I love diversity, but they are all pluses.
Ok, one of them might be essential, I leave it up to you to guess which one.
Above the Knee Socks
This started with an ex of mine who had a fondness for really long socks she got from American Apparel. After a rather extended dalliance on my couch in which she wore only said socks I was hooked.
Tatoos (Specifically on the chest, collar and back)
Thick black and red lines on tender flesh is lovely. Lovely to look at, lovely to trace with fingers or tongues. It is just awesome.
Oh how I hate contact lenses. Why stick things in your eyes when you can look so cute, geeky and hot?
From just a little tummy peeking out of low cut jeans to SSBW. I’ve been with the range and I enjoy everything in the middle. Softness and big tits and big asses and I am in heaven. Lately for some reason I have been dating smaller girls, but my heart always belongs to big girls.
Attached to fishnets or stocking or even just dangling there. There is something about garter belts that turn me on to no end. Especially with nothing under them.
Boyshorts/Boy Cut Panties
Lacy, a little old fashioned, irresistibly hot.
Completely Hairless Pussy
How can I go back? I still remember the first time I slipped my hand down a pair of jeans and instead of rough coarse hair I found sweet smoothness. The very idea turns me on. It is tactile, visual, plus just knowing a girl went to he trouble just to make sex a little more fun is a great starting point. It’s only polite that I make an extra effort to go down on her twice as long if there is that much less of an obstacle for my teasing tongue.
The magnet was always there. After that first kiss if he got within a certain proximity to her his body automatically moved in. That draw was always present, like some scientific law. And when his hands did touch her they fit so perfectly. They moved to her sides, palm curving to the shape of her hip bone. When she turned into his arms his hand moved to her bottom, which seemed made for his touch. When he cupped her breasts he let out a low growl, his senses taking over.
She was vocal. She made sweet little sounds in his arms. When the kisses became heated he could feel the moans emanating from her. When his dipped his head into the crook of her neck and kissed and nibbled there she let out these perfect little whimpers.
It was always building between them. Every moment together was foreplay. It didn’t matter if they were touching or not. The way she walked near him, the sway of her arms, the way her lips moved when she spoke, it was all part of the seduction between them.
He felt her eyes on him as well. He felt her tracing the shape of his lips and drinking in the blue of his eyes. She posed herself for him, bending this way and that way when it wasn’t necessary, just to see him shudder.
She got wet. Kissing and a few dirty words would do it. He made her squirm and writhe with his fingers. He kissed her between her legs and she bucked her hips and begged.
When he slipped in, it was like warm wet heaven. She was tight. She wasn’t very experienced, she said, but she was a whore for him. She liked him to say it. “You’re my little slut, aren’t you?” and her pretty head would wrestle with whether to blush or cum.
When she left they had a hard time letting go, even if they would see each other in a few hours. She clung to his shirt as he slipped his hand to the familiar curve of her bottom. The day would be nothing but wanting until they saw each other that night and then the cycle of want would start again.
Sorry if this is a bit disjointed. I have some more stories, both fact and fiction, in the works but I was out of the country for two weeks and I’m am still recovering.
So, my most recent ex has been texting me and telling me that she “needs to suck cock” and offering to come over, blow me, fuck me and then leave.
We met when I was on a business trip about a year ago. I was down south for two weeks in a city I’d never been to before. I went looking for information about the city and I found a forum and from there I found her.
She was a classical musician. That alone got me curious. She came to NY a lot because her family lives here and she was planning on moving back.
We met up here before me trip for a drink, hit it off. When I went on my trip she met up with me and what happened was very interesting.
I’d just gotten out of a long relationship with someone physically and intellectually the completely opposite of this girl. Let’s call her P.
Two weeks I was in a city I’d never been in on business and I had my own person hotel room slut. It’s a title she picked out, which was adorably hot because she wasn’t very experienced, sort of a “good girl” and a “daddy’s girl” but she wanted to be bad. I helped her as much as I could in those two weeks.
It’s fun to make a good girl go bad. I’m not one for fucking the innocent, I know guys like that and I don’t understand it. I like experienced girls, but once in a while a young woman who is a bit innocent but eager to learn can be a lot of fun.
Hotels are funny places. You can turn into someone else if your not careful. We were certainly not ourselves in that time. We played, fucked, spoke for hours on end. I sort of rediscovered the art of kissing with her and now it is back to being possibly my favorite sensual activity. Kissing for hours. Making out. Sublime when done right.
Coming back to the hotel every day after working in the office, finding her waiting in the lobby, a little red in the cheeks knowing the staff sees her waiting every day. Kissing her in the elevator, sneaking a hand up her skirt and feeling how she is already wet, her telling me how she was waiting for this all day. Getting to the room and pushing her over the little couch, fucking her hard until we both come and then taking a shower with her. Lounging around half naked for the rest of the night talking, eating dinner and fucking again for hours on end.
After it was over it was sad, but ok. Six months later she mentioned that she had a job offer in NYC. We hadn’t spoken much in the meantime, we tried but we were both dating and jealous. She asked to stay with me for a while until she could find a place. That turned into two months. We dated, but I sort of knew it wouldn’t work out.
I ended it, she moved out but we see each other occasionally. Now she says she wants sex. Just sex. I’m at one of those impasses I find myself at a lot when I know someone is asking for something that is going to hurt them emotionally at some point. Is it up to me to protect them or should I just go for the pleasure? She is an adult.