For an additional fee I will send you audio of me reading your story. Alternately you can have your story read by a female reader.

Stories take about two weeks to write and three weeks if you want audio recordings.

Personalized Erotic Story: $25-$50
Audio Version: Story cost + $50
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Note: This story is written to your specifications, but you retain no copyright to the story and I may publish or sell the right to publish said story.

Email me at mrjackstratton at gmail.com for more information.

I had always liked wearing a suit, but didn’t much wear them unless someone died or got married. A few interviews and big meetings at work, but that was it.

I was shopping and I picked out a vivid purplish pink paisley tie. I’d never owned a tie like that before. I paired it with a pinstriped DKNY shirt. A little expensive for me, but I tended to be a little blue collar.

I went to the wedding in my suit and tie. Decided at the last minute to add a vest. I stood a little straighter. I felt a little more in control. Confidence and strength through fashion? I liked it. That week I bought four more ties.

A few years later and I have around fifty of them. A closet full of dress shirts. Cufflinks, sweater vests, a new suit, collar stays and lovely colognes and so on.

I’ve been through this all before. Yes, Jack likes ties.

Enter my friends Sara and Zac and their 500 Hammers Project, which is a endeavor to “designed to highlight the ways in which small, useful objects shape – and are shaped by – our lives.”

Sara interviewed me about what kind of tool might help me in my life. All parties involved seem to come to the same conclusion simultaneously that a tie rack would be the best choice.

Sara, Zac and I went back and forth and I sent them a few crude drawings of how I imagined a metal tie rack to look. Zac incorporated some of my ideas, but came up with something wonderful and original. I was shocked when just a few days later Sara sent me pictures of the nearly finished product!

A few days after that I came home to find a box with hardware and a few simple instructions. Fifteen minutes of work with a screw driver and an hour or so figuring out a concise, aesthetically pleasing and useful organizational ordering system, my ties were up

Empty Rack

Tie Rack Up

Tie Rack Down

Tie Rack with Book Shelf

I love the rack. Not only is it a great place to keep my ties, but it is a lovely piece of artwork in my room and a conversation piece. Unique and well made, beautiful and functional. Everything I wanted and more.

Thanks Zac and thanks Sara. I can’t wait to see what new things Zac makes and read the interviews and behind the scenes stories of how these tools are decided upon and imagined.

If you have any other erotica or sex blogs that you think fit my aesthetic, please share them with me.

Daisy Danger

Oh Miss Danger. Her stories are hot and dirty and sometimes more than a bit sad. They are scratched photos of scenes that are extraordinarily intense. I can’t recommend her enough.

She also tends to hit on a lot of my personal kinks.

I Hear the Back Door Open

Quickies in New York

Sometimes I read things that just piss me off because I wish I wrote them. Guy writes really well and paints vivid scenes that are often far too close to my own fantasies and experiences. From what I hear around town we have similar tastes.

She Always Called Me Sir

SugarButch

It’s really not fair at all. Sinclair is this brilliant activist and gender theorist, he writes so much awesome and intellectual stuff. Why is it that he can also write totally hot smut too? It’s supposed to be one or the other and frankly he’s making me look bad.

Sinclair is really amazing, go read his stuff. The latest sexy post is honest and vulnerable and intimate.

Sweat Summer

Heartbreak Nympho

I recently met Wilhelmina Wang and that prompted me to reread her stuff. Damn there is some hot stories on that site. I like the switchiness of it. I like the way she words things. Also, she is gorgeous.

Subspace

Stuffies

Her style may be a bit more straight forward, but Molly Ren gets the point across. I may be bias because she has written about me. I like to read the perspective of fetishists, especially fetishes that I don’t fully understand. I also like when fetishists are open to a variety of kinks.

She wrote about when we peed on a boy together.

Piss Play

Longing’s End

Mina and Sylvanus write about various parts of their sex lives. I’m a bit partial to Mina’s stories and pictures, especially all the Daddy girl play. Honestly that part is bitter sweet because it makes me think about things I no longer have and miss a lot.

Still, good stuff. Honest and pretty words with hot photos.

Ass Training: The Reward

There are many more, but these are the ones I listed on the train this morning, so this is what you get.

Also, since we are talking about sexy sex blogs, you should nominate me for the Sexiest Bloggers of 2010 list. Nominations for Sexiest Bloggers of 2010. Nominations close on July 31.

Truth be told the way the place looked is important, certainly, but not vital to the games I wanted to play. I think of it like the library I go to, the one near my office. Twelve blocks away there is the most beautiful library in the city, possibly the country; the Main Branch of The New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street. It is huge, a marble monument to knowledge. It is atmospheric, with history and vast ceilings painted with murals. It’s epic, but you can’t borrow books from it unless you have special permission.

A block away from my office there is a very small, very dingy library. It is painted institution green and mostly has large print best sellers, but they will order any book I want from any library in the city and they have all of the things I need. It is easy to get to, it is easy to use. It is handy, like the dungeon.

The dungeon is a place where you can play. Where you can scream as loud as you want and hit as hard as your partner can take and you don’t have to worry about neighbors hearing or roommates coming home. You can just play.

You can play and you can watch people play. You can lay low in a corner somewhere and close your eyes and catch the rhythm of a spanking or a flogging. You can take in all of the reddened skin and bruised flesh, the bitten lips and raw need. Acres of naked skin at a time. It’s not a free-for-all, but that only makes the exposed breast or the sweet swell of a pubis or even the rare cock more forbidden and alluring. You can lose yourself in the visceral world of pain and pleasure and sweaty naked lust.

And lately, for better or worse, I’ve been wanting to lose myself.

A Boy

What to call him? My boy? I suppose ‘the boy’, since he isn’t mine. Sometimes he’s not a boy at all, with his wig and is lipstick and all, but I haven’t met her yet, so to me he is just a boy. A chew toy, a boy who can take a beating, bottom to the world.

Truth be told, he is far more experienced at this than I. Perhaps not in years, but in acts. I still feel like a novice in some ways, especially with boys.

In a way I always feel like I am holding back with people. This is a good thing in a lot of ways. I like being in control, even of my own emotion; especially of my own emotions. I thought with a boy it might be different. I thought I could give it my all and let go. Maybe it just isn’t in me. Maybe I’m just not ready yet. Maybe I don’t trust myself or my knowledge or my ability.

Still, it has a lot to do with the women I play with. Most are deliciously soft. The boy on the other hand is hard. Well, not rock hard, a little doughy actually, but harder than any of the girls I hit. His ass is a solid target, as opposed to the luscious bubbles and curves I’m used to. I like them both, but more than that I enjoy the contrast.

One might think I just wanted to try it and he was as good as any other, but since before I met him, when I’d only heard about this quiet boy who had such horrible things done to him, I was curious. Upon meeting him I was even more intrigued because he looked like so many people I grew up with. He was forgettable in his blue collar attire.

Still, we fell into a flirtatious banter and I liked it. I liked it for what it was, flirting with someone who under their shy and coquettish manner was fiercely intelligent and perceptive, and I liked it, admittedly, for the novelty of it.

The plan was to co-top him. A girl and I would beat him up, rough him up. Something pretty basic but fun. Somehow when it started, the girl sort of faded into the background. This was about the boy and me. We’d talked about this for a long time and I wanted to get my hands on him already.

Sometimes girls just get in the way.

He stays very still, goes where he is moved, but when his hair is pulled his body writhes and turns. When I slap him across his face his whole being recoils. I’ve never been with someone who was so effected by a scene, if that makes sense.

He doesn’t really like pain. At east that’s what he says between telling me stories about ball-busting and whips and beatings the likes of which I can’t imainge. That the little switch in his head that turns pleasure into pain hasn’t been switched the way it has with some serious pain sluts I’ve met. It still registers as pain, but he is willing to take it. Sometimes begging to take it. Yearning to do what people want, to submit.

I try not to assume too much about him anymore. Our heads are very different places. Wrong or right, I at least feel like I can read women. At least the kinds of women I like to play with. Maybe that is one of the key elements that attracts me to them, a certain tell that I can pick up. The boy is, in many ways, a mystery. He submits for reasons I can’t fully wrap my head around. His kink is different from mine in some very root way.

Still, our drives may be different, but I can still tie him up and hit him. As I throw him against the wall and slap him again across the face, I think of our common ground.

It isn’t so much that he doesn’t react as it is that he reacts in ways I am not familiar with. While there, in the scene, my head doesn’t work the way it works now, typing and thinking. When I am hitting someone, everything is action and aggression and go. He is reacting, but not succumbing. It makes me angry. It makes me want to rip him apart.

I suddenly wonder if I could take him in a fight. I’ve beaten people I couldn’t take in a fight before, certain nearly six foot tall roller derby girls come to mind, but never before did I really want to test it.

I like throwing him against the wall and I like marks on his skin. I want to spit on him but instead I laugh at him. I make him take out his cock. I laugh at it. I show it to the people who have gathered around. There are more people watching than I realize. Later I will be told that even more came in.

The dungeon is many things, but it is not particularly queer, at least not on a night like this. There are different, separate nights for that. Two boys playing now is a novelty. I’m glad I was unaware of this.

I am somewhat lost without breasts to torture. I slap the little flabby bits caught between my rope, but it doesn’t do more than sting. I turn him around and find a good bit of meat between his back and his arm and I bite it hard.

I am rewarded with a scream. I do the same on the other side. His skin feels good between my teeth. I claw at his back, then I slap the spots I just bit. All those hoarse whimpers are musical.

I tell him that he is pathetic. He isn’t good at being a boy or a girl. He isn’t good for anything. He is a waste. No one wants him. No one knows what to do with his little dick except laugh at it.

I feel mean and it makes my blood pump fast and hot. What whirling guilt and desire that comes with tasting what it is like to really be cruel slips into my head and makes me tipsy with power.

I like him. He is a sweet boy. There is something fragile in him, even though in very clear moments I see the man in him. I see an animal strength in him too, like something wild being cornered. I even see the little girl in him. I like him much more in that moment, seeing the multitudes. I feel like we are three dimensional people in a suddenly very two dimensional place.

Looking around I see that I’m even wrong about that. For all of it’s cliché and kitsch, this place has been the gateway to so many people finding out big things about themselves. It certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s a start.

His whimpers brings me back and the insults keep coming even while the part of me that just wants to hold him closes in on me. I shut up. I slap him. I turn him and slap his ass over and over again. I focus, I make sure every blow is in the same spot. I want maximum sensation.

There is more, the flogger, the whip. I know in his mind these things are rudimentary, so in that moment they seem trivial to me as well. We always end up back in that corner.

There comes that point, the ending.

In the dungeon there are rules. No sex, no jerking off. At home, play and sex are very tied together. When I play, their climaxes or mine are good places to stop or move to some other game. They are natural endings. Another ending would be pushing someone to their limit, which I doubt I could do with this boy. Stronger people than I have tried.

So it ends in a hail of smacks and slaps. I turn him around and untie him. I touch him in comforting ways. I hug him. The differences in girls and boys seem smaller to me; insignificant. He is just someone who needs to be hugged. Surprisingly, I need the hug more than usual.

In some way I got away from myself there. Maybe because I am in a fragile place right now, perhaps not ready to play as hard as I am trying to play.

With a deep breath it is over and we are back in the dungeon. Bad music and lovely moans and whimpers. No more thinking about the hows and whys of hurting someone. The politics and strategies of this sort of primitive one on one power play are done. Back to thinking about everything else.

He is glowing and happy in a fun and childish way. He got what he wanted. Like we just played cowboys and Indians for a while. I smile as he goes right to someone else. Some other top going to take him back to that place he loves.

I can’t stop thinking. Over and over I am telling myself to let go. I’m telling myself to submit, but I really have no idea what that means in this context. I tell myself to relax while every fiber of my being tightens and closes up. Some instinct in me is forcing me to protect my center.

I’m tied to a chair, my wrists bound behind me with thin hemp rope and she is hovering above me; interrogator, torturer, top, woman, beauty. Those eyes are unwavering. I wouldn’t say they are cold, but they are certainly unnervingly calm and predatory. Those are the eyes that made me want to do this. Those eyes are studying me, figuring me out. Figuring out how to take me apart.

Her nails rake my chest, then a hand in my hair pulling my head back, then a solid punch to my chest. My jaw clenches and I ready myself for this. I can take anything she can give me. I am a rock and I am unbreakable. She is this immense dangerous force, this powerful, intelligent woman, but I can take anything. I want to take it from her. I want to show her how tough I am.

The punches are a warm, dense hurt. Nothing much really until the tenth or eleventh in the same spot, then it is a burning muscle pain. When I can’t take much more she rakes her nails across the now sore spots and my back arches and I try and swallow my scream.

Her sharp fingernails pinch my nipples. Such a simple thing, but it’s a new pain. I gasp, my fists tighten, wrists pull against the rope. I feel the pain, but I can move it in my head. It’s just a thing; it’s just a sensation; it can be what ever I want it to be. My breathing calms and then she digs her nails into my nipples three times as hard.

“No, no you don’t get to stay in that place,” she laughs her throaty laugh.

My face is in the cool cotton of her white tank top. I laugh too.

“I keep forgetting you’re smart,” I growl into her shirt.

I can almost see the pain like the needle of some gauge on a dashboard. I see it fluctuating, nearing the red. Suddenly it is white hot, it is searing my brain. The pain it everywhere.

“Please-” I whisper. I know the word, but it is impossible. It is more than impossible, it is weak and I can’t be weak, not in front of her.

“Ye-”

Maybe I can take it. Maybe I can ride it and find that place again, but then there is even more pressure and the word spills out.

“Yellow.”

When she lets go my head flies forward. I have to protect my chest. No more. Her breasts are against my cheeks. Want is there, somewhere in my head, but too far away to really grasp at. Every part of this is different than what I am used to, even the desire. My mind doesn’t know where to go. Still the image of her pressing her breasts, fruit-like to my mouth and ordering me to suck and please her awaken some new element in this.

I’m not here to seduce her. I don’t even think I know how to do that from this position. I’m not here to break her down and make her my toy. I’m the toy. What does that mean? Can I even be a toy? Would someone want me for a toy?

The idea makes me shy. It makes me nervous and fragile and vulnerable. Something inside of me wants to succumb. I know I’m not okay with it, but I am doing it anyway and that makes me feel brave. I don’t want to be closed to this. I don’t want to let pride and stubbornness dictate what I can be.

And then there is the need to be hurt, which is new and potent.

She walks away and comes back with two things. She shows them to me with a crooked smile before she puts them down. The knife and the stun gun. Like it or not I’m going to get what I want tonight.

“Yellow is a good tool, but ‘please stop’ is something we can play with. I’m aural. I like to hear people beg. I think you’d be good at begging.”

It’s one of those many moments when part of me is overwhelmed by the power she exudes. Part of me almost ready to beg. The other part of me, the part that never shuts up, is impressed at what a perfect line that is. I know one day I’ll use that line.

She doesn’t like it when I drift off. It’s something I take for granted in a scene. I can do pretty much anything I want in a scene, but not here. Here I can do what ever she wants.

She grabs my face and I close my eyes. Her fingers around my jaw, moving me this way and that, examining me again. Then I feel the knife drift across my skin lightly. I can feel the sharpness of the blade, the danger of it. My whole body tightens again.

She traces lines across my stomach and my chest and then she stops right on my collar bone and presses the tip of the blade into my skin.

It’s a odd pressure. I don’t like it as much as the other sensations and although I know that I am theoretically safe my heart starts pounding. My blood is rushing and I am trying to will my suddenly squirming body not to move whole the blade is digging into to me.

Then it is off. Tracing again. She is testing my reaction. Gauging my thresholds. When she comes down and drags the blade across my stomach her lips are millimeters from mine. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her. I’m also hit with the idea that in this place I feel like by ability to initiate anything has been taken away. I can take nothing, I can only beg or accept.

When she takes the black rectangle out of its little case the fear left over from the the knife doubles. I’m gasping and she is smiling wider now.

“You okay?” she laughs.

“I think so,” suddenly shuddering with a nervous giggle.

She pets my head and pulls my hair, then she moves down and kisses my ear softly. She sucks at the top of my ear and then bites down on it. I’ve never been bitten there and it is a sharp hot pain. She stops when I start to whimper and gasp and calms me before I hear the crackle.

I brace myself, not sure how much it will hurt. When it comes it is surprisingly mild. Closer to the violet wands I’d played with. She hits me with the stun gun again and my body awakens to the white hot needle like pain. Somehow I’m laughing through it.

She goes again and again a little longer and my laugh becomes a short hoarse scream. Again and my body jerks against the ropes. Again even longer and now it is cutting through all my defenses. This fucking hurts.

“How ya doing,” she laughs into my ear. She sounds like she thinks I’m close to my limit.

“Does.. it go any.. higher?” The words come out and I almost wish she didn’t hear, but she laughs and laughs at this, her eyes wide with genuine surprise. I am melting with pride. I’m good, this is perhaps the newest part, the desire to please her like this. The desire to be her good boy.

She hits me for a few long shocks that send pain and pleasure dancing in my head until everything is white fuzzy sensation.

She laughs some more, my comment still lingering in both of our heads and the tension is broken. I feel like I just drank a liter of espresso. My body is alive and wired and I feel like I can breath for the first time in hours. I’m twisting and fidgeting now, my body full of a new nervous energy.

I ask for some water and she smiles and goes to get it. When she gets back something has changed. The spell is broken, not in any bad way but an organic sort of end to that part of the scene.

We really weren’t planning much tonight; we just met up after work and decided to play a little. This was only our second time but it felt far more comfortable. I know that next time thugs will be far more intense. I can see the inevitability of my submission. My understanding of what that means.

She unties me, hugs me. She takes me to the bed and cuddles me. I try and relax into this embrace, but I am too wired, being pet and hugged now makes me feel too vulnerable and weak. Some part of that switch has turned back. Still I try and accept her comforting, knowing she needs to give it. For me this is the hardest part; suddenly still in her arms I feel like I am pretending for the first time.

After, at home, everything has a new dimension. I see both sides of the equation in new ways. I want to try things she did to me on other people; not the specific acts, but her demeanor. It’s like learning from a different school of thought.

That night I fall asleep in minutes, my bed suddenly feeling like cool and safe, my body feeling calm and sinking into the softness of the sheets. All the tension of the week was zapped and punched out of me. My mind is still for the first time in a long time.

We saw movies. That’s what we did. We saw movies and went to museums.

I met Elise when she briefly worked in my office. She was one of those girls who grew up rich, but Upper West Side rich, not Upper East Side rich. The difference was super-preppy private schools versus super-intellectual immersive savant schools. She went to the latter and left with a rich inner life and a love of art and music and books that most people had never heard of. That, and the inability to really connect with most anyone.

There were the phobias; elevators, undercooked meat, docks, public speaking, crowded spaces, dark alleys, Antarctica, gum. Her worst fear was that she would swallow a piece of chewing gum. She told me she thought about it constantly, though it didn’t stop her from constantly chewing the most sugary, garish pink stuff she could find.

Then there was the OCD and the ADD and the cocktail of pharmacology. She was not trapped within the rigors of counting things and washing hands, but there were little things, more than quirks but less than crippling. There were also the daddy issues because he was like God to her, and the mommy issues because her mother told her she was fat when she was 12. There was a lot going on in this girl’s head.

Oddly, for every phobia there were three fascinations. She loved to travel and had been around the world. She had dipped her feet in the Ganges, but would have nightmares about diner kitchens. She had been to Mecca and the Great Wall and Paris at midnight, but she couldn’t order pizza on the phone without writing out a script first.Ę There was clumsiness and the propensity to stare at people. Also the odd choice of clothing that ranged from “old man chic” to downright strange: combinations of thrift store, knitwear and crumpled couture acquired abroad.

We weren’t dating exactly. I think we were studying each other in hopes of writing papers at some later time. She was certainly aware that I had dalliances all over the city and occasionally interrogated me about the details. She never showed jealousy. Yet in some strange, fundamental way our relationship couldn’t be classified as friendship. There was a “date” quality to our outings, and at the end of the night sometimes we’d stop and kiss in front of her doorman.

She was so complex and unusual; I was endless amused and intrigued, devoting three or four days a month to following her from wing to wing of whatever museum she wanted to see. There was also the fact that I was nearly consumed with curiosity about what this creature would be like in bed. For all of her awkwardness, both social and physical, she had indisputable beauty under all of the cardigans and worry. For me that beauty was amplified by all the self-consciousness. Then there was the seemingly never sending curiosity with the minutia of the world. It was that curiosity that made me want her the most.

As intrigued and confused as I was with her, she seemed equally fascinated by me, my writing and my occasional brashness. She noted over lunch one Sunday that she thought I was all at once sexual and safe. I was alternately flattered by the first part and a bit insulted by the second.

As Elise and I brunched one afternoon, our conversation moving from the United Nations’ near powerlessness to the benefits and shortcomings of a panopticon, to her philosophical musings about her ant farm, to the ethics of cloning, to sex. We met on topics of literary theory, politics, art, but near the edges of our interest Venn diagram she leaned towards entomology whereas I preferred power dynamics.

As we finished and got up to leave we found ourselves alone in the corner of the restaurant and face to face. When I moved in to kiss her she froze a bit and her eyes went wide. I instinctively pulled back. Her eyebrows wrinkled with confusion.

That always seemed to happen; all the signals I am used to reading were always missing with her. She was mute to the language of seduction and blind to the politics of negotiation. I tend to err on the side of caution when it comes to being forward, so this always left us both unsatisfied.

As we left the restaurant we discussed how we’d seen all the good movies out. We’d been to the Met and MoMA and the Guggenheim and even the Morgan Library and the Frick. We had been contemplating the botanical gardens, but it started to rain.

“What do we do?” she said with the intense seriousness most people reserve for emergencies.

I turned to her, with faux seriousness, taking hold of her shoulder and looking her in the eye.

“We have exhausted all other options, Elise. We’ll have to have sex.”

Her eyes opened wide and she bit her bottom lip.

“Oh, I see,” she said with a seriousness that I couldn’t tell was real or comical, since her normal seriousness looked comical on its own.

I laughed a little, but she didn’t.

“I suppose your apartment would be better, right? I mean, I have a roommate and she has two cats. Plus I only have a twin and you have a queen,” she said, ready to reel off a hundred more reasons.

My gut reaction was to be shocked, to ask if she was serious, to laugh, but I stifled all of that. I nodded somberly, then I turned around and hailed a cab.

*

Now it may seem, from all this data, that Elise might be a virgin, but as I learned in one of our earliest and most interesting conversations she was decidedly not. At 22 she had had no fewer than four lovers and had, at the age of nineteen, lived with a professor of hers who was fifteen years her senior for a little over sixteen months.

From what she told me the sex was awkward but occasionally interesting. Her desire seemed to come and go, like all of her obsessions. She hit on a patch where she was very curious about men and sex, met a variety of gentleman through Craigslist, found two of them to sleep with. Neither experience was negative, but neither were they exactly what she was looking for.

On a dating site she found a woman her age whom she was irresistibly drawn to. They went out a few times, became good friends, and although both were very passive, they did make love once with the aid of tequila and a Portishead concert. After that she decided she saw little difference in her attraction to men and women.

*

She gave my apartment the usual thorough examination she gave all new places. I wondered what strange protocols her mind adhered to in new situations. Was she checking for cobwebs or mapping the fastest way out?

She took a long time looking over my bookshelf. I always consider this a good sign.

She then took off her coat and sat down on my couch and sort of just stared at my television, which was turned off.

“You know, you sort of send out mixed signals,” I said, trying to sound casual as I searched my refrigerator for drinks.

She frowned.

“I have beer, wine, mango juice-”

“Vodka?” she said without an ounce of humor.

“I have that.”

“Vodka and mango juice. And ice,” she said.

She wore a long brown corduroy skirt and a blue t-shirt with some sort of Japanese octopus eating noodles with several pairs of chopsticks. Over that a brown and maroon cardigan that she knit herself. Peeking out from her black work boots were loose beige socks.

I found myself suddenly very curious about her underpants. What kind of bra and panties would a girl like this wear? What would be the state of her pubic hair?

I put the drink down in front of her and she gave me a crooked, wholesome smile, sitting on her hands, looking nervous.

“Coaster?” she asked with wide eyes.

I laughed so hard I nearly went down on one knee. There was just something ridiculous and amusing and cute about her. I wanted to fuck her.

“So, sex. That should be interesting,” I said taking a sip of my drink and sitting down next to her, but not right next to her. I was trying to stay conversational. Where was this going?

“Oh? I suppose it can be. Especially the first time with someone new,” she remarked and took a long drink.

There was an awkward silence, but since there was so much awkwardness already it was like a drop of water in the ocean.

“I know I give mixes messages. I pull away when I want to kiss. It’s like I don’t speak that language,” she admitted between quick sips of the cocktail.

“You don’t speak body language?”

She gave me the crooked smile again and shrugged.

“You should be the aggressor. I know you think I’m a little prude, but I assure you there isn’t much you could do to me that I don’t want you to do.”

I perked up at this notion and laughed. “I don’t know, I’m sure–”

She cut me off. “Jack. Sex is sex. I like sex. With all your spanking and rope and sex toys, it’s still all just sex. The worst you could do is try and hit me really hard and I probably wouldn’t mind that, even. In fact it’s been a long time since someone hit me. It sort of clears my mind.”

She finished the drink with a gulp.

“You’re not the first person who’s ever been to an orgy, you know. You just talk about it and write about it all the time. Most people keep that stuff private.”

There it was. A wide range of things that I did that made me feel edgy and different: just another curiosity for this seemly innocent girl.

I shifted closer to her and she folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.

“That came out wrong. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with writing about it. A lot of people who do that kind of stuff just don’t. I like that you think about it. I think about things too much, too. Not really sex, though. That’s just something you do.”

I took her chin in my hand and pulled her to face me. I kissed her and got the same sort of tight lipped kiss I always got when ever I started kissing Elise. I pushed her back and kissed her full on. I kissed her until she gave in and kissed me back.

I didn’t know if I was supposed to shake her or hold her down or slap her, so I just kept kissing her. I moved in on her, slipping my arm around her waist, kissing across her jawbone and then down into the hidden tender skin of her neck.

It was only when I bit and sucked on her earlobe that the wall started melting. As we moved around on the couch her hair brushed my lips, the smell of shampoo and somewhere in the distance the smell of her sex, just for a moment.

I kissed her again, finding her thin lips more giving. I smoothed a hand over her back then dragged my nails across her cotton covered skin. I wanted more of her, I wanted to break her mask and show me the fragile raw thing I spoke to outside of her cage of reason and neuroses.

*

I probably place too much value on sex. I often see it as a way of figuring someone out. I remember trying to explain it to a friend once, how people learn all kinds of things from their parents and from their friends and from school and so on. People don’t really learn to have sex, though. I mean, you can watch porn and read erotica, but the nitty gritty of taking off your clothes in front of someone and touching your bits is telling because it is such an unrehearsed act.

Sometimes I think it is the only honest interaction people have left.

So when Elise pulled away from my kisses and then bent down to peel off her tan socks I sat back and marveled. This girl who hid under layers of clothes and quirky affectations was now putting as many of those things as she could aside.

Though nervous and hyperactive, there was an edge of something new in her face. Lust was starting to glaze over her eyes. She looked up at me through thick lashes and just one corner of her chapped lips curved into a different more seductive smile.

I knelt by the couch, in front of her, and helped pull the thick skirt off. She smelled like tea and flowers. Not sweet perfume flowers, but real ones. Grass and honeysuckle.

One of her knees was bruised purple and yellow.

Her legs were covered in fine soft hair. Light little dirty blonde hairs. There was something particular about that, it made me smile. It made me want her.

The elusive underwear were a bit ratty. Loose boyshorts style, beige silk with lace fringe. They seemed vintage, though I wondered how used underwear fit into her compulsions. I left them on.

Pulling at her shirt, I saw a matching top. Not really a bra, but more of a shift. Transparent, so the tips of her nipple showed through.

I pulled the top off, hungry for more skin. Her nipples were puffy, large and a soft coral pink. When I touched them she squirmed and pushed her breasts into my hands. The mere friction of my fingertips rubbing against the powder smooth skin of her nipples seemed to make her whole body melt. Her skin was fever hot and suddenly the parts of my brain that was studying her like a science project all started flipping over to baser thought processes.

“I have a herniated nipple-areola complex. It’s a form of Nummular Nipple Hypertrophy,” she explained, though only half the syllables made it into my brain. “It’s nothing bad, it just means my nipples are-”

I sucked one slowly and her words trailed off.

“I know what it means. You have puffy nipples,” I said between sucks.

She gasped a little and nodded. “Yeah.”

I toyed with them, watching her face, feeling her body squirm under my fingers. I pinched harder and her eyes rolled as she whimpered. I kept pinching as her face went through the transition from pleasure to uncomfortableness and then she let it linger in pain, longer than I expected.

“Okay!” she said pushing my away. Rubbing at her nipple, but smiling at me through glossy eyes.

She twisted and turned on the couch, suddenly on all fours, facing away from me. She arched her back, butt in the air as I pulled her shorts down, the last bits of her clothes. A little patch of light reddish brown hair, neat, shaved around the lips but a tuft at the top. As she pushed her bottom back her sex was so close to my face I couldn’t help but taste it. I moved forward, licking my lips and extending my tongue and then she gasped.

“No! I… I don’t like that, I mean, I don’t want that.” she said, apologizing with her eyes.

I smiled at her. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

She got shy for a moment, her eyes cast down; she bit her lip.

“I’m sorry. You can do almost anything, that just makes me feel weird. Also you should ask first.”

I nodded.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without asking you. Are fingers okay?”

She gave me an embarrassed smile, looking over her shoulder at me. I leaned over her body and kissed her,

“Yes. Fingers are very good. Just don’t lick them first. It’s wet enough, I promise.”

You never get used to how different women feel. The tightness, the curve of them, the delicate topography.

She was wet with a thick slickness that made me think I could slip three or four fingers in. She pushed back on my hand, Her hands on the back of the couch, her back arched, her head to the side looking over her shoulder at me.

Her face changed completely as my fingers explored the neat folds of her sex, hovering around her clit, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly opened, her bottom lip quivering.

When my fingers pressed in again she let out an animal groan and looked back at me with wild eyes. I knelt there, trying to find the right pressure, the right rhythm, shocked at how she bucked her ass against my fingers, grinding into me and giving herself completely to this simple act.

My other hand groped for her ass. Her butt, like her thighs and even arms and legs, seemed padded with a soft layer of baby fat. It was cool to the touch, she grunted when I spanked it once and then took a greedy hand full of it, squeezing and kneading as my fingers worked inside of her.

“F-finger fuck me, harder and grab my ass, please,” each command was also a desperate plea. The dirtiness of the words sounding foreign on her tongue. Even in this intimate sexual moment have voice seemed over formal and a amusingly awkward.

I pushed and pulled my fingers in and out of her, following the motion of her hips as she moved against me. I slapped her ass every time my fingers drove in and then grabbed it hard.

Her eyes opened, but were glazed, unfocused. She turned away from me, head down and ass higher in the air. I wiled my fingers in and out quickly but steadily. Her body reacted to the constant rhythmic sensations.

I pushed my fingers deeper, bending them hard with each thrust, feeling her g-spot primed and swollen. My fingers slid along the same trajectory over and over. She reacted perfectly, pushing her body back against me, then grabbing my other hand and hitting herself on the ass with it again, reminding me to keep spanking her. I smiled and couldn’t help letting out a little laugh.

When I started twisting my fingers inside of her on each trust, trying to find the angle that would bring her to the next level she let out a high pitched whine that made me stop.

“No! Don’t stop. Keep twisting like that. Wow, I think- I think, you’re gunna make me come,” she whispered, more than a hint of surprise.

When she started to come, she suddenly got nervous. I had to hold her there as my fingers kept going, my wrist and fingers starting to burn from the exertion. Just when I thought my hand would give out she shivered against me, thighs tightening so hard they nearly crushed my hand.

She tuned and pulled me up onto the coach with her gasping for breath, her face bright red, she smiled and let giggles bubble out of her. She pushed me back and laid on top of me, both of us sighing.

“Condoms?” she asked, head up and eyes scanning the room.

I twisted under her and looked over at my dresser. She untangled herself from my limbs and when she stepped off the couch her knees gave way for a moment. Then she walked slowly over, looking back at me before opening the drawer.

“Go ahead, I like how much being nosy satisfies you.”

She gave me another crooked smile and pulled open the drawer. I walked from the couch over to my bedroom and sat on the bed watching her.

Her face shone with an acutely childlike curiosity. She pulled out a black lacquered box and opened it to find a thick metal curve laying on red satin.

“It’s a sex toy,” I explained.

“How- I mean- how do you clean it?”

Of course this would be her first question.

“I boil it in one part bleach to four parts water. I clean them between uses, unless I am using them on the same person, then I just use soap and water.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What about the case?”

“I only put it in the case after it has been boiled. In between I keep it in a ziplock bag. All my toys can be sterilized.”

She considered this. Wheels seemed to be turning on her head. She seemed to decide my precautions were acceptable and so she picked up the heavy stainless steel toy and marveled at its weight.

“Interesting, but not tonight,” she said more to herself than to me.

When she was done she perused various other objects, but soon grew bored and snatched up the box of condoms, turning to give me her sort of geeky, sheltered version of a come hither stare, which was adorable more than seductive but worked just the same.

She entered into sex the way she entered into all things. She let herself be consumed. She gave all of her massive focus to it. She lost herself in the current fascination. We could have easily been at MoMA with her taking my hand and pulling me over to an exhibit she had to explain to me.

She came back and handed me the box, then laid on my bed, spreading her legs far apart. As I turned to her, taking in all of her nakedness, she caressed her breasts, the nipples still puffy, but the tips hardening into points.

“Sorry about the licking thing. It’s just,” she considered, “one of my things.”

I was at the bed, looking down at her as she pinched her nipples and winced, looking up at me, biting her lip, making a show of it all.

“It’s fine. I like lots of things, I don’t mind at all if you have things you don’t like to do. It was just a little confusing. I’m trying to figure out your- particulars, because you seem to like kissing a lot.”

“That’s just different. The mouth has a million germs. My pussy- I’m just really particular about what touches my pussy.”

She absently moved her hand down her body and let her fingers slip across her sex. I pulled away a little and watched. She swallowed and sort of half smiled.

“It takes a lot to make me come.” Her voice was low, almost sad. “I was surprised when you did it.”

“Tell me what you want me to do now.”

She rubbed little circles around her clit, her eyes briefly closing.

“Just stick your,” she thought of what word to use, “um, dick, in. But just a little. Just the tip, in and out, slowly.”

“Cock,” I corrected. She eyed me, with big adorable brown eyes.

“Right, sorry. Cock. Stick the tip o your cock in me,”

I knelt between her legs, watching her fingers move over the pinkness of her pussy. She closed her eyes and I took a condom out of the box she brought me. I ripped the blue packet, pulled the thing out and dropped the foil on the floor. I slipped it on carefully, my eyes on her fingers the whole time.

I watched the covered head of my penis push against the slick pinkness and then bit my lip as the head slip in. I watched her fingers move faster. I moved until I felt the head of my cock pop completely in and then I pulled back. She was tight enough that there was a moment of excruciatingly wonderful pressure.

I started a rhythm like that, popping the head in and out as she fingered herself fast and faster. I watched at that face which was always either serene or worried contort cutely with the pleasure and the frustration of wanting to come.

“It’s… close. Like, when I come, you should do it hard. Really hard and deep,” each word came out between labored breaths.

This was the very core of what I loved about sex. There was that zone when you are so into the other person’s pleasure that you ride it like a wave. My eyes were on her wet fingers, then her swollen nipples, then her tightly closed eyed and bitten lips.

I felt her orgasm building and I forced myself to keep going; I wanted to plow into her, but I kept the pace. I felt her tightening, her legs pressed hard against mine as I kept up the slow pace that was driving me insane.

“Now, please. Fuck me now,” she whispered, then a long whining moan escaped her lips.

I bent her legs up, bending her in half. Her back on the bed., but her ass raised up, her knees touching her chest. I held her like this with one arm, the other hand moving to her hip. I dug my fingers into the meat of her thick ass, pulling her into a deep thrust.

The long drawn out teasing fuck made her wetter than I could have imagined. She tried to writhe under me, but I pinned her. She mewed and shuddered and then broke the silence of the room with a loud moan.

Our eyes met for a moment as her hands balled into fists and she fought me pinning her down. She tensed under me, but I held her fast. She smiled and arched her back. I smiled back and then felt her shift in some subtle way under me. I was suddenly hitting some new spot inside of her and she let out a long, loud, almost frightening moan. Then words poured out of her. The nonsense “fuck me, more, harder, coming again” string of lovely dirtiness from this serious and innocent girl.

I kept fucking, my muscles starting to burn. I felt my orgasm rushing as I did, then suddenly she let out a squeak and I felt her gush, wet against my thighs, wet against my legs and I kept going. My grip on her wrists the only thing keeping me from falling on top of her. I kept going until my fingers tingled and the world went numb for a second except for the explosion inside.

I heard myself yell, a gruff horse “fuck” as my muscles contracted and I tried to keep my legs from buckling.

Then I was letting her go, getting tangled in her limbs, laying on the bed beside her. She buried herself in the hollow of my chest, shocking me with her seeming comfort with my sweaty hairy body. She seemed to want to burrow into my warmth though, so I wrapped her up in my arms and kissed her forehead until we were so relaxed we were almost asleep.

“I’ve had never had an orgasm from only penetration before.”

I nodded and smiled. Things like that made me happier than they ought to.

“And I’ve only squirted twice before and it took a lot of work and a big bendy toy and a Hitachi.”

I tried to hold it in, but I couldn’t. I started to laugh. There was just something about the seriousness of how she stated these things.

“Well, good. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said, shifting from her.

She watched me. “You like doing that. You think it means you understand my body better than I do.”

I turned, letting her slip off me and then moving on top of her, pausing there for a moment looking down at her and then standing, picking up my boxers and slipping them on.

“Maybe,” I considered, “it is a nice bit of control.”

“Maybe there are things you just need two people to do. It isn’t inherently you, it is just another person.”

I shrugged. “But you did say it never happened before.”

She sat up, looking at the wet spot still on the bed and giving me a apologetic wince.

“I did say that. Why are you getting dressed? Are we done?”

I laughed again. “Are we not done?”

She considered this. “No, we are not done. We should have snacks and then you should try and do it again, to see if it was a fluke. This time with towels.”

She popped up, completely unselfconscious about her nudity. She skipped over to my kitchen and opened my refrigerator.

I stood watching the light reflect off her wet thighs and I sighed deeply. I felt good, but suddenly old. I was an old man who was about to do his best to keep up with a younger woman who took all things with an almost disturbing intensity.

I twisted my sore neck and laid back on the cool sheets and sighed. There were worse problems to have than trying to keep up.

A warning though: the stories on this site are sexually explicit and many involve graphic descriptions of sex, bondage, sadomasochism, dominance and submission, &c. If it is illegal for you to read such things and you still wish to, you should work the change the laws in your community.

Thanks to MistressLilyana and SensualSadist

I also posted this on my Buzz feed, but I liked it so much I am reposting it here.Today is my birthday. I have found I usually write things for other people. I write to seduce readers or to talk about a specific event involving someone or to explore some idea someone has inspired. Sure, I am always writing with my gaze, with my desires in the forefront, but I don’t often trust myself to write my actual fantasies. I have to to filter things through other characters. I also write scenarios and try to have at least some basis in the truth. (Alice in Wonderland smut aside.) I write as a way to communicate with readers, be they specific people or in general.

Well as a birthday exercise here is something just for me. Here is pure Jack fantasy.

Photo by jfravel/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Academia

Alright, so I am an English professor at a small, wealthy, prestigious, but relatively off the radar private college in Connecticut. I also coach the women’s field hockey team.

I learn of a rivalry between some of the girls on my team and a group of the library science students. The Women’s Library Science Study Group is lead by a pack of über geek girls, one of which is a five foot tall ginger haired hacker.

It turns out that cattiness and practical jokes that have been common have given way to more serious aggression as my field hockey girls (who are mostly tall and a little chubby and heavenly R. Crumb wet dreams) soon learn that the Women’s Library Science Study Group has hacked into their computers and found some very incriminating and shockingly explicit videos of the girls having a rather heated slumber party shenanigans involving liquor and all manner of sex toy.

Since my team means a lot to me, I have to step in as both an academic advisor and friend.

I train the girls over the course of a weekend in some covert tactics and takedown maneuvers. We then break into the dorms and silently abduct the Women’s Library Science Study Group bringing them back to my huge, luxurious loft. Thankfully the thick concrete walls make it nearly soundproof, which is nice when my math rock band practices on weekends.

We have the seven sleep eyed and frightened young librarian-to-bes tied up in fine Romanian hemp and immobile on one of the many rugs I purchased on my last trip to India. Their leader is suspended from a beam running across the ceiling and she is stares daggers at me.

I tell the eight members of my team to stand back and then proceed to torture the hacker girl until she tells me where all the copies of the video are. The flogger, the cane, various breast torture and eventually malicious teasing of her pussy get her to talk. I send out some of my girls to get back the info and then continue on, trying to find the root of the aggression.

I notice that watching the torture left my team on edge, all of them red faced and shifting in their seats with two of the more extroverted girls passionately kissing and fondling each other as they watched.

After interrogating the other LS students I find out that the hacker girl is in love with my main hooker, Simone, a French transfer who is certainly the most delicate on the team, but still very tough.

Simone, clad in thigh high socks and a skirt with a man’s cotton tank top, is shocked, saying that she had a crush on the hacker girl as well. The redhead, whose name is Kate, explains that she went over to Simone’s room one night to ask her out and found her masturbating to one of my many award winning books of erotica, screaming out my name as she climaxed. She thought that Simone was was in love with me and thus wouldn’t be interested in her.

Simone admitted having a crush on me, but explained that all the girls on the team had found out about my illustrious erotica publishing career and the various awards I had won and had started a secret book share. As well they had occasional orgies where they read my stories while fucking each other in every imaginable manner.

Simone went on to say that she was very interested in Kate and would have accepted a date with her. Simone’s love for me was purely sexual and intellectual.

We untie the young library science students, all of whom apologized for the blackmail plot and admitted that they all really enjoyed being tied up and beaten by me. They also admitted to loving my work and explain that most of their study sessions were actually group masturbation sessions about me and my writing.

The night descends into debauchery, the tension between the Girl’s Field Hockey Team and the Women’s Library Science Study Group transforming into sexual frenzy.

The librarians decide they need some pay back, so I help them tie up the field hockey girls and we proceed to punish them. Then everyone is untied and forms a giant sex pile. This goes on for hours and hours, a sexual whirlwind with me at the eye of the storm.

I keep going until I am spent, seven times over. I pass out on a bed of wet thighs, drenched in matriculating hormones.

I awaken with a start, my arms and legs bound. A wild eyed girl looking down at me with a smile just before my face is covered by a wet freshly waxed pussy. I am helpless as each girl uses me in turn, one riding my face while another rides my cock and all around me I hear the moans of those who are next being primed by their new friends.

Afterward I become the adviser to the Library Science Study Group and a sort of sexual guru to all of the girls. Fucking me becomes a rite of passage for pretty much all intelligent and/or field hockey proficient women in the school and a few select pretty boys as well.

Eventually I start my own erotica publication company, which I later mainstream into including edgy postmodern and supermodern works. The New York Times calls it “The most intriguing and provocative line of books in the last 20 years and the first to successfully merge erotica and literary fiction.”

I also start a bondage fight club. I move back to Manhattan and get a huge Brownstone in the Park Slope.

I die at 80, drown in the Seine by a jealous lover, or so the papers write.

I don’t really get turned on my being a “master” to someone. I don’t necessarily like when people do what I want out of respect or need to serve. I like to make people do what I want out of fear, pain or desire to get something. Or, you know, consensual force and/or extortion. Dominance and submission are much more tied into sex and sadism with me, though when I trust someone a lot I do get into more emotional and psychological aspects of DS.

I am writing this all to give you a feel for my general attitude towards power. I do this to now explain the exceptions.

I like eating pussy. I don’t mean that in the way some men say they like eating pussy because it is just something boys say to be looked at as good lovers. This is something integral to my personality. Note: I certainly do not see oral sex as an inherently “bottom” activity. You can go down on someone from either side of the collar, so to speak. A big thing for me is “making” someone come. I like to be in control of that and responsibly for that and be able to give it or take it away. It’s a big turn on for me.

Let me take you back to high school. I had this best friend who identified as a lesbian, but had occasionally been with boys. We were very good friends. We were in fact best friends in that intense hyper high school friend way. We were part of an incestuous little group of wannabe intellectuals who smoked cloves and went to spoken word poetry nights and were scared people would figure out we really didn’t get a lot of the Chomsky we were reading.

Well, being sexual people and close friends and horny teenagers we slipped into a very weird relationship. That being, for four or five months I would go over her house every day after school and go down on her for (literally) an hour or two and then we would listen to The Doors and I would go home.

We attempted “penis-in-vagina” sex once or twice, but it just didn’t work. She wasn’t into penetration, at least not from me. She did enjoy my oral skills though and was very vocal about telling me how to improve them. She was also very multi-orgasmic and so these long sessions were wet and wild and loud as hell.

Looking back I realize that there were a lot of power dynamics going on during these encounters. Though it wasn’t talked about or even really consciously thought about (at least on my part), she was very much in charge. I was there to service her. She laid back and I got on my knees and I basically licked and sucked until my jaw and tongue were aching. She came and came, dozens of times. I got off on knowing that I was making her come.

Though it wasn’t the first time I’d been intimate with a woman on a regular basis (I had a pretty sexual youth), it was the first time I really got to see a vagina, spread out, in the light, no shyness or back seat fumbling. I got to explore it, I got well articulated feedback without any shame or discomfort.

I’ve never been in a relationship like that since, but similar feelings have been stirred up lately when I played around with something the kids call Queening.

I’ve been in the position of having a girl sit on my face before, I enjoy it, but recently when M and I were playing around in bed and I brought up that maybe she should do that, it suddenly turned into something very different.

The dynamics of M and I are fun. I am the daddy type top and she is the sometimes timid and often bratty little girl bottom. These are roles we slipped into nearly immediately upon meeting and play around with in a variety of ways that we both find hugely entertaining.

Bratty and rambunctious are one thing, but as we started playing that night it felt a little different. I felt different and she had a new glint in her eye.

With my arms sort of pinned down by her knees and my body mostly ignored because she was facing forward, she ground her pussy into my mouth. I tried to keep up, not exactly used to the pussy being pushed at me. I sucked when I could and licked what I could and pushed my tongue into available places, but she was very much in control. Then she grabbed my hair and moved up a little so that the chubby lips of her vagina were coving my mouth and nose.

She pushed her weight down a little more. I felt my body tighten. All I could smell and taste were her juices and the smoothness of her waxed lips against my slightly stubbly face. My cock was untouched, but rock hard and throbbing.

When she finally pulled away a little I gasped for breath and she laughed. Playful, but wicked.

Then she pulled up, hovering just out of reach and I strained and whimpered.

I remember thinking, “what the fuck? Did I just whimper?”

I went with it. It was a little hard letting go. I wanted to, though. All I wanted was to taste more and have all my senses overwhelmed by her cunt again.

I pushed out a little “please” and she lowered herself slowly to let me lap at her again.

The sex afterwards was ridiculously hot.

The minute she was off of me though, I was back in charge. Even more than before because now it was payback. We both knew it and we both enjoyed it.

Still, the idea of it makes me shudder and I like that. The idea of being overwhelmed by something so intimate. Nothing in my world except her pussy and my need and requirement to please her by licking it. I like knowing in what ways I can let myself be vulnerable. I like knowing in which ways submission is arousing to me. It’s a side of myself that is murky and weird and, in a lot of ways, much more physical than emotional.

The thing was, she was young. Very young. Certainly legal, but still, I really should have been ashamed of myself. I was a thirty-two year old man! It started out so simply though. She sent me a picture because I wrote something silly like, if a picture is worth a thousand words than a thousand words must be worth a picture.

It was almost cliche, the dorm room nude. Bad lighting, bitten lip, interesting angles. There is a very immediate and contemporary intimacy about it, something both forbidden and accessible. Innocent and slutty.

She is short, tiny actually. Waist insanely small, hips flaring out and tits that are ridiculous. It would be silly to say that I’m not obsessed with her breasts. Her dimensions almost seem impossible.

When I received said pictures I replied with thanks and not much more, really. A while later I was looking through my email and those pictures popped up again. It was a purely physical reaction, I hit reply and asked if she was near NYC because I “kinda wanted to make out with you or something” in that was I try to be very forward so that it is comical and yet still very forward. This is classic Jack.

She replied that she was in college upstate, but she did come in to the city occasionally, in fact she would be there that weekend. I mentioned that I would like to meet her if she had time. Maybe just a walk in the park, maybe a kiss.

There was something in her tone, though. Her emails were specifically vague about the who and what her trips to the city were about. Vague in that way that I knew it demanded a little more investigation.

“So what exactly do you do in the city?”

She stalled, telling me specifics, but not the answer. She goes to museums. She goes to fancy restaurants. She seems movies.

“With whom do you do all of these wonderful things?”

Ah, there is the rub. A man. An older man. Older than me and I already felt like a fiend for attempting this liaison. An older man with children and a career and a vicious ex wife. A wealthy man with a powerful job.

Once the cat was out of the bad the details poured out of her. She was obviously waiting to tell someone all about her hidden life. She liked being a secret, but like tell secrets almost as much. She told me how she was his pet and his little secret and how he cuddled and kissed her, how he spanked and rode her. She told me about her love of being marked up and walking around sore the next day.

There was drama, too. He had many other girls he played with. He didn’t hide his other liaisons from her, but she tried not to ask and he tried not to tell. Still when they were alone she was all his and for the most part he was all hers.

The emails went back and forth fast and furious. We told the stories of our lovers and friends. She sent more pictures. The vitality and exuberance of youth. Her room became a familiar place and her girlish crooked smile and lush body became things I looked forward to every time I checked my mail.

The plan was forming and it was a bit of an odd plan. We were just supposed to meet. I knew she had that risque appointment, but she had a few hours to kill beforehand. We were going to go to Central Part. A safe place, we could sit and talk, nothing more.

When she got to the city it was raining. The city was a wet mess of black and gray and so what other choice did I have? I got a cab. I told her we were going to my place. She didn’t say yes or no, really, she just followed me.

I knew she was short, but in person five feet is impressively tiny. She wore things I told her to wear. Thigh highs, a skirt. When we walked to get the cab my hand was on her waist and then her hip and I felt around for the line of her panties. Nothing. Smooth hip. I groaned as I felt her hip and she knew that I knew.

In the cab she was blushing.

It was too soon. We really shouldn’t have been going to my apartment. We’d emailed a lot, though. I felt comfortable. Plus she would be leaving in a few hours. Part of me really thought that we would kiss, talk, laugh. That other part of me knew exactly what would happen. These two parts of me are often at odds. The latter almost always wins.

We got to my apartment and I showed her around. We sat on my couch and she was shy and blushing and silent. This, of course, forced me to not be shy.

Sometimes I get into this mood were I am aggressive and kind of sarcastic and mocking. Teasing a girl about her desires and goading her into doing thing.

I put my hand on her knee and I kissed her. She turned away. Now I wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted, maybe I was being too forward. I kissed her neck and she sighed, I loved my hand up her skirt and she gasped. I touched the very tip her her thigh, edging near heat and wetness, but I didn’t touch yet.

I moved away and watched her squirm. Then I moved in and took a hungry handful of her breasts.

Really, they are perfect. They might be the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen. I’ve been with girls with large breasts before and indeed I love breasts of all sizes, but these are perfect. I felt the delicious weight of them. I pushed her back and squeezed them. She gasped.

This whole time there was a tugging in the back of my head. She was going to see “him” and so what was I doing? I slapped her breasts a little and she gave me one of the first glimpses of that glazed look in her eyes. That perfect combination of desire, shame and submission.

Some girls you hit and they like it. They squeal and laugh and ask for more. Some girls turn around and take it, like a mission. They grit their teeth and see how much they can handle. Girls like this, though, girls like this gave in to the pain with every inch of themselves. The groans are animal and they are hypnotized by the pain. They don’t like it, they need it. Every connection your hand makes, or your cane or your whip, completes them and being a part of that is something profound.

When I bent her over my couch and spanked her she froze. “No marks” she whispered at one point. It made me want to own her, brand her, whip her until she was black and blue, but I was good. This was just an appetizer. This was a first meeting and a brief one at that. Just a little playing.

I spanked her more. I knew the lines and I kept to them. That kind of spanking doesn’t leave marks. I watched her skin and how much she could take. When my fingers slipped into her she let out an animal groan. The want was palpable. Her body was so primed for sex. Young, wet, tight, bright, hungry, dirty, blushing and wanton.

My fingers searched inside of her. The differences in women is fascinating. She has a very prominent g-spot. It seemed swollen and my fingers curved to meet the little bumps and ridges of her cunt. She bucked and ground against my hand, her body far more lithe and tight then I imagined. She was already on her way, building as my fingers moved in and out, teasing and then tormenting that spot inside of her. When her hips started a slow steady rhythm I stopped.

The sound she made was perfect. A moan and a whine and a whimper.

When I left her I had no doubt she would stay put. The fact was I wished I had more time and more rope because I could only imagine the things she would have done if we had the means to take advantage of her in every way. She stayed put as I got a toy and some restraints. I bound her hands behind her back and she obediently kept her face down in the pillows of my couch. I bound her ankle together as well, loving the way the lips of her cunt peaked out from her closed legs.

The toy slipped in easily, surprisingly easily. Everything was easy with her, except for the kissing. She was eager, in body if not in mind. Her body didn’t have any of the shames or guilts her mind did. She wanted it all and she was wet for it.  Her cunt took everything I gave it.

The chemistry of affairs like this amaze me. I don’t know how everyone reacts but personally I see myself change so much depending on who I am with. She needed complete ownership. She needed to me manhandled and physically overpowered. She didn’t want to answer questions or play little games. Really, she couldn’t. She was as much under the control of her own body as she was under my control.

I worked the toy into her, pressing the curve of it so that it her her g-spot hard again and again. With most women this would be far too much stimulation, but she played rough, alone or with her little friend. I wanted too see how much she could take. It wasn’t long before her whines turned into sobs of pleasure. She turned to the left and the right because the pressure was going to make something big happen and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to.

She got nervous when she started to squirt. The wet drops on the floor between her legs made me smile. She moved around too much and I didn’t get to really watch the waterworks, but it is always so satisfying when they squirt, especially when they didn’t think they would.

I stepped back and was overcome with the desire to fuck her. Her wet thighs and her shallow breath. I could see her face, blushing and one breasts pressed perfectly against my pillow. Her powerlessness to her own need to be dominated was too powerful a aphrodisiac.

When I left her again and came back with the condoms I made sure she saw them. I made sure she heard the ripping of the package. I gave her time to say no, though I knew the word wasn’t in her vocabulary at this point. She might fight, she might struggle, she might do all sorts of things, but I don’t think there was anything I was capable of that she would really protest.

She shouldn’t fuck me. She knew it. She was going to meet him. She was going to be with him and do all sorts of things for hours, but here she was bent over my couch and saying nothing as I slipped the condom on. Saying nothing as I put my hands on her perfect ass. Saying nothing as I brushed the head of my cock against her slightly swollen and shockingly pink cunt.

I pulled up her head by her hair and I looked at her face. She wouldn’t really look me in the eye. My cock slipped against the wetness of her. I was looking for her answer.

Then I was sinking into her. Inch by inch into this new wetness.

We didn’t have time to play any more games. With her legs together and her ass in my hand and the restrictions making every moment taboo, things were moving quickly. The pleasure was distilled and intense. She moaned and whimpered as I pushing all the way into her. Her natural tightness and the added pressure of her legs bound together was intense and wild. She was so receptive to every thrust the whole thing quickly got out of my control. I started riding her fast, pulling her thick hips back and forth, the whole time looking down at much cock disappearing into her.

She just kept coming. I was almost jealous. Just getting fucked like this, bent over a couch, plus the dirtiness of knowing someone else would be doing the very same thing in a few hours. I watched her cycle through orgasms, her body tightening and her breath going faster and then suddenly stopping for a few seconds. I was enthralled, so much my own orgasm surprised me. There was no buildup, I just started coming, so hard I fell against her and grunted three time loud and guttural.

After I came I played with her a little more. She is a lovely plaything. I knew she had to go and so I let her get dressed.

After her orgasms and her fucking her whole demeanor changed. She wasn’t shy anymore, she was calm and playful. She hugged me and hung on me as I took her to the bus. Where she was once embarrassed to even hold my hand now she was pressed against me, kissing me as we waiting.

These were our first real kisses. She bloomed like a flower in the sunlight outside my apartment. She pressed against of me reveling in the spectacle of us kissing at the bus stop. My hand even sneaking up to cup her breasts for a moment.

The knowledge of where she was going made my feelings confusing. I reached some new place, though, some understanding. I relished the whole dirty little game. Though I was sure any meeting with her would have been intense, the situation had made things even hotter than I could have expected.

I knew as I kissed her one last time I would have her again, this time all mine for a day. I would play with this little toy for real and see every trick this little pet had to show me.

And with that she was gone.