BMan Fantasy 2009

It’s really not about the orgasm. Anyone of sensual proclivity knows that it’s all about the process, the slow simmer of psychic and physical juices, the melding of visual and tactile flavors, the making of the soup. It’s about running naked through the snow with a lover, licking the ends of her freezing nipples, grabbing her icy ass and holding her warm belly against you. It’s about thick olive oil on her legs, in the sun, her labia puffy and soft on your tongue. It’s about the feel of cum building in your stretched balls, working its way like lava through the length of your cock and seeping out in long, thin, streams. It’s about watching her from a distance, admiring the flex of her naked body as she works in the garden, sweat rolling down her browned flesh. Unrelenting pleasure, excruciating pleasure, gasping pleasure, unreleased pleasure, nail-raking pleasure: once it has started, you cannot stop it.

So, here I am in an airport, snowed in, waiting for a flight in the depth of winter. I sit in the cocoon of my thoughts, while disgruntled and exhausted passengers file by me like zombies. I sit against a wall, enjoying the sensation of the erection under my laptop, my mind buried to the hilt in the memories of summer’s passions.

How do I explain this thing, this contraption, this instrument of bliss? It is made of wood. I can dismantle it, transport it to distant locations, and set it up in minutes at my destination. It’s a rack, a cross, a chair. It’s festooned with eyebolts, straps and ropes. My lover, Liza, and I designed it after a round of chemically-fortified sex on an isolated Mexican beach. After giggling, stroking, drawing, licking, fantasizing, kissing and discussing our plans for hours, we banged our bodies into numbing orgasm. I couldn’t wait to get home, to get out the hammer, saw and drill.

I won’t bore you with the mundane details of design; I will simply describe how Liza and I put our creation to use. First, the location. Certainly, you’ve heard of Burning Man, a hedonistic festival that draws 50,000 fun-seeking people together, each August, for a week of libidinous debauchery in a northern Nevada wasteland. Liza and I trekked to this outrageous event, taking with us a week’s worth of food, drink and sex toys. During the day, the sun blazes on a treeless expanse of alkali, and winds can whip the dust into blinding shrouds that coat and seep into everything. At night, the place erupts into rave parties, light and fire shows, magic, and sensual delights that often defy description.

My lover and I drove the 1,500 miles to Burning Man in a truck that was loaded to axle-breaking capacity. On the roof rack was a two-room tent, a beaten couch, and our portable playground. We drove the entire route naked, windows down, wind rushing over our bodies. Occasional side trips down dusty roads ended in the most delightful of bent-over-the-hood quickies. We arrived at the Burning Man site (Black Rock City) physically drained and primed for more sex. Once we entered the City, we found a plot of dirt and set up our camp. It was a spare camp, consisting of the truck, the tent, the dusty couch and our wooden inspiration. Our sexual jungle gym looked like an other-worldly sculpture. Upright supports, padded horizontal beams, a chair with stirrups backed by a cross. It was exciting to look at, not so much for its aesthetic beauty but for the anticipation of ecstasy that it represented.

Liza and I were tired after our long day of travel, but we were naked and the sun was still shining. As if to try out the effectiveness of our creation, my beautiful lady climbed onto it and reclined in the chair, placing her feet in the stirrups. She was, of course, teasing me. We had already taken a test drive or two. Her blatant tease, however, worked as expected. In seconds, her ankles were securely strapped into place and her arms were bound over her head. She was all mine.

To better set the scene, the chair is raised a few feet off the ground. To get into the chair, my lover had to climb up into it. I could clamber onto a platform to fuck her, or I could bolt a horizontal beam in front of her that I would have to bend over, if I wanted to eat her fruit and be exposed. On this occasion, I decided to simply play with her. But, first, the oil.

While other campers drove or strolled by, I oiled my baby from head to toes, until she shone in the sun. She lay there, thrusting her pelvis toward the cloudless sky, while I kneaded her breasts and kissed her, brushing the end of my cock against the inside of her legs. But, this was all about teasing, about prolonging the slow smolder of building tension. My little prisoner was going to be the object of much experimentation in the art of sexual torture. I stood back and admired her captive beauty for what, probably, seemed like an eternity to her. Her breathing was shallow and quick. She longed for touch.

A young couple had slowed down to take a look at what was going on. They were quite interested. When they stopped, I slowly eased an oiled finger deep into Liza’s ass. She stopped breathing, for a second, then forced the air out in a long growling cry that rattled my balls. A slippery, glistening, drop of liquid oozed out of the end of my hard rod in response. The couple moved closer, watching as I eased that one finger in and out of my girl at a maddeningly slow pace. Liza was moaning with each long stroke and the audience stood mesmerized, clutching each other as if to keep themselves in control.

I pulled my finger out and left my princess to climb off the platform on which I was standing and walk around to her ear. I bit her neck and told her how absolutely beautiful she was. I whispered that others were watching, as I reached around to pinch her nipples. She gasped as her stomach tightened, and her hips shook. “I want it,” she mumbled. I sucked on her earlobe and said, smiling, “Yes, I know.”

My cock waved tall as I walked back around to climb between her immobile legs. I pinched her labia between my fingers and thumbs until she cried out in pain. I pulled the lips far apart, exposing her pulsing pussy and the copious dribble of her cum as it ran out of her and down across her puckered asshole. I ran my fingers around her opening, spreading her juice down her legs and across her glimmering mound. Her clit was swollen larger than I had ever seen it. It has taken on a deep glow as blood engorged it to the bursting point.

Another couple had joined the first, and the four of them crowded around to watch Liza’s torture. I winked at them as I climbed down, again, to whisper into my lover’s ear. I kissed her and told her that more people were watching her, admiring her body. I told her that I was going to make her cum, if she asked nicely. By this time, the viscous liquid of my pre-cum was running down the underside of my very hard cock. I stroked myself for the benefit of the crowd as I climbed back onto the stage. I leaned over and blew on my sweety’s clit. She sucked in a breath, in anticipation. The muscles in her bound legs twitched.

“Do you want to cum,” I asked.

“Yes,” she almost begged. “Please let me cum….”

“Ask me nicely,” I teased.

“Please, let me cum,” she repeated, almost whining.

“What?” I asked, as I rolled her clit, lazily, under my thumb. “I didn’t hear you.”

“PLEASE, make me cum,” she yelled.

It is difficult to explain to anyone just how much I love to bury my face in a woman’s sopping crotch, and to drink the intoxicating liquor that pours from her. I think it all originated with my first girlfriend, a girl who taught me (through years of adolescent experimentation) how to appreciate the subtleties of oral sex. Out of ignorance and fear, we never experienced intercourse. But, I learned my way around a pussy, and she certainly learned how to get the most out of my inexperienced high school pecker.

Anyway, there we were; my baby oiled and wet, and me hovering over her like a hummingbird over the most lovely of orchids. I had to make her scream for the crowd. After all, we wanted repeat business. I bent down close and, without warning, plunged two fingers deep into her while my tongue unleashed a barrage of flicks across the aching head of her clit. She bellowed in orgasm, every muscle in her body straining against the straps that held her captive. Her feet and hands punctuated each cry, fingers and toes curling, grabbing at the hot afternoon air. The hot nectar inside of her shot across my face and down my neck as I brought her, wave after delicious wave, to mind-blowing ecstasy.

When I sensed she was spent I backed away and tenderly released her from her bonds. I helped her down from her oily, sweaty, cum-drenched throne and she collapsed to the ground, her perspiring breasts heaving with exhaustion. I sat down beside her and cradled her in my arms. We had grown oblivious to the folks who had gathered around to witness our display, until one of the women walked up and asked if she and her lover might use our toy, sometime.

Bingo! It worked!
(Stay tuned for installments)