We Came, We Saw, We Came

Cabana Morning

2010-09-30T18:33:00.000-07:00

He came to me with a margarita. He was brown and tall, with short hair and a very tidy pair of swim trunks that could have doubled for underwear or stripper props. His hips were narrow, the bones cradling the muscles of his walnut-colored stomach. His shoulders were the sort that might carry the carcass of an antelope across the arid grasslands for a week, without complaint. I met him that morning, in the breakfast nook, off the pool. The sun was three fingers above the horizon and we were the first to stir.

“Coffee?” he asked.

I was alone. The morning Wall Street was before me. The air was warm and humid, even at 8:00 a.m. This was, after all, Jamaica.

I reached for the margarita and looked him up and down. “No thanks, this will do.”

I took a sip and slowly licked the salt off my lips, then looked back down at the paper. The Dow Jones had taken a dip due to some bullshit statement from the Fed. Some idiots in some frumpy little third world dive had taken some hostages. A minor internet upstart was overvalued. Some actor I’d never heard of had died at age 99. The humidity was soaking into my skin. My red toenails were glistening, my sarong was lying next to the beach chair. The margarita was almost gone when “cabana boy” walked over to see if I wanted a refresher. Conscientious fellow that he was, he carried a mister filled with cool water.

“Would you enjoy some coolness, miss?” he asked. A bead of sweat was running down his cocao chest. I set the paper to the side and took off my glasses. My feet fell to the sides of the lounger. “Sure, hon,” I replied. I closed my eyes and reveled in the fine mist that my morning slave sprayed all over my naked body. Beads of water coated my breasts and tummy and thighs and delightful labia. When I was coated in sparkling liquid, Mr. Cabana asked if I’d like a refill on the margarita. It took me a moment to regain my grasp on reality. When I opened my eyes, my gaze instinctively fell on the fullness of his trunks. Not daring to look into his eyes, I answered, “Sure, hon.”

The rising sun, the rising heat, the rising desire, the rising fantasies…I lost interest in that damned paper and the rest of the world. I just sighed and sank deeper into the lounge chair, waiting for Adonis to come back with my drink. After all, I was at this place to let go of the rest of my life. Twenty years behind a desk, staring out high rise office windows at life, had left me thirsty for a different and more basic reality. I’d had my shot at men in silk suits and patent leather shoes. I’d actually had a few shoot in and all over me. It was fun, but it wasn’t what I wanted. After all, a hard dick is not always an adventure. I owned my own business, back in the states. Here, I wanted someone to own my business, and I didn’t really care how they did it.

Before my little buddy returned with my second drink of the morning, Cece and her very nice-looking companion padded across the flag stones bordering the pool and settled in next to me. Cece was dark-skinned and small. Her companion was milky white and leggy, with tits that were natural and showing a little use. Still, those nipples stood tall and proud. I had met Cece the evening before, in the piano bar. She was young and adventurous and had booked a flight to Jamaica after her bonehead boyfriend had fucked some high-schooler in a drunken stupor. Cece had a score to settle, and wanted photos to prove it. She apparently found someone to assist her. Her name was Mica and she had an added benefit in her ability to speak French.

“Did ya get any?” she asked, nonchalantly, gazing out across the smooth water of the bay through her oversized sunglasses. Her left hand traced Mica’s right thigh as she spoke. Mica was available.

“Naw,” I replied, but I’m workin’ on it. Just then, Mr. Booty headed my way with the drink I’d ordered. His thighs were remarkable. Long and sinewy, I imagined that they could drive rivets through steel girders. And that stomach…I really didn’t care whether he was making beans and had no health care benefits. That stomach could bounce a cement block dropped from the top of my condo.

“Here you are, miss,” he said, politely, while trying to keep his gaze on my eyes.

I reached for the margarita. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Antoine,” he replied, confidently.

I doubted that he was stupid enough to give me his real name, but I played along. “So, Antoine,” I purred, “where does a woman, like me, find a perfect beast like you?”

If a Jamaican can visibly blush, Antoine did. While he was formulating his young male testosterone answer, I spread my legs and reached over to run my fingernails down Cece’s right shoulder. She giggled.

Antoine regained his confidence and announced, “We have a competition, this afternoon, down on the beach. You should be a part of that.”

“Oh,” I said, “and what sort of competition is that?”

Antoine took a moment before replying. His smile was intoxicating. It took over his whole face. I thought the bulge in his pants looked a bit larger.

“Miss…you will do quite well.” He looked at Cece and Mica and ran his thumbs under the waistband of his trunks. “I think you may win,” he said, glancing back my way. “The competition starts at three.” Then, turning back toward my neighbors, he asked, “Ladies, may I get you something from the bar?”

Mica asked for scotch on the rocks, not a bad call for breakfast. Cece doubled the order. Mr. Hotstuff turned to retrieve the drinks.

“I think you’re meat, baby,” Cece said, looking at me with a Cheshire grin. She spread her legs a bit to allow my roving hand to explore her oiled and warming skin.

I decided to force some issues. “Hey Mica, let’s see who’s meat.” I leaned over and kissed Cece and plunged my hand into her crotch. Mica ran her hands over Cece’s breasts and stomach. Nothin’ like hot sun, warm skin, oil, the smell of the ocean and booze to get a morning off to a great start. By the time the scotch showed up on the scene, Cece was spread wide with her arms thrown up over her head. She gazed through her sunglasses at Antoine and came like a bronco, coating my hand with her juice. Antoine waited, patiently, until she settled into her lounge chair, then offered her scotch. The outlines of his long cock were readily visible and he took evident pleasure in showing them off as he handed Cece and Mica their refreshments.

“You will all do quite well, this afternoon,” he said with a broad ivory smile.

No Photos

2010-09-17T20:07:00.000-07:00

I use photos, sometimes, to help illustrate the sexual emotions I'm trying to evoke in my writing. Sometimes, they add to the artistic expression. Sometimes, they detract. But, when it comes down to it, the pictures really exist inside of each one of us. Eroticism is in the mind, after all. And the photos in our minds are often more vivid and more meaningful and more fulfilling. So, here's a photograph in my mind...

The place is buzzing. It's on a dry and dusty playa. Dance music is blaring. Costumed people, half-costumed people, naked and half-naked people are grinding to the beat. The place is sweaty and dirty. It reeks of horomones and pheromones and herbal smoke. The room of dancers is below us. We watch from a balcony, rubbing our skins together. She wears a short skirt and dusty boots. My hands cup her naked breasts. The beat, the heat, the animal odor, the love...it's as thick as tapioca pudding and as warm as summer honey. When I slide the skirt off, over her gyrating hips, she allows it without a break in the movement of her sensual body. When I press my cock into her, we dance.

Fuck Pool!

2010-08-23T11:06:00.001-07:00

“You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead,” she said, cradling the cue stick in the crook of her elbow. He grinned, widely, and took aim at the 4-ball at the far end of the table. Her trash talk was fun, but distracting. Or, maybe, it was knowing that she wore nothing under that paper-thin tube dress that was interrupting his concentration.

He drew his cue back and sent the cue ball rolling. It was off line, and the four caromed off the cushion, inches from the pocket. She giggled as she saw the frustration etched on his face. She took a sip of Maker’s and fondled a breast until the nipple hardened. “I guess it’s my turn,” she said, smugly.

Tuesday nights, at the Golden Globe Tavern, was usually pretty slow. Billy and Daisy picked Tuesday as their weekly pool tournament night. The Golden Globe, or “GiGi” as the regulars called it, was a sleazy little neighborhood hangout that hid all of its filth and flaws in dim, windowless, light. With faux Persian carpeting over concrete, band poster-covered dark wood walls, ceiling-mounted stereo speakers and four regulation pool tables, the GiGi had survived decades of dry rot, carpenter ants, spilled beer, puke and human debauchery. Billy and Daisy knew most of the clientele and had befriended the staff. It was their kind of place.

Daisy sauntered up to the table. She was ahead in the 8-ball tournament, with one win out of the usual 9-game match. In this game, Billy had two balls on the table and she had four. The Budweiser pool lamp glared down on the stained and ragged green felt of the table. Daisy stood against the table, eyeing the arrangement of the balls, chalking up her stick. Her breasts jutted into the bright light. The Stones’ “Start Me Up” blasted through the speakers and the clinking of glassware behind the bar.

Billy stood on the other side of the table, glass in hand. Daisy decided to start her run with the 11-ball in the side pocket. It was a straight-in shot, no slop. She flashed a grin at Billy and bent at the waist. The weight of her tits pushed the slight fabric of her dress away from her chest and Billy stared into the naked tunnel of her cleavage as she took a bead on the cue ball. She snapped the cue ball against the 11, drove the 11 home and stopped the cue ball dead, all lined up for the next shot.

Daisy moved around to the end of the table, bent over and tapped a gentle push down the slate to the 14-ball. In it dropped. Tie game.

Daisy stood and slinked up to Billy. She pressed her soft body into his and kissed him. He reached around to grab her ass and pull her closer. “You’re so fucking hot,” he growled. “Wanna fuck?”

Daisy suddenly felt a familiar jolt in her abdomen, followed by a damp warmth between her legs. “Tell ya what, pool boy,” she purred, “you win, you call.”

“You’re totally on, bitch,” Billy said, grabbing Daisy’s pussy. “What if you win?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

Daisy’s next shot rammed the 9-ball home. After that, the 13 skirted by the 8-ball and left a nice little side pocket shot for the second win. Billy just had to watch the game run away from him. “Rack’em, pool boy!” Daisy ordered, as she stood back away from the table. “That’s two, zip, baby.”

Billy scooped the balls into the rack. “You’re goin’ down, bitch,” he said.

Daisy lined up for the break. She had a smirk on her face as she bent over the cue ball. “Yeah, I know.”

The cue ball crashed into the rack and balls scattered all over the table. It was a good break, but nothing went down. “Open table,” Daisy announced. She walked over to her whiskey and took a sip. “See if you can get it in the hole, stud,” she pimped. She kicked off her pumps and wiggled her toes as she watched Billy go to work. The whiskey was making her nice and warm, inside. In between shots, Billy glanced over her way. She hooked a finger under the hem of her dress and pulled it up until Billy could get a good view of her naked pussy. She giggled and took another draw on her whiskey. “Get busy,” she said.

Billy did as told and ran the table. One after another, the stripes disappeared off the felt. As Billy bent into the last shot at the 8-ball, Daisy came up behind him and reached between his legs. At first, Billy was distracted. Then, as Daisy rolled his nuts in her hand, he drove the 8-ball home and won the game.

“Wow,” Daisy said, stepping back. “That was some concentration!”

“Rack’em, pool girl!” Billy ordered. He walked over to the table where his drink sat and reclined in the chair. After Daisy had racked up the balls, good and tight, he commanded, “Come over here.” Reaching into the front of his unzipped jeans, he pulled out his cock. “See if you know what to do with this,” he taunted.

Daisy looked around the bar, nervously. No one seemed to be paying much attention. She padded over to Billy and bent over him, sucking his dick into her mouth. Bending over that far, made her dress pull up high over her bare ass. Billy slid a wet finger into her pussy. He pumped in and out of her a couple of times, then pushed her away, tucking his semi-turgid stick back into his pants. “Guess I’d better shoot,” he said with a sly grin. “I’m comin’ back.”

Billy stood up and started to move toward the table. Daisy grabbed the crotch of his pants and planted a big kiss on his mouth. “God, I want that,” she growled.

“Don’t worry, you little slut, you’re gonna get it.”

“Now?”

“Step away, little girl…I got work to do.”

Billy walked up to the table, aimed the cue ball and smashed it into the lead ball. A good break, balls scattered evenly across the green. But, again, nothing went in. Daisy’s turn. She assessed the sequence and stepped up to the task. She rolled the top of her dress down until her breasts popped out, then bent over the table. This got the attention of a few of the patrons, and they called out, egging her on. That’s the reaction she was hoping for. The 1-ball was Daisy’s first victim. Down it went and the cue ball banked off the cushion, in place for the next shot at the 6-ball. Daisy took steady aim, but missed. She rose up and walked over to her whiskey, feeling bold and a little drunk. In the shadowy lighting of the bar, she could sit back in her chair and play with herself while she watched her man circle the pool table like a cat.

By the time Billy had emptied the table of about three of the stripes, Daisy was all worked up. She was slow in getting out of her chair to go take the next shot. Her dress was down around her waist, but she was comfortably oblivious to how she looked as she bent over to take a shot at the 6-ball again. Billy was more than happy to stand behind Daisy and admire her wet clam as her dress rode up over the curves of her ass. The 6-ball rolled into the corner pocket and Daisy stood up.

“Take it off!” someone shouted from across the bar. It took a couple seconds for the plea to sink into Daisy’s consciousness. Once it registered, however, Daisy was quite happy to comply. Off the dress came, and Daisy stood naked in the bar, pool stick in hand, a wickedly delicious grin on her face.

“Like that?” she shouted back. A cheer went up from the bar, accompanied by a smattering of enthusiastic applause. Daisy returned to the game. The 2-ball was next. Daisy took her time, bending over the table, aiming the cue ball. Her ass gleamed in the harsh light of the pool table lamp. Her brain was swimming with excitement. The 2-ball missed the mark and Daisy returned to her chair.

Not to be outdone by his companion, Billy removed his shirt. His taut muscles and thinly-haired chest rippled beneath the light. Daisy’s legs instinctively splayed as she watched him circle the table, making shot after shot. Finally, Billy had the stripes off the table, and was zeroing in on the final shot of the game. “Take it off!” a female hollered from the bar. Billy backed away from the table and peered out toward the bar. Apparently, he and Daisy had become the center of attention at that point. All eyes were on him as he set his pool cue on the table, unbuckled his belt ceremoniously, and stripped his pants off. Hoots and hollers filled the GiGi as he swung his cock in his hand, pumped his hips for the benefit of the crowd, then stepped back up to the table.

He was about to make the shot, when Daisy called out from the sidelines, “You couldn’t hit that hole if it was on your forehead.”

Billy looked over and started laughing. “Watch and learn,” he shot back.

Bam! The 8-ball in the side pocket wrapped up game number four. “Tied up,” Billy announced, as he turned and leaned his bare ass against the table. “Rack’em, pool girl!”

Fuck Pool!

Daisy got up out of her chair and walked, seductively, over to Billy, fell to her knees and gulped his cock deep into her throat. A cheer went up from the bar. The Eagles “Take It To The Limit” blared over the speakers. Daisy held Billy’s cock in her throat and looked into his eyes, the corners of her mouth upturned in a shit-eatin’ grin. He started to harden, filling her mouth with hot meat until she had to back off. People with beers in hand started moving into place around the pool tables, watching from the shadows as Daisy started to work Billy’s stick from head to root. Billy leaned back, his stomach tight, his ass clenched. Daisy’s hungry saliva dripped off his balls onto the faux Persian carpet. When Billy’s pecker was like the wood of a pool cue, Daisy rose up and, clutching his nuts in her hand, ordered, “Fuck me!”

“Let’s see if I can hit that hole,” Billy said. He grabbed Daisy, and spun around behind her and, in one deft move, grabbed her hair and pushed her over the table and impaled her from behind. His cock slammed into her, and the excited onlookers shouted their approval. Daisy’s tits were squashed on the green felt and she drooled onto the table while Billy’s long strokes drove his balls against her labia, slapping again and again until
Daisy’s ass squeezed her first orgasm out of her throat.

A chant went up from the room. “Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her! Fuck her!” Billy rammed into Daisy like a machine. Joan Jett was cranking out “I Love Rock & Roll” on the Bose speakers. Daisy came in screams, her cum running down the insides of her legs. Billy slapped Daisy’s ass cheeks until they glowed in the spotlight. He drove his long, straight, strokes with backspin, right-hand English, left-hand English, sending the balls back to the whole until he couldn’t take it any more. He pulled out and, to the roaring approval of the GiGi patrons, spewed his talcum sperm all over Daisy’s ass. When the last dribble dropped off the tip of his cock and into Daisy’s crack, Billy bent over Daisy’s heaving body and he whispered in her ear, “Fuck pool.”

The Eros of Cancer

2010-08-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t too long after his surgery that he was able to use his cock again. It was painful, at first, and he closed his eyes, tightly, when the thin juice of his balls flowed out of him in spasmodic dribbles. After the initial novelty of the post-prostate experience, he began to settle into the disconcerting change in his orgasmic feelings. Instead of blasting quantities of thick, white, jism into space, his dick just leaked clear and sticky stuff while he ground his hips in rhythm to a deeply gripping, muscular, series of contractions. It was, as he was told, more female-like. Over time, as the clarity of the memory of his pre-surgery orgasmic sensations waned, he began to enjoy the depth of his transformation.
One thing, in particular, was exciting. He found that by rapidly rubbing his frenulum, he could trigger an orgasm in the most covert manner. He quickly learned that he could secretly cum, under the table at meetings, or on the plane, or in the back seat of cars. Other than a moment of silence, and a flush of the skin on his face, there were no outward indications of what was going on in his pants. It was delightful, having this option. After all, the volume of his ejaculate was not so much that it would soak through the fabric of what he was wearing.
But, the intensity of his orgasm was tremendously satisfying. He quickly became addicted to the feeling and the depraved excitement of it all. He was a newly-born pervert, and it was such a gratifying feeling to have beaten death and be left with the means to experience such naughty joy. He squirted into his pants at work, behind his desk. He did it in bathrooms and bars. He imagined that his sensual situation was akin to that of a woman with a dildo implanted in her pussy, vibrating constantly. Unfortunately, as time progressed and the sensitivity of the nerves impacted by surgery regained a level of homeostasis, the frenulum became less sensitive, returning to where it had been before the cancer. He needed more stimulation and the urgency disappeared. It was a grand time, however, that post-surgery insanity. And it taught him a valuable lesson: when life gives your lemons the inability to make juice, make the most of the rinds. After all, there’s reason their shavings are called “zest.”

Squish

2010-07-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

Squish. Up between the toes. Squish. And, all around, blaring sun and distant snow and whispering air. “Squish.” What an evocative word and sound and feeling! Does it awaken something primal, that soft sound? Squish is the sound of birth. It’s the sound of shit. The sound of tender lips on a milky breast. The sound of fruit and a deep pussy. Squish.

We found this spot, this living slimy glorious spot, on the spinning globe in the spinning solar system in the spinning galaxy in the spinning universe. “Squish,” it said. It spoke to our feet and legs and hands and slipping, sliding, spinning bodies. We flew across it and into it. Squishing into the creases and crevasses and hollows and pores of our bodies, the mud brought the life of prehistory to life, once more. And we laughed the joy of remembrance into the air of all ancestors. Squish.

In one small spark, this was set into motion; the skating and slithering essence of being. And we saw it and grabbed onto it. “Squish.” The sound of the beginning and the end, and all things sacred in between.

Word

2010-06-24T16:21:00.001-07:00

“What’s all this shit about Microsoft Word,” she said somewhat peevishly. It was not really a question; it was a statement about her ignorance. “I have Microsoft Works!”

He laughed. “Microsoft Works is, like, SO archaic,” he countered, in his characteristic metrosexual affectation. If she hadn’t just had her lights fucked into oblivion by him, she would’ve sworn he was gay. Not that there would be anything wrong with that. She imagined that even gay guys might need a tight pussy, from time to time. After all, they liked assholes. At that moment, she was peering at him as if he was an asshole.

She sat naked, in front of her Gateway 831GM, and tried to find this “Word” thing in her programs. Her pussy was still wet and dripping cum onto the chair. “See,” she blurted, after perusing the list of programs on her hard drive, I don’t have “Microsoft Word!”

He bent down next to her ear, and whispered, “If you suck my cock, I’ll find it for you.”

What had brought them to this point in their post-coital reverie, was a somewhat off-topic comment by Billy that she might have more time to fuck if she’d learn to use a car, instead of a horse and buggy. He had been trying to get her to use Word for a few months, so that she could more easily send her erotica to online publishers. She was rather pig-headed, however, and stuck with her old way of doing things, even though it took twice as long to accomplish things that way. He couldn’t help it; they had been screwing the afternoon away, and she had just had her zillionth orgasm. She, clearly, was enjoying herself. So, as she was catching her breath after another gut-wrencher, he poked her again with his admonition to change her computer skills. She had had enough. She jumped out of bed and ran to her computer, leaving his flagging dick waving in the air.

She turned in her chair and gulped the length of him into her throat. True to his word, Billy reached over her shoulder and scrolled the programs until he found “Microsoft Office Word.” He right-clicked, put the shortcut on the desktop, and drove his cock into her. As she gagged, he crowed, “There ya go.”

She couldn’t believe how fast that happened. She snapped her head away and gazed at her desktop. “How the fuck did you DO that!” she exclaimed.

“It was right there, in black and white,” he said, grinning. “Microsoft Office Word.”

“Huh? I saw that, but I thought it was for office use!” she said, defensively.

“Well…where’s your office?” he said, wagging his saliva-coated pecker in her face.

“Goddam it!” she whined. She waited a moment, to allow her embarrassment to subside, then licked the end of his cock. “OK, so I’m stupid,” she pouted. Then, looking up with her kitten-cute eyes, she mumbled between licks, “Where’s YOUR office?”

Without missing a beat, he returned with, “Up your sweet ass.”

“Word,” she said.

Boat Party

2010-05-24T16:36:00.000-07:00

Just another boat ride…not! We rolled up to the launch and I backed the boat into the water. The others parked up in the lot and started carrying coolers down to the dock. The men did most of the carrying, of course. The girls, in varying states of undress, were great to look at. They stood on the dock…all three of them…waiting to pile into the boat. After drinking whiskey along the way to the lake, they were already rollin’. Gina, of course, was catching looks from the moment she piled out of our truck. She decided, at the last moment, to throw on one of my old white oxfords. Buttoned, strategically, just above her navel, it revealed just enough tit and pussy, when she walked down onto the dock, to get any observant male’s attention in both heads. And there were a few of them, mostly party folks out for a hot day on the lake. A few old-timers were not quite sure what they were seeing.

I tethered the boat to the dock and the guys started dropping the goodies into the boat. The women were already in, giggling and sort of pretending to help out. Janie had a suit on that was so small the fabric could have made a potholder. Like Gina, Bobby was nearly naked. She donned a sheer beach robe and a pair of flip-flops. After unloading the truck, I parked it up in the lot and walked across the steaming asphalt to the dock. It was only 10:00 am, and the day was going to be a hot one.

The plan was to head out over the lake, to a bay where there was a three-day Labor Day party. Bands on the beach, flotillas in the lake. Women, music, water, sun…what could be better? The trip to the beach would take about an hour. As I turned the bow around and headed out on the glassy water, the women took the cue and stripped. Gina took her favorite spot on the bow, right in front of me. The scenery was, to say the least, magnificent. What, with rocky bluffs, deep azure skies, and naked pussy ahead of me, what more could I want?

In moments, I found out. I was rather focused on Gina, when I suddenly felt some nice warm breasts pressing against my back, and a pair of small hands reaching into the front of my shorts. I knew where Gina was, and I sort of could make out Bobby sucking on something hard over my left shoulder so, being capable of outstanding deduction, I surmised that Janie wanted something. Always the conscientious ship captain, however, I could do little but navigate the vessel, while Janie navigated my ship into her throat. Standing there, with my shorts around my ankles and the sun beating on my ass, while Janie was beating my balls, was quite the mid-morning experience.

Not to be diverted from the task at hand, I pulled my steely rod out of Janie’s warm mouth and handed the steering wheel to her. “Here, take the wheel, mate,” I ordered and walked to the back of the boat to grab a beer out of the cooler, my saliva-coated cock waving in the warming breeze. Janie was happy to be at the helm, and she quickly forget what she was doing moments before. Instead, she seemed quite enamored with Gina’s oiled flesh, laid out in front of her.

The sex cruise was on. I sat across from Bobby and her men, and watched as she took them both on. I didn’t even have to touch my dick; it just sort of stayed hard all by itself. After all, it’s not every day that I was treated to Bobby bobbing on the heads of two cocks while fingering herself to multiple orgasms.

A few of miles out into the lake, Gina decided to join the group long enough to duck into the head. She came out from the cabin with rope in hand. “Baby, will you tie me up?” she asked, crossing her legs and wiggling. Bobby, by this time, was getting fucked, and Janie was still making believe that she was Johnny Depp. “Sure,” I said, and got up from my front row seat. Gina climbed back onto the bow and spread herself wide. I roped her up. Her ankles were tied to the railing, as were her wrists. She wasn’t going anywhere. That’s what she wanted.

After I had her tied into place, I poured oil all over her until she reflected the sun’s rays back into space, announcing her availability. I bent down to kiss her. “I want the girls,” she said, nearly pleading. I kneeled next to her and played with her splayed pussy for a bit, until the juice was coating my hand. Then, I left her.

We had a few more miles to go before reaching the scene of the party. I had to calculate things, just right. I let Gina lie there, for awhile. After taking over Janie’s position at the wheel, I was able to watch Gina’s body react to the cooling effect of the wind on her magnificent nipples. Janie, in the meantime, had joined Bobby and the sounds of good, hard, butt-fuckin’ sex filled the air. Gina, of course, could hear much of what she could not be a part of, being tied up and all. I could see her hips move every time someone had an orgasm. Then tension was building. “Billy,” she called. I ignored her. “Billy!” she called, more frantically. “BILLY!” she yelled.

I didn’t respond. I knew we had a couple of miles to go, to get to the flotilla. I told the girls to go up and attend to Gina. I supplied them with a nice big dildo that Gina and I dubbed, “Daddy.” “Go play,” I ordered. “Make her cum until she passes out!” Janie and Bobby pulled away from the business at pussy and made their way to the front of the boat.

The boys were left flopping in the air, but a couple of cold beers soon cured any disappointment they might have. Besides, they could now watch some fun shit on the bow. We compadres lined up along the windshield and watched some absolutely ball-blowin’ action. Janie and Bobby went to work on Gina like a couple of pros. No centimeter of skin went untouched. It took less than sixty-fuckin’-seconds for Gina’s back to arch into the sun and her cries of “Fuck me” to leave the earth. That was before the Daddy plunged into her. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Here we are, a boat load of tanned and happy campers, pulling into the flotilla. Music was blaring from the beach. Party goers were dancing, in various states of coherence and dress, on the sand and boats, and in the water. We floated in, six naked crazies, with Gina at the fore, screaming in orgasm, her pummeled crotch pointed at the crowd, and two gorgeous women on her nipples like flies on shit. Needless to say, we left a good impression that spread rapidly through the crowd. After Gina was untied, we fucked like bonobos on the engine cowling, to the cheers of the crowd. The party got better, from there.

Parade

2010-05-17T20:10:00.000-07:00

“I don’t know about this,” she said, nervously, as he tied her hands behind her back. He worked silently, hearing her anxiety and saying nothing. It heightened the tension in her; it made him smile. He knew she wanted something like this. He also knew that she had no idea what was coming. He wasn’t going to give her a hint, either.

In the distance, the drum beat throbbed in the desert air. It came from all directions and washed over them like heartbeats. The ground seemed to move like their bare chests, breathing and beating, breathing and beating. His bare feet moved about her, softly in the dust. He tied her arms behind her, so as to make her breasts the centerpiece of her torso. They stood into the air, lovely and tender. When the bondage was complete, he kissed her. People walked by, talking, laughing, muttering, singing, silent…all in their own experience of this time. They barely noticed when he slipped the hood over her head.

She stood, naked, except for her boots, and the rope that held her defenseless. Around her neck, he fastened the collar. To that, he clipped the leash. He tugged; she followed. He led her along the streets. She navigated by his silent touch and the soft shuffling of his feet. She followed until he stopped her and ran his hands over the hood, caressing her head.

Although she did not know what to expect, she expected it. She expected the lips on her nipples, there in the middle of somewhere. She expected his fingers on her clit. She expected the cum of her running down her legs as she shook and buckled in front of untold and un-numbered strangers, there in the middle of the cacophony. She expected her cries of orgasm to be soaked into the sponge around her.

They spent the evening like this.

Ranch Ride

2010-04-12T20:02:00.000-07:00

She rode off, every day, about the same time. The sorrel quarter horse waited for her, anxiously. He was gelded, but he still smelled her as a female. He’d paw the ground and look toward the house, flare his nostrils and whip his tail. When the sun was high, and the air lightly dusted, the smells in the air were more acute. The sharpness of her scent was strong on those days. When the back door screen snapped shut, his breathing quickened with anticipation.

“Hey, Buddy,” she’d call out. “Let’s go for a ride.” She almost ran to him, but didn’t want to seem too obvious in her motions. Her mother might be watching, or her older brother. Her work jeans rubbed against her skin, and her brown boots scuffed through the dirt, hay chaff and pebbles of the yard as she walked with purpose toward the corral. Buddy held his head high and waited for her touch. She would open the gate, reach out and touch his face. Then, in a deft move, she’d swing onto his broad back and, clutching his mane in one hand, lead him out into the field.

“Buddy, how ya doin’,” she’d purr. “Let’s go have some fun.” She’d ride him to the end of the field, out over the rise and into the swale. Once out of sight of the house, she’d stop Buddy and get off. He stood, patiently, as she took off her dusty boots and tucked them into the hollowed out trunk of the old oak. The sweat-soaked socks followed, and then the oily jeans. It only took her about a minute before she leaped naked onto Buddy’s back, grabbed his mane and “clucked” into his ears.

The warm Wyoming sun fell down her back and across her bare thighs. Her long, ropey, hair swished in the dry air in rhythm with Buddy’s lazy gait. The hair on the horse’s back tickled her between her legs. She knew what was hidden, at the far reaches of the ranch, and that only heightened the sensation. She took her time, feeling. The arches of her feet brushed the coarse fur of Buddy’s belly, his muscles seemed to flow like molten liquid under her bronzed buttocks. She felt her anxious desire building like a turning tide, flooding the inlets and deltas and estuarine flats of her shoreline. Soon, she knew, she would be the inexorable force and power of the ocean.

She didn’t know where he came from, or what his name was. Until just a few weeks ago, she’d never seen him. In this sparse and bare and all-knowing land, it was difficult to hide. But, she had found him in her hiding spot. She had discovered him on a ride such as this. He was down by the spring, lying in the moss and ferns, sleeping. Naked as she, he was like a golden god in the garden. His thighs were long and muscular, like Buddy’s. His hair was a dark, matted, mane. His solid chest appeared as a barely moving block of flesh in the dappled light of the poplar copse. She sat on Buddy and watched the expansion of his body with each breath and noticed how it made the magnificent emblem of his sex roll along the inner margins of a motionless leg. She was not afraid of this man.

When he awoke, it was calmly. She had dismounted by then, and was crouching next to him, wanting to trace the arch of his ribcage with her fingers. His eyelids fluttered and he filled his lungs with the sweetness of the fecund air. He looked at her as if she was an expected vision and, without movement or sound, he offered himself to her. To prodigious proportions his member grew, the balls drawing close to him in locked and ready position. She watched in amazement and greed and, when she could no longer contain her curiosity, she ran a tentative finger along the length of his muscle, to the expanding tip. It lurched beneath her touch like an animal. It was what she’d always wanted between her legs, and she straddled it and caressed it and buried it and drove it and fucked it, madly and repeatedly, until she fell beside him against the damp earth, a thin whiteness flowing out of her.

It was like this. Each day she would come to him. No words were spoken. He was always naked and waiting. She was always naked and wanting. The emerald glade absorbed her passionate wailing as the soft forest carpet absorbed the energy of his thrusts. When she left, she left him as she had found him, sleeping. She rode across the dusty fields, to the old oak, drew the scratchy fabric onto her still hungry skin, and trotted home, thinking of the treasure waiting for her the next day.

She rode to him, day after day, into the late summer, until the grasses rattled in the constant wind and the ground was hard to the hoof. Each day, she hid her sweat-dampened ranch clothes in the oak hollow. Each day, she rode to his waiting cock and brown hips and solid chest. Each day, her head spun into the clouds after weaving through the silent emotions of the forest. When he filled her for the last time, it was as if it was the last time. His eyes, wide and blue, searched her own and he cried out as if he was being eviscerated, his innards being poured out upon the forest floor. It was the first time she had heard his voice resonating above her own. They swam in muscular contractions and jetting sperm, thrashing in the agony of ecstatic release until she fell upon his breast, joined to him forever. When she awoke, he was sleeping as when she first came upon him in the spring. She left him that way, and never returned.

The Bottle

2010-03-24T11:46:00.001-07:00

Ok, I’ll admit, I’ve had a love affair with the bottle for quite some time. Mostly, it’s wine that I like. I can drink a 450 ml bottle, hit the road, and go past “Go” with $200 bucks in my pocket and a smile on my ass. Sometimes, when I walk through the door after a long day of smacking my lips, I can almost hear that round hard honest mouth calling to me in a siren’s tone of squeals and low humming. It’s all I can do to keep from grabbing the neck of my lover and shoving that nerve sizzling liquid deep into the oceanic sinkhole of my lust. This ain’t no disco, this ain’t no foolin’ around; this is passion all bottled up until it explodes like champagne in my face. I’m a winner, a champion, the best of the heap of the love-drunk. Go ahead, shove it as deeply as you can. I’ll surround it and lap it up, like a kitten in a barn full of squirting udders.

Holding Her Feet

2010-03-11T16:55:00.001-08:00

He loved sitting on the couch, holding her small strong feet in his hands. Just sitting there, not speaking, watching the evening news, holding her feet -- that’s where things felt best. On warm summer mornings, they would sit naked together on the couch, watching Spongebob Squarepants, sipping on strong black coffee. The morning breeze flowed in through the open windows and doors and across their skins. Her small popcorn toes curled in his grasp and he could feel her distant heart pulsing against his fingers.

Her feet, like his, had pressed against the earth and felt its throb and buck and slow creep. They had carried her across thousands of miles of concrete, forest duff, mud, carpet, polished wood and sand. They had soaked in sun and rain, water and dust. They had pressed against flesh and flailed in the air. To him, holding her feet in his hands was like holding her past. He knew her better; he knew her secrets. When he held her ankles, or stroked the deep arch of her foot, or stabbed his fingers between her toes, he meant to keep her, forever.

Spring Alders

2010-02-22T18:26:00.001-08:00

February 20! Who woulda thought! The Northwestern skies were as clear and intoxicating as good vodka. In the distance, Mt. Hood etched its way like a shard of glass into the soft belly of the morning sky. The sun was low but brilliant in the damp spring haze.

“Let’s take a drive!” she said, excitedly. She nearly trembled as she said the words, as if each word had a string on it that pulled her toward the door.

I was way ahead of her on that one. “Of course, but we need to find something in the sun that is sheltered. Let’s try the Wind Mountain Trail. We’ll just go off-trail and find a nice grassy spot. Wanna fuck?”

Her eyes sparkled.

We piled into the truck. Both of us donned shorts, an optimistic gesture seeing as how the temperature was still in the 40’s. The weather reports were predicting near-60 degree temperatures, however, so we felt confident in our attire. We each took a celebratory swig of Makers Mark and headed out for Starbucks. After all, what’s a day without a mocha?

After scoring the coffee drinks, we turned on the iPod and listened to Michael Franks, Allison Krauss, Boz Skaggs, Doobie Brothers, Sade, and other sensual music as we wound along Highway 14, up the Columbia River. We talked about everything; we thought about sex. I ran my fingers along her inner thighs; she massaged my right shoulder.

We made our way to the Wind Mountain trailhead, got out of the truck and started chattering and shivering in the icy wind that tore down the Gorge. In shorts and t-shirts, we were no match for the elements, no matter the power of optimism.

“I saw a turnoff, back a ways,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. It’s lower, down by the river. Might be a little warmer down lower.”

She approved. We headed back. A few miles to the west, we turned off the highway and rolled into a nearly vacant park. One other car, three people, three dogs. The park was a large grassy expanse, surrounded by cottonwoods and alders, that led down to the Columbia River.

We traipsed across the grassy field, toward the river. The wind was still blowing, but it was warmer. The sun was still and silent and reliably warm. We held each others’ hand as if we were exploring new territory and needed the support. Mostly, though, we were thumping along with our heartbeats.

We walked to the water’s edge, a place nearly as cold as the Wind River trailhead. Whitecaps blew off of the water, sending icy spray into our faces. Clearly, not a place of nearly-naked comfort. We looked, then retreated.

On our way down to the water, I noticed a thin trail that wove through the ubiquitous blackberry vines and into a thick grove of alders. I decided to explore the trail, and followed it into the rattling branches. Deep into the grove was a mossy carpet that rolled under a bleached log. It was there that I settled, my back against the log, facing into the sun. She sat between my legs and leaned against my chest. This is where we wanted to be, like this.

How does one explain the heat between us? The camp fire, once lit, was carried for over a year. The ember never went out. Every night, it lit a new fire. New food was cooked, new stories told, new life was born. We touch and the flames explode into the sky, sending energy in every direction. My hand dove into her pants and touched her clit. He legs parted and she invited me to play. And play, we did.

We became a blur. Pants came off, shirts came off, winter white skin radiated the sun’s heat back into space. We fucked in the alders, on the moss, against the log, beneath the steady warmth of the magic orb, with the whitecaps lapping against the rocks that have washed toward the ocean from the center of the continent. Her orgasms flooded my balls and nourished the moss, my cock flooded her throat. Finally, we lay in the sun, our chests heaving our breath into each others’ lungs. The alders rattled above us, as they will in the months to come.

Dew

2010-02-02T15:52:00.000-08:00

Although the water that wound
It’s oxbowed path around
The vortex of your navel
Never touched where it struck
Out and fell instead upon
The arching need of your naked
Hip it was collected
By its tense containment
In the joyous pool of itself
Beneath a radiant moon

Mussel Love

2010-02-01T17:39:00.001-08:00

She took a breath and felt his liquid course through her body. It permeated her and the itchy sensation of thousands of sperm drilling through the membranes in her body nearly drove her nuts. But, she couldn’t move, stuck there on the lava rock as she was. Her holdfasts kept her in place and she could only feel. She could feel those wriggling little bastards as they searched her cavities for eggs. She could feel the tiny explosions of conception and the warm energy of cell division inside of her. It was enough to cause her swelling labia and her testicle lungs to press against the confines of her shell and open her, shamelessly. As the waves crashed about her, the cavitating bubbles of sea air exploded against her bonded skin and made her gasp, taking more of his essence and the competing essence of a thousand others into her depths. In spasmodic response, she squirted her offspring into the ocean where they flowed in fecund streams, in search of bondage and the thrill of sensual ecstasy.

Beach Offering

2010-01-20T15:27:00.000-08:00

Nipples and pussy. That was me. I was covered, trapped, in thin black vinyl, unable to move, barely able to breathe through my nostrils. Eyes, mouth, ears, fingers, toes, everything sealed in a shiny cocoon. I was like a leech on the open sand where he had left me like an offering. In the cool evening air, the only parts of my body left uncovered felt as if they were on fire. He had cut holes about my nipples, and carefully pizza-sliced the section of vinyl that covered my bare crotch. My ankles were staked into the sand so far apart it felt as if I were being split. I lay there, in the warm sand, quiet and waiting, feeling the pressure of the vinyl pressing in from all sides.

I could not know, of course, how many people touched me with their lips and fingers, that night. I could only imagine them as they approached me, wondering if I might, perhaps, be a sea lion washed up on the shore, or a corpse thrown off a passing boat. They must have been shocked as they walked closer and noticed the hardness of my nipples and the fullness of my labia. They must have wondered if they could, or should, touch. I know he was there, in the background, nodding with approval, smiling. He was laughing, inwardly, as I flopped around in repeated orgasm, unable to scream beyond the mask that covered my face. He was knowing how solidly this experience would bind me to him.

When, finally, I was left alone, twitching, he came to me. He sliced the skin off of me, as if he were filleting the last salmon. When I lay there, finally, exposed in the full moon, he spewed his sperm across my body and spread it across my skin until I shown, again, in the white shiny cocoon of his passion.

The Erotic Life

2009-12-14T19:55:00.001-08:00

Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a foot in the snow, bare in its desire to feel.

From there, it’s the warm caress of spring air on a nearly thawed nipple and the feeling of forest duff on the knees.

Eroticism begets eroticism; feeling breeds feeling.

Everything excites the senses: bread dough, cool fish, firm sand, falling leaves, wet moss, mushrooms, morning coffee, vibrant flowers, muted hillsides, deep waters, the tongue of a cat, the music of verse, and the whispering comfort of her sleeping breath.

One Woman

2009-12-04T11:37:00.001-08:00

She wanted to make a statement. It was all about the liberation of women from the servitude of male-dominated society. She was appalled by the bovine complacency of her mother. She was not going to follow in those timid, subservient, footsteps. No man would tell her to have supper waiting at 6 o'clock. She wasn't going to wear nylons around the house while she vacuumed the carpets. And...to hell with sucking dicks on demand. She would show women what it was like to be free.

The party was large, the house enormous. Glass walls, stone floors, spacious balconies, waterfalls, statuettes, all overlooking the silent and flickering lights of distant Los Angeles. Glitterati, illuminati, charlatans, intelligentsia, fakers, posers, artists, writers, social climbers: all the cutting edge of the city were there. Middle-aged men in sports jackets, accompanied by their clinging second wives and surreptitious girlfriends in mid-thigh dresses and spiked heels, stood in small groups, martinis in hand. Laughter, loud and affectatious, blew through the thick haze of incense, marijuana, cigarette and cigar smoke. The Doors, Yes, Jimi Hendrix and the Moody Blues blared through the hi-fi stereo system. Photographers circulated through the crowd, recording the social scene for the industry tabloids.

Her entrance was anticipated. Some of the guests, particularly the women, very much doubted her resolve and sincerity. Aside from that, they did not know how they felt about what was billed to occur. Her closest friends, however, harbored no doubt; of course she would go through with it. She circulated through the crowd, the thin soft silk of her shift caressing her flowing curves, accentuating her nipples and the gently flex of her dancer's buttocks. Unlike the other woman in the place, she was barefooted, her painted toes like drops of blood on the cool stone floor. Her hair was long and loose; no hairspray or bobby pins or other unnecessary confinement. The men, and the women, were captivated by her feral loveliness and boldness. She felt their fingers grazing her as she moved from room to room. As the time drew near, the small tightness in her belly grew, along with the slickness between her legs. She would do this for all women. She would show them a better path to travel. Their men would view them in a different light, a strong and honest light.

She walked out onto a balcony and looked out over the city. She imagined the noises that were being made in the bedrooms below, the raw slamming sloppy sounds of copulation in infinite ways. She imagined sperm flying, pumping, flowing, and the deep feelings of gut-wrenching orgasms in uncounted women. The buzz of the party went on, unabated. The sultry liquid warmth of southern California air held her in its embrace as she slipped, unnoticed, out of her dress and stood naked in the night. The moment was upon her. She turned.

Tentatively, but with quiet resolve, she stode back into the light and noise of the party. The music stopped, conversation subsided. She settled onto the mattress that had been placed in the center of the room. This was her stage for her performance. She looked around and smiled, then lay back and spread her legs. The exposure was exquisite, excitement coursed through her body. The energy of a hundred sets of eyes fell upon her, the lust that permeated the space surrounding her. Eyes closed, she began a slow stroking of her engorged clitoris, sliding her fingers through the spongy thick labia that already shone with her juice. She teased herself and her quiet audience, running her hands over her twisting body, licking her fingers, tugging on her tight breasts. She knew she was turning everyone on. The room was filled with static electricity and her soft moans.

When the time came to unleash her passion, she raised her hips into the air in invitation. She thought of cocks driving into her, one after the other, all of them thick and hard and new. The fingers of one hand drew the cum out of her pussy and spread it across her skin, over and over, as the tension within her increased with each knowing flick of her clit. Again and again, her soaked fingers pumped into her exhibited hole; again and again, the imaginary cocks drove into her.

The circle of her silent admirers sipped on their drinks, trying to appear controlled in their passion. Women squeezed their legs together in supression; men shifted from side to side, feeling the uncomfortable pleasure of their cocks filling the confines of their dress slacks. The subtle, maddening, pungent scent of sex made each nostril flare and each heartbeat quicken.

When she came, it was with the sharp and wailing release of every woman filled with happy freedom. Her legs flew in a St. Vitus dance of uncontrollable, jerk-off, spasm. She was a puppet at the hands of a mad puppeteer. There were no thoughts in her mind. She was electric sizzling nerve, an animal with no consciousness of itself, a wriggling worm in a wet and violent storm of sensation. Women gasped and giggled, nervously, wishing. Their men subconsciously moved their hips, thrusting ever so slightly into imaginary pussy.

As she finally settled into the dampness of the mattress, regaining herself, the crowd released its tension with exclamations of approval and wild clapping. She had done it; she had demonstrated the beauty, the unparalleled beauty, the awesome liberating beauty of the truly sexual female. Her world would never be the same, and the photograph of her ecstasy changed the lives of women for all time.

Mittens

2009-11-25T14:49:00.001-08:00

“God, put that thing away,” she said, as she flipped the sheets over his still rigid cock. He lay there, a tent poking toward the ceiling, while she caught her breath. After about six bouts of flailing arms and legs, and howling into the walls and pillows, she’d had enough. Or, so he thought.

He looped his left arm around her shoulders and hauled her in, cradling her head against his chest. He stroked her hair and kissed her perspiring forehead, listening to the gradual slowing of her breathing. Her left leg draped across him and he could feel her belly against his side, expanding, contracting, easing, relaxing. “I’ll go make some coffee,” he said softly, and eased away from her to walk down the hallway and into the kitchen.

No sooner had he left her side than she reached to the light stand, next to the bed and grabbed the vibrator and dildo. Beneath the cocoon-warm comforter, she shoved the dildo deep into her still-pulsing hole and pumped to the rhythm of his last performance. With the vibrator on her almond-sized clit, she brought herself to yet another orgasm before he could return. Sheepishly, she smiled as he entered the room. He knew what she had been up to, gauging by the flurry of activity under the blankets as she tried to hide the toys. He smiled and settled in beside her, kissing her neck and fondling her greedy nipples.

“Are you a horny girl,” he asked, in a taunting tone. She nodded her head and spread her legs as his hand ran down to sample the juiciness of her crotch. “Hmmmm…..let’s see,” he teased, as his fingers unleashed a barrage of flicks and rubs and runs across her labia and clit. Immediately, her breath was drawn away and her head spun, as the spasms started to build inside of her thighs. As the tension approached the snapping point, he stopped. “Wait! I have an idea!” And he scurried into the bathroom, leaving her buzzing.

When he returned, grinning wickedly, one hand was behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. “And spread those legs,” he ordered again. She did as she was told. It didn’t take long for her to realize that the sensuously curved object that he slid into her was the handle of her hairbrush. After that, it was the carrot, then the handle to the screwdriver, then the cool bratwurst, then the summer sausage, then the hammer grip. Every new tool, a new sensation. She lurched and bucked in orgasm, over and over, until he ran out of ideas. Then, she had ideas of her own and she started roaming the house, looking for things to insert into her seeping crotch.

He reclined in bed and watched, as fruit and vegetables and tools and utensils competed to finish the job that he, obviously, could not finish. It was, he determined, humanly impossible to satisfy this woman. Finally, after what seemed like hours and dozens of orgasmic feats, he pinned her to the bed. “Stay,” he ordered. “I have one more thing for you.” He left the room and returned a few moments later, with another wicked grin on his face and a hand behind his back. “Close your eyes,” he ordered. She did as he was told. He sat on her chest, his hot balls resting between her breasts.

“When I was a kid,” he started, “we had a kitten that just couldn’t keep out of trouble. The little bastard would claw all of the furniture and rip electric cords out of sockets and tear bags of rice open and, generally, make a big mess. My mom decided to knit some kitten mittens and tie them onto the little kitten’s feet, so it wouldn’t hurt itself and everything else.”

He reached out and placed a thick leather mitten over each of her hands.

“There, now you have your kitten mittens,” he said. Then, he slid his still rigid cock down the length of her belly and impaled her pussy.

Making Soup

2009-11-17T15:58:00.001-08:00

“Cooking is an act of love,” he said, as he stood naked in the kitchen, chopping the vegetables that would go into the chicken noodle soup.

She loved watching him, in the soft glare of the overhead lights, his shoulders moving from side to side, in rhythm with the knife. From time to time, he’d peer over the rims of his glasses, a smirk on his face. He knew, just by looking at the position of her body and the rising of her chest, that she was wet.

The chopping of carrots and onions and celery and broccoli took some time. She tried to read the paper as she listened to the methodical clack of the knife blade against the wooden cutting board. Her eyes tracked the same sentence, over and over. Her mind absorbed none of it. She simply wanted to fuck him.

He continued, “Some people look at cooking as drudgery. I just don’t understand that. I absolutely LOVE cooking for other people and, especially, for people I love. I’m doing something for them and making them feel good. What could be better?”

He looked up from the cutting board and caught her legs apart in his gaze. Scooping the vegetables into a bowl, he cleaned off the cutting board and moved it aside. “Come here, a second,” he said.

She walked toward him, taking him in; his long strong legs, his broad chest, his naked feet, his slightly arching cock. When she was close enough, he reached out and grabbed her hair in one hand, while the other reached around to fondle her ass. He kissed her, long and deep, savoring her breath and her spit and the full buoyancy of her lips. Then, he bent low, draped his arms beneath her ass and lifted her onto the kitchen counter.

Her pussy was his. It fell open like a flower in morning dew, waiting for the warmth of his mouth. She watched as he fell to his knees and opened his mouth and took all of her inside. On the stove, the steam of boiling chicken rose into the air. She was back in her grandmother’s kitchen, smelling the comfort of home, the musty cook books, the crisp tang of garden-fresh vegetables. She closed her eyes and imagined floating in a bowl of warm egg noodles, squishing them between her legs, feeling them squirm across her nipples. His tongue and lips were incessant, insistent, maddening. Her legs draped over his muscular shoulders and she leaned back as the hot soup within her rose to the surface. She wanted to cook for him, feed him, flood his face with her love.

After her pot had boiled over, and the heat had been turned to simmer, he held her panting body against him. “Cooking is an act of love,” he whispered.

Cooking Lessons

2009-10-29T19:05:00.000-07:00

I didn’t know how I got there, lying in pools of cum. I vaguely remembered cocks, so many cocks. Hands moving, balls, hollering, clapping, laughing. When I thought about it, I could sort of recall the feel of lukewarm cum as it rained down upon me from above. It just kept flying through the air, seemingly for hours. I fell asleep. When I woke, I was lying on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, my hands tied over my head. I moved my legs and they slid in cum. Slick and cool, the cum pooled beneath my ass and behind my neck. I looked at my naked body and it was streaked in dried and crusted jism. I was marinated in the juices of men. Sunlight was just warming the walls of the kitchen. The soft twitter of morning birds accentuated the silence.

He walked out and smiled at me. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary to see me bathed and naked on his kitchen floor. I shook my head affirmatively. He was still naked and I watched his legs and ass as he walked around me, filling the coffee maker with water and scooping the grounds into the filter. He turned the maker on, then knelt down beside me and kissed my encrusted lips. His hands ran over my body, spreading the last of the pooled cum all over me. It felt silky and smooth, a thick viscous icing. My nostrils flared like a mare in heat as the pungent, clover-sweet, smell of mingled sperm wafted through the air. I was confused, but dizzy with desire.

The memories of the evening slowly came back to me. He had asked me to be the waitress at his annual stag party. I was the only woman. I was to remain naked at all times, and serve the men drinks and hors d’oeuvres, while they played pool, smoked cigars and drank whiskey. There were, at least, ten of them, but I couldn’t remember the exact number. By the end of the evening, it seemed as though more men had showed up. All I really knew for sure is that I was now lying tied up and naked on his floor, covered with dried and drying cum, and loving every minute of it.

When the coffee was done, he untied me and helped me off the floor. We sat across from each other, at the table, and sipped on the strong black elixir. I ran my fingers through my hair; tried to, anyway. It was wadded and caked in dried cum. I ran my hands over my body and felt the talcum softness of millions and millions of dehydrated cells packed into the pores of my skin. It was like the feel of baby powder on a soft baby’s butt. We didn’t talk; didn’t need to. I smiled a lot; so did he. Finally, he spoke.

“Let’s pack up and head to the spot,” he said, a devilish grin flashing across his face. My stomach immediately tightened and the Kegel’s I’d been practicing involuntarily kicked into action.

“OK,” I mumbled, “but I’d better go take a shower.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” he said, rather adamantly. “You’re going just like THAT. You’ve been marinating, all night. It’s time we cooked you up for dinner.”

I sat and drank my coffee, while he gathered up towels and toys and the cooler. After arranging all of the goods for our outing, he cooked me breakfast, all the time keeping my coffee cup filled. He treated me, as he had always treated me, with love and respect and warmth. I so loved this man.

After breakfast, we put on enough clothing to get to the car, then took it off. The day was going to be a hot one. By 10:00 am, the mercury was already hitting 75 degrees. And where we were headed, it would be a skillet by noon. The windows were down, and we’d traded our cups of coffee in and replaced them with cups of chilled white wine. The warming summer air that swirled through the car, blew the scent of my marinated body around us like incense.

“You were awesome, baby,” he finally said, about 50 miles into our journey.

“Oh, really?” I asked, coyly. “How so?” (I really did not remember much)

“You must have had about 20 orgasms,” he stated, rather matter-of-factly, an approving grin lighting up his face.

“I did not!” I blurted, not quite believing it, and certainly not remembering it.

“Don’t you remember the kitchen counter?” he asked, incredulously.

“Nope.”

“Oh my god! You were fucking amazing!” he crowed

I didn’t know how to respond. My mind was racing. What the fuck had I done? I decided to not ask; at least, not just then. Instead, I bent over and took his excited cock in my mouth and tasted him, lazily, while he drove. Between the musk of his crotch and the intoxication perfume of my sperm-coated skin, I was going a bit crazy with desire. Whatever it was I had done, the night before, I wanted more of it.

The miles seemed to pass, quickly. Before long, we pulled into our usual parking spot and threw on our skimpy clothing. He picked up the cooler and the duffel bag, I picked up the towels, and we were off. We walked to our secret spot in the sun, a delightful precipice that overlooks the Columbia River Gorge. Nestled in the craggy, volcanic, hoodoos is a flat bed. That is where I unfurled our towels.

We stripped and settled onto our towels, under the blazing sun. He reached into his duffel and brought out a bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course). He poured the oil, liberally, over my splayed and welcoming body. The mingling aroma of high desert dust and sage, olive oil and cum made me tingle to the core. The liquid of my desire pooled inside of me, waiting for his entry. The entry didn’t happen. He teased me, incessantly, there in the baking sun. My nipples sizzled in the sun, my pussy fried. I had marinated, all night, and now I was cooking. I was his meal, the thing he ate over and over and over, until there was nothing but bone and marrow, quivering like a naked nerve in the searing sun. When he was sated, had filled his stomach with the succulent juices of my meaty crotch, he stood over me and hollered into the open-air kitchen, as his cum spewed out in long spicy streams and coated me, once again.

Suddenly, the preceding evening all came back to me.

Last Bite

2009-10-19T18:51:00.000-07:00

Her breathing slowed, her legs relaxed, her eyelids slowly opened and she stared at the ceiling while the rigid extension of his passion slid in, then out of her, in strong rhythm.
When she regained her composure and the authority that she wanted, she pulled away from him, leaving his glistening tool waving and thrusting into the air. She rolled off of the table and stood beside him. She grabbed his cock and squeezed it, tightly. “Get on the table,” she ordered. “I’m gonna make you squirt big time.”

He sat on the edge of the table; she took her place in his chair. “Don’t eat that last scallop until I tell you,” she said, as she licked the head of his cum-soaked tool. He leaned back and watched. She looked into his eyes as she played her tongue around the ridged helmet and stabbed into his tiny hole. She circled his ball sac with her small fingers and pulled his balls down until he almost felt pain, then gulped the length of him into her throat. He threw his head back and groaned. The muscles in his stomach and inner thighs tightened. He felt the tension of building liquid in the labyrinthine tubules that carried his offering into the base of his cannon.

She popped his straining cock and held it in her hand. Pumping it, slowly, she licked the middle finger of her other hand and placed it, firmly, against the opening of his tight rectum. She smiled up into his face and slid inside of him. Feeling the small bulge against the soft, smooth, skin of this interior of him, she rubbed it in small circles, coaxing it, making it bigger. He was filling; she could feel it. Keeping up the maddeningly lazy stroke of her hands, she took the tip of him, again, into her lips and sucked. She squirmed in the chair as she tasted the beginning of his slow seeping juice. It tasted soft and sweet and a little musky. It coated her tongue and lips. She lapped at it like a kitten before a bowl of warm milk.

Suddenly, she pulled back and gazed at the rise and fall of her lover’s strong chest. She took that bone hard pecker in her hand and started a strong, tight-fisted, pistoning. Still massaging his inner gland, she watched and listened as he approached the delicious end of her torture. His eyes started to roll, and his neck muscles strained, as he felt the burning cum rise inside of him in a fierce stream.

Licking the end of his engorged head, she commanded, “Eat and watch!” He put the last scallop in his mouth and started to chew, while bellowing, as streams of white jizz blasted across her face and into her hair and down across her breasts. She was laughing and licking and drinking and rubbing him all over her cheeks and chin as he took his last, choking, swallow, then fell back onto the table.

And, Then

2009-10-13T17:22:00.001-07:00

She took the plate and placed it behind her, then moved toward him, to the edge of the table. “Now, fuck me,” she ordered, spreading her legs further.

She reached behind her and grabbed a scallop and handed it to him. He untied his pajama bottoms and let them fall to the floor as he stood and placed the helmet of his cock against the opening that pulsed and smacked and licked him in. He placed the ball of white meat against his lips and eased into her.

“Don’t finish, until I do,” she purred.

She watched him, watched each tiny nibble and the flexing of his jaws as he savored the tender flesh. With each grinding, tearing, shearing movement of his teeth, he thrust into her. Small bite, after small bite, after small bite. He measured his meal with the rhythm of her breathing and the meeting push of her hips. She watched, her eyes open. She watched the flex of his stomach, the smirk on his lips, the oceanic depth of his gaze. She watched the length of him withdraw, then disappear into her. He ate and she sucked him into her, then released him until she could take it no more.

Suddenly, the tension inside of her released like the tectonic plates of the earth. One edge slid under another and the waves of energy exploded, flooding the coastlines of her pussy in one huge deluge. She threw her head back, violently, and threw her breasts into the air as he took one last gulp of seafood and rammed into her body with full force.

The Hike

2009-10-12T12:31:00.000-07:00

What is with you, on this hike
Is what you will see:
Bullet holes of autumn leaves
Lifeless heads of oak galls
Broken bones of ancient trees.
Unleash the grip and enter
Open-palmed, unsheltered eyed
And naked hope unfolds
Rebirthing in the scattered flesh
Multiplied and Gorgon-like
Spreading like noxiousness
In fields of the damned to take
Over the path you chose
Not to take, the red flowers
Being
simply
what they are.

License

2009-10-08T21:22:00.001-07:00

It was not until he said to search
That she did, without the labor
Of doubting what he’d said
Thinking that the coldness
In the rooms was expected
Of the servitude of her marriage
That the unwashed dish bore
Testament, the folded shirt
A shameful story forever told.

In a sudden breath, after
The punch of daily worry
Was swept into the blast
She stood on the remainder
Of life’s edge, outstretched
In the flooding warmth her feet
Barely touching earth
Heart barely touching.

The Next Bite

2009-10-05T12:31:00.000-07:00

He chewed that last bite, savoring all that she had offered. “Take a drink,” she said. “Then, lick my clit.”

He sipped the champagne, eyeing the feast that was, literally, spread before him. The tender light of the candle glowed off her naked crotch. He was led toward the light, like a moth. His lips and tongue touched the fire and came back for more. She was ambrosia, addiction, lust, greed. Her body was his.

She wanted torture. She wanted to be led down a long path of discovery, to burst out of a deep mountain tunnel into the light of a secret valley. When the muscles of her inner thighs tightened, she directed him to take a bite of the second scallop. He did as he was told, tasting her as he tasted the sweet meat of the ocean. She watched the muscles of his jaw as he chewed, watched the dimples in his cheeks, the movement of his lips, the piercing gaze of his dark eyes. When he swallowed that first bite, she moved a little closer toward him. “Make me cum,” she ordered.

Her clit stood rigid against its hood, engorged with senses. When his tongue made contact, she moaned and threw her head back. She thought of water and sun and touch. She fantasized of hard cocks surrounding her, brushing up against her like fish. She felt the rain of cum upon her opened body, and heard the pulsing cries of man after man. His tongue on her was even, relentless, insistent. It forced the air in her lungs out of her. It forced the gripping spasms of her vagina to push and suck and push and suck and push and suck, until she erupted.

There were bruises on the inside of her knees when she stopped flailing. Her stomach lurked with every post-coital slurp across the head of her shameless clit. He backed off to allow her to breathe, and marveled at her beauty; all the sensuous curves and angles of her nakedness, made him hard against the silk. He rubbed the head of his cock, gently. His balls were moving, positioning, getting ready.

“You may finish that one,” she offered. He did.

Celebration

2009-10-04T18:48:00.001-07:00

The round, plump, oval offerings of flesh sat before him. Lightly seared on the outside, but tender and sweet on the inside, they rested in a pool of lemon and clarified butter, a single sprig of watercress inviting his mouth. To the side, a tall glass of champagne, dry and bubbly, fizzing about the contours of a single strawberry. She had given him four scallops, one for each orgasm to come. He sat there in silk pajama bottoms, a plate of delicacy before him, a single candle lighting the room, waiting. She entered naked and walked behind him. Bending down, she whispered in his ear, “I have waited fifteen years for this. Please do what I say.”

She circled around and crawled up onto the table top. The flickering light of the candle licked her auburn skin, reflecting off her like dusky mountain light in a pan of gold flakes. She draped her legs over opposite sides of the table, opening her sex to him like another seafood entrée. “Take a sip of your drink, my love,” she ordered in a voice sultry, yet insistent. He did, as he watched her lean back and start rubbing her olive-oiled clit. His impulse was to follow the champagne with a nice bite of scallop, but she had other plans. When he reached for his fork, she stopped him.

“Rub my pussy with one of those,” she purred. “I want to add some special sauce.”

He did as he was directed, picking up a mound of buttery flesh and rubbing its warmth across her swelling clit and down into the opening into her well. He coated his meal with her offering. She threw her head back, her hair falling nearly to the table behind her. Her smooth belly rose and fell in the candlelight; her nipples pointed toward the ceiling. He withdrew the morsel from her and was about to pop it into his mouth when she looked into his eyes and directed, “Take a small bite.”

He did. She ran her fingers across her butter, lemon, garlic coated labia and masturbated in front of him as he chewed the soft meat of the scallop, tasting her. “Please, do that again,” she said, leaning back. He did as he was told. “Take another bite,” she commanded, as her breathing became more ragged and her hand wanted to travel across her pussy more insistently. He took another bite. The scallop was slathered with her. Her fingers dove into her body, emerging and diving, emerging and thrusting, emerging and pounding. “Do it again,” she commanded.

She arched back onto her elbows. He rubbed her clit with what remained of the first quarter of his supper. Her knees clenched the edges of the table and her toes curled as she yelled out in orgasm, washing his food with her cum.

“You can eat that, now,” she said, after the waves of her pleasure subsided. He did.

Human Sexuality 101: The Tongue & The Clit

2009-09-24T12:18:00.001-07:00

The tongue is composed of skeletal muscle covered by a mucous membrane. It is studded with receptors called taste buds. The four basic or primary tastes are sweet, sour, bitter and salty. Salty and sweet tastes are detected by taste buds at the tip of the tongue.

The clitoris is a small mass of erectile tissue that projects into a region of the vulva known as the vestibule. It rests like a little secret between the legs of my lover. It enlarges during sexual arousal. It gets so hard that it resembles one of her nipples. It wants to be suckled by the small child that is my mouth.

The labia majora (major lips) are two elongated folds of skin that encircle and partially conceal the labia minora (minor lips) and structures of the vestibule, like the clitoris. Fluid secreting glands provide secretions into the inner surface of the labia majora and lubricate them. The fluid is a cornucopia of flavors. Fruit and seaweed, chocolate and cinnamon, blood and cum.

When the skeletal muscle of the tongue contacts the major lips, minor lips, vestibule or clitoris, the fluid secreting glands wash the mucous membrane of the tongue with sweet and salty flavors. The taste buds convert chemicals to electric energy which flows to the brain and induces the production of dopamine, a neurohormone. Dopamine is associated with the “pleasure system” of the brain, providing feelings of enjoyment. It motivates a person to perform certain activities. Dopamine is the brain’s way of rewarding the tongue for licking the clit. It motivates me to drive my lover to heights of ecstasy, to make her legs shake and flail, to makes her buttocks clench, to make her yell like a female wolf in heat.

And this, my children, is our science lecture for today.

Tree Whore

2009-09-22T17:29:00.000-07:00

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

She buckled, then stood and concentrated. She wanted to be wet. She wanted to pour. She squeezed her insides, trying to make the cum stream out of her. She didn’t know it, but streams of liquid already dribbled down the insides of both legs.

He had led her to the tree. It was a perfect tree, straight and sunlit. It was “her” tree he said, as he ran his hands along the rough bark. He tied her to it, hands behind her, ankles spread. Her back and buttocks pressed into the trunk as he wound the scarf around her head, blocking her sight.

He stood back and admired her. Her auburn hair stirred, gently, in the mountain air. The sun flowed across her tanned breasts like olive oil. Her smoothly-shaved pussy arched away from her flat stomach, standing like a golden hill at the end of a flat plain. Her legs, strong and muscular, tensed and released in anticipation. She gasped when he touched her with his hand. He ran it, from her slightly parted lips to her thigh. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out the clamps. First, the left nipple, then the right. The clamps were tight and painful. She took a deep breath, then groaned. He kissed her.

The sun poured over her, the wind “shushed” in the soft needles overhead. The bottoms of her feet rested in pine duff. Every once in awhile, an ant scurried across the top of a foot. Her nipples ached, her pussy drew all of her attention. It was the center of everything. She secretly hoped someone was crouching in the weeds, watching her. She secretly hoped men were stroking their cocks in the bushes. She was leaking without being touched.

He took out the soft flogger and whipped her with it. The leather stung her thighs, then her stomach, then her pussy. With each strike, she lurched. With each strike, she wanted more. With each strike, her knees became weaker, her breathing shallower. Harder and harder the blows came, until her stomach was red and tight. Then, he stopped and licked her nipples, tenderly, circling around the clamps. He reached between her legs.

“You aren’t even wet,” he said, as he slapped her clit. She recoiled in pain, her legs shaking.

“Yes, I am!” she whimpered.

He slapped her harder. “No! You’re not even wet.”

He reached into her sopped crotch. The cum coated his fingers. Her clit was huge, as hard and insistent as his cock. He rubbed it slowly, spreading her delirious liquor all over its rigid head. With one hand, he masturbated her. With the other, he pulled on the chain of the nipple clamp, stretching her nipples to the breaking point. Her toes dug into the earth, her ass ground into the tree, her fingers clenched. He sensed all of this and increased the tempo of his rubbing, his maddening rubbing.

He felt the head of her clit erupt from its hood. This is where he focused his attention. He pulled on the clamps and pressed his flicking fingers into her, harder, harder, harder. When the clamps snapped off of her nut-hard nipple, she came, screaming. Her legs buckled and she slid down the trunk of the tree, scraping her back against the ragged bark. Her legs shook involuntarily. Spasms wracked her abdomen and ass and thighs. She envisioned the men in the bushes squirting their loads into the air. She remembered his cock in her throat. She wanted to be seen like this, her shining pussy thrust shamelessly into the forest air.

Speed

2009-09-14T20:39:00.001-07:00

She liked speed, the movement of body through space. The faster, the better. The wilder, the wetter. Put her in a convertible and she was a rocket. On a bike, she screamed. But, it wasn’t ‘til she met Billy that she really appreciated speed; the really slow kind, the roll across the open space kind, the no-care-even-with-your-eyes-closed kind.

They’d gone to the desert, the salt flats, the playa, the dried-out lake bed, to search for lizards and dust devils. The windows were open, the air was hot and dry. She sprawled out naked on the passenger side, bottle of whiskey in hand. He chased the wisps of dust around while burying his left hand in the crease between her legs.

He stopped the car and got out. She didn’t know what he was doing, but she got out, too. “Go ahead, run,” he said. He had the camera on “video.” She ran across the desert, giggling, arms outstretched and flapping in the warm wind. She ran, then twirled, laughing. She was a sprite, a fairy, an angel. He could do nothing but smile behind the camera lens, knowing that the spirit he was capturing was timeless. Her exuberance and joy flew into the depth of his soul. Even without the wonders of technology, he would remember this moment forever.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I think I see a dust devil!”

He climbed into the driver’s seat and she plopped in beside him, huffing from the frolic. He started the truck and pointed it to the north, toward the far side of the vacant horizon. He put the transmission on cruise control and ordered her to the top of the truck, through the sunroof. She climbed up and out and rode on top, the air flowing through her mud-caked desert hair. Her nipples stood in the sun like antennae, soaking in the radiation like lightning rods. He stood in the driver’s seat as the truck rolled across the playa without a driver, and dove between her legs. She leaned back, feeling the rush of wind across her body and the flicking of his tongue on her clit.

The speed was perfect. Her body, moving through space, came in waves on the top of the truck. She closed her eyes, unafraid of the unknown, and let it rip.

Playa Porch

2009-09-11T15:17:00.001-07:00

They climbed the steps and on to the porch. The moon was full and the wind blew dust through their hair. The porch was no ordinary porch; the house to which it was attached no ordinary house. The house was a museum, a memento, a showpiece, a slice in time. It was dark-paneled and decorated with aging photographs and rickety tables and pieces of the nineteenth century. The porch was a dish-shaped extension, filled with throw pillows, lined with wind-whipped blankets, open to the stars and moon. They had explored this place earlier in the week. It seemed to suit their desires. On this night, as expected, it was vacant.

They were naked in the warm playa air, except for shoes worn to protect the feet from the caustic dust of the lakebed. He went first, leading the way up the stairs and onto the porch. She followed, the dampness between her legs building. He sat down; she sat beside him. He turned to kiss her. She spread her legs to his hand. The slick folds opened and his fingers easily found their mark. She groaned into his open mouth as he touched her clit. She leaned against his shoulder as the tension built inside of her, draining all energy from every other part of her body. He rubbed her, grabbed her, flicked her, slid across her, driving her, driving her, driving her.

Suddenly, he stopped. “Stand,” he ordered. She did. “Put your hands behind your head,” he directed. She did. “Don’t move,” he commanded. She stood there, in the moon, the wind brushing her erect nipples and cooling the thick stream of liquid between her legs. He reached between her legs and rubbed her juice all over her labia and inner thighs. “Whore,” he said, as he slapped her breasts, one after another. As the momentary pain subsided, he drove his fingers deep into her pussy, rubbing her spot, making her thrust. Then, he stopped and slapped her tits, once, twice, three times in quick succession. She gasped and groaned as his hands dove between her legs again. He rose to kiss her and, as he did, his slapped her crotch. It stung and she inhaled his breath into her lungs. Then, he crouched and lashed at her throbbing clit with his tongue. She forgot his orders and lowered her hands to his head.

“Keep your hands behind your head,” he barked. He stood and struck out at her swollen pussy, slapping her again and again. She squealed in pain as he drove his tongue deep into her mouth. Then, he bent down again and licked her furiously, almost driving her over the edge. When he knew she was about ready to unleash upon him, he stopped. “Turn around,” he ordered. She did. “Bend over.” She did.

His cock entered her from behind and they fucked like beasts beneath the rutting moon. He drove into her, spewing and bellowing, as she screamed into the playa air, collapsing into a heap after the last spasm in her gut subsided. They cuddled on the porch, after that, their hands tracing the contours of their love.

Camp

2009-08-28T16:20:00.000-07:00

He woke up next to her feet. Her small toes rested against his cheek. He could smell the alkaline dust on her ankles and the down-soft scent of his dried saliva. Instinctively, uncontrollably, his lips made their way to the smallest toe. About as big as a lima bean, it popped into his mouth. He suckled, his tongue swirling around it, dipping into the tender web of flesh between it and the next toe. Two toes entered his mouth, just as her body stirred. His hand moved along the inside of her leg, slowly. She moaned and spread her legs automatically, as if he had just touched some secret button to some secret chamber. His tongue ran along the bottoms of her toes. He took each one into his mouth, sucking each pad and joint into wet warmth. Her fingers explored the deep and puffy folds of her pussy as she lay there in the tent, listening to the sounds of the camp in its awakening. A cool current flowed through the opening of the tent and across her tingling nipples. Lazily, teasingly, she masturbated, watching his cock grow and twitch in the diffuse morning light. He continued his sucking and licking and slurping, sending electric jolts of pleasure deep into her gently thrusting crotch. The smell of fresh camp coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the tent as she arched her back and came on her glistening fingers. He rose up on one elbow, took her hand and licked it clean. Smiling, he whispered, “Good morning.”

Madness

2009-08-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

It doesn’t take much, sometimes. A breeze through the window flowing across his naked balls can set him off. It brings back the scene of his cum splashing across her eyelashes. The sound of a jingling dog collar out on the sidewalk will make him hard. It reminds him of the jingling of his own collar and the feel of that long, smooth, dildo pumping into him in front of her girlfriends. Sometimes, it will just be the scent of vanilla that causes his buttocks to flex, involuntarily. It recalls the sight of her pissing into the banana bread batter. The taste of onion salt makes him catch his breath. The sight of her rubbing his cock and balls with her medium rare steak, before devouring it, was almost too much. These momentary lapses keep happening, with increasing frequency. They threaten to become the central purpose of his entire existence; to relive each wad-blowing moment of his life with her. Sometimes, he thinks he must be going mad. Nothing can be so good. Just when he thinks he is back in control, she reappears, drenched in jism, quivering beneath him, bucking on top of him, swallowing him whole, clenching his squirting nuts, screaming, whipping her hair, pounding her fists, kicking her legs in all directions. Is this a curse, or a gift? Is she satan, or an angel? Is she going to kill him, or breathe life into him just to kill him again? His nostrils and his cock flare with animal lust with the sight or smell or sound of her. Her touch is almost too much, almost too incendiary, almost too painful. But, he needs her as he needs the air. This is his destiny; she is his destiny. He will close his eyes, hold out his hand and allow her to lead him where she will.

Hiccup

2009-08-22T19:58:00.001-07:00

We’ve been like this for hours. I can’t stand it. I can’t move. Neither can she. She’s suspended above me, like a sack of potatoes. Only her hole, only that entry into another universe, only that streaming pulsar of her body is touching me. It touches me in one place. I am strapped to the bed; hips, legs, feet, arms, chest, head utterly unable to flinch or twitch or thrust. The head of my aching cock rests just inside the clenching muscles of her pussy. She hangs there, above me, dripping. When I involuntarily squeeze the muscles deep within my loins, the head of my dick expands and rubs against the inner walls of her vagina. She squeezes back. That is our conversation. The cum boils up the length of my rod until it spills out and runs out of her. Her juice leaks, like a slow spring, around the head of my cock and runs into the pool that has gathered beneath my straining balls. We are suspended like this, unable to move our hips, unable to drive into each other. She just hangs there, breathing hard, her pussy grabbing at my helplessly rigid tool. I just lie there, each heartbeat a pulse that goes right to the head of my dick. We are cumming. We have been cumming for hours. It’s just this insanely maddening slow leak of juice. My cock aches. My stomach is worn. The cum seems to be pouring out of me, even though I know it’s not. We are having a glacial orgasm. It is one, long, huge, expanding, cosmic, exploding orgasm that will re-create the world in which we live. Suddenly, she hiccups, her stomach muscles contract, she bounces in her harness, my cock spews all of the life of the universe into her and it runs, in cascading rivulets, down the length of my vomiting rod. The muscles relax, I drop out of her and fall asleep.

The Eroticism of Green

2009-08-09T13:51:00.000-07:00

Vibrations shy of blueness
In the thirsty blankness
Of arid lifelessness
In leaves and grasses
It is this bed of wishes
In which we lie like dishes
Waiting for delicious
Luscious richness
Thrusting in mosses
The rushing freshness
Of our budding sighs

A Distinctive Woody Shrub

2009-08-04T19:00:00.000-07:00

“Rosemary is a distinctive woody shrub, Rosmarinus officinalis, that grows in the dry Mediterranean scrublands, with leaves so narrow and tightly rolled that they look like pine needles. It has a strong, composite scent, made up of woody, pine, floral, eucalyptus, and clove notes. In southern France and Italy it traditionally flavors grilled meats, but it can also complement sweet dishes.”
--On Food and Cooking, The Science and Lore of The Kitchen, Harold McGee.

Eating the Piney Dew
--BAK

Rosemary. Why did her parents give her that name? Rosmarinus, “dew of the sea.” Why am I eating her, now. The dangerous alleyways, the filthy brick walls where I buried my hand in her poured-on jeans and found her damp bud; I think of this when the greasy lamb passes my lips. I think of her wild black hair, framing her olive skin, ringlets across her rising breasts, pink blossoms beneath her feet. Fences, train cars, garbage bins, bridges, swings in the park, high rise windows -- our playground when we were in high school. But, her name and her flavor were of wilderness. Rosemary, my forest, my tree whore, my penetrating flower…why did she leave me?

Perhaps it was the idea of her that, in fact, drove me away from her. The scent of her drove me away, to search for the primal essence of her amongst the rocks and flowers so far from where we grew up. Pine, clear in the snows of mountains, rubbed between my fingers; clove, cinnamon, pressed into my orange-rind skin; eucalyptus, the oils swimming across my skin: the heady, delirious, intoxicating idea of her made me leave. I wanted her as I drove out of the city, and I knew I would find the totality of her and the depth of who she was in the gardens of my culinary travels.

And so, now, I am eating her again and again. Her strong scent, her tightly rolled form, her narrow body is fodder for my lips and salivating mouth. I am eating her name. I am eating Rose and I am eating Mary. I am eating both of them and all of her, a thin memory of drool running down my bare chest. I savor her bitter parts and her emerald whole, her bouquet of swirling smell and sharp strong bite. My hand reaches for her again and again, rubbing her, releasing her, releasing her pungent delicious odor. She has become me. In her leaving, in my banishment to the dark woods, I have found obsession and craving and unrelenting hunger.

Hungry? Cum into my Kitchen.

Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp
Adapted from Contessa (Naughty slut)

12 ounces of fresh, juicy, well-endowed, uncooked, shrimp (prawns)
Freshly ground black pepper, long in its hardened orbs
1 T. of fresh Rosemary (harvested naked at dawn, while the dew is glistening and licking the toes), chopped
Balsamic vinegar
10 strips of marbled bacon, cut in half-lengths, before erection
Bleu cheese, rich and acrid

Steps:

Strip naked and preheat broiler
Put Michael Franks' "Barefoot on the Beach" on the sound system
Liberally apply virgin olive oil to skin
Pour a cool glass of rosemary/lime-infused Bombay gin

Place shrimp on baking sheet and sprinkle with black pepper, balsamic vinegar and rosemary
Wrap each shrimp, individually and lovingly, with half strip of bacon and secure with sprig of rosemary
Broil for about 3 minutes on each side, while dancing
Serve, with sprinkle of bleu cheese and a smile

______________________

Rosemary is a flowering shrub that has contributed its leaves and stems to many aphrodisiac recipes. Oil from its leaves and flowers have been added to love potions and perfumes. Bouquets of rosemary, “emblematical of manly virtues,” were once presented to bridegrooms on their wedding mornings, and bridal beds are still bedecked with the flowers, in some European countries, to ensure conjugal bliss. The herb has a very old reputation for improving memory and has been used as a symbol for remembrance. Shakespeare had Ophelia present a bunch to Hamlet, to remind him of their meeting on St. Valentine’s Day.

Rosemary has been used as a love charm, in Europe, since the Middle Ages. Newly wed couples would plant a branch on their wedding day. If the branch grew, it was a good omen for the union. Placing a sprig under the pillow, at night, will ward off witches and repel nightmares.

Which….brings us to our discussion topic: What foods do you fix for a lover as a special act of love?

Thanks, ladies and gents, for stopping by for another Sunday Spice adventure, organized by Donna George Storey and Marina St. Clare

Here's the rest of the lineup!

8/16 Emerald
—poppy seeds

8/23 P.S. Haven
Haven—salt

8/30 A luxurious adieu!

Liquid

2009-07-30T16:11:00.001-07:00

One drop.

Within the universe of that drop, the nerve ending of every nerve ending of every nerve. It slid, thick and oily, upon its random path, lighting small fires as it went, until it fell, releasing the hurricane that blew her arms and legs like flags in a storm. And, into the storm he swooped, wrapping her sinews about his wings, drawing her out into a pulsating stream of plasm that fell, in one golden drop, upon his screaming lips.

Pastorale

2009-07-28T15:37:00.001-07:00

They went to this place often. The old corral, weather worn and dilapidated, stood off the dirt road, in the field of magenta and lemon-colored wildflowers. Red damsel flies and rusty-hued butterflies darted about. The waist tall grasses, even in early summer, were tinder dry and snapped beneath their feet. They walked quietly, absorbing the sun and the passion of their fantasies. The corral, a broken jumble of unpainted wood grain and sagging rafters, stood like a skeleton in the field. Open floorboards creaked and tipped beneath their bare feet. It was here, in the dappled light, in the ancient smell of horse shit, lichen and rotting timbers that they fucked like horses, like swallows, like rattlesnakes, like cicadas, like every animal that ever fucked. Then, they left, the evidence of their meeting drying in the high desert air.

Erotic Defined

2009-07-20T11:36:00.000-07:00

There are times when words are not required or effective.

The Beginning

2009-07-14T17:54:00.001-07:00

She fell asleep.

When she woke up, she couldn't move. The soles of her bare feet pointed east toward the rising sun. Her outstretched arms felt the last of the cool evening air as it was drawn away and up the flank of the mountain. Beneath her nude buttocks, the hardpan earth; above her naked breasts, the sucking sky. The first arrow point of sunlight that shot over the eastern escarpment impaled her pussy, pinning her to the desert floor like a butterfly. It radiated up her toes, up the insides of her splayed thighs and into the depths of her shameless womb. Her nipples, round and stiff and icy, soaked up the sunlight until they started to burn like candles, releasing her scent into the rising waves of air. Her wrists and ankles were secured tightly to the earth. Her hair entwined in the cement-hard soil held her head in place. She did not remember how long she had been in this place. She waited as the sun ejaculated over her sensitive skin.

She heard him before she saw him. The way the dust swished and scuffed told her that he was barefooted. He approached from behind her head and she really never saw his face. What she saw, looking upward, was two towering legs that ended in a heavy ball sac and a strong rigid cock. She could only watch as he stroked above her. She could only watch as his full nuts swung above her in rythym with his pumping fist. She could only watch as the bulbous head expanded and he shot cum all over her naked, immobile, body. Then, he left.

She lay there, rivulets of jism tickling the sides of her chest as they ran down her to drip onto the desert floor. She could smell the sweet pungent odor of his sperm as it baked and dried on her brown skin. The scent made her wet, made her ache. Lost in the aroma, she barely noticed the others. They stood, crouched, kneeled, bent above her. Men of all shapes and colors, all beating their meaty cocks above her freely offered body. So many cocks. They kept cumming on her. They coated her body with white thick streams of life. Some men pissed on her, some women did, too. Some women planted their crotches above her lips and squirted their juices over her face and hair. She glistened and sizzled and popped and fried in the blistering desert sun, covered with sex, sweat and pee. She was animal, she was earth, she was the chalice into which life poured. She took it all; it kept coming. The ground beneath her became mud; she sunk into it, becoming part of it. She was all woman and every woman who had ever sprawled, crawled, sat or walked upon the planet.

As the sun dipped below the western edge, the air chilled and drew her nipples up and nearly off her chest. She was planted. The roots of her sunk deep into the playa and spread in a fairy ring about her. She should have been uncomfortable in the cold, but the heat of her growing, dividing, splitting glowed within her. Dried cum flaked off her shell and blew into the baked and cracked mud of the ancient lake bed. With each puff of wind, she became warmer, incubating the fertile eggs of humanity's passion. She lay there, under a buck moon, her tendrils weaving flesh in every direction.

In the morning, when the sun's return flowed like melted butter across the desert, the crop was illuminated: bone hard cocks, rolling balls, obscenely open pussies, upward-arching asses, rising nipples, undulating breasts, gaping mouths, grasping fingers, curling toes. A sea of sex, in all directions, flowed across the playa from her firmly-rooted form. As the sun climbed higher, a wonderfully sloppy symphony of sex escalated toward collective climax. The cocks waved like poppies in the breeze; the pussies pulsed and gaped and leaked like squeezed lemons. Women gathered and squatted on the cocks, licked the pussies; men wrapped the grasping fingers around their cocks or shoved their members into open holes of every size; women sucked nipples; men fucked assholes. No combination of joy was overlooked. All day, the sweat and piss and saliva and cum of humanity spilled and pumped and spewed around her, as she sank further and further into the mud. By nightfall, she had become like her children, the holes into which life poured, and from which life and joy spread.

Butter

2009-07-13T19:51:00.000-07:00

"Could you pass me the butter, please?" she asked, barely looking up from the counter. She was, after all, very busy with her fingers. In her left hand, a nine-inch blade; in her right, an onion.

I couldn't figure out what she needed with the butter, but she was gloriously naked and I was not about to question her motive. I set the butter dish next to her hip, grazing her curve with my fingertips as I watched her dice the onion. With a deft move, hardly interrupting the rythym of the knife, she dipped two fingers of her right hand into the long slab of daffodil-hued fat and scooped up a glob of the tasty oil. She spread the thick delicious butter, liberally, across her bare chest, from nipple to nipple, then turned to face me. "Lick it off," she ordered.

Her breasts, oh her breasts! Those muffins, those dinner rolls, those perfect butterhorns sitting high on her ribs, advertising their brash availability, screaming for lips! There they were, singing to me, butter nearly dripping off the nipples. Her hands were planted on the counter behind her. She offered her tits to me like a couple of hot croissants, steaming out of the oven. Voraciously, I dined, licking the thick oil off her as if she were a quickly-melting swirl of vanilla ice cream on a sweltering Midwestern summer's day. I licked everywhere, and fast, under the dough-soft curves of her tits, over the tops, around the sides, then all over those crouton-hard nipples. I licked until I was nearly delirious with butter and flesh.

She watched, approving. Her stomach tightened and her pussy pulsed. She rocked, gently, on her bare feet, her toes gripping at the hard, cool, linoleum floor. She loved me, she loved how I worshipped her. I did. She watched my tongue, the way its muscular searching dented the skin that stretched across her chest. She watched my forehead, my eyebrows, my nose, my fluttering eyelids, my eyes, the smirk on my face. When I sucked a buttery button into my mouth, she noticed the dimple in my cheek that always signaled devious intent, and fun. By the time the butter had been lapped up, replace by a thin coating of my saliva, she felt weak. But, she wasn't. She turned around toward the counter, forked a tablespoon of butter into the frying pan, then swept the chopped onion off the cutting board and into the pan on the stove. Into that she tipped a bowl of chipped beef. As the butter melted and flowed, on low heat, she stirred the beef and onions together, mixing the sweet salty pungent flavors together into a complementary whole. The kitchen swelled with the scent of a home.

She turned toward the butter on the counter. It accepted her fingers. Again, they shoved into the softening mass and pulled away, dripping with grease. They dropped into her bare crotch, spreading the golden oil from hole to clit. She glistened in the soft light of the kitchen. "Lick it off," she commanded.

I, of course, fell to my knees, praying before the shining flesh that she thrust, wantonly, in my face. Again, she placed both hands on the counter behind her, to steady herself. She spread her smooth legs and pressed her pelvis out toward my searching tongue. She pushed toward me as if her hard clit was as long as my cock, as if she could press it deep into my throat. Her butter-slathered button stood out like a escargot, warm and wet. Escargot in cum and white wine.

My face was covered in pussy butter as she raised up on her toes, poised to dissolve in wracking orgasm. Suddenly, however, she remembered the chipped beef and onions. The concoction had to be tended to. I was left there, on my knees, face drenched, as I watched her step away to the stove. As she stirred, I stroked my cock. As she stirred, I stood and slathered butter over my cock and balls until they slid away from my fingers. As she stirred, I spread her glorious ass cheeks, slathered butter around the opening to her body and drove into her. She stirred onions and chipped beef as I spewed into her, and her screams flew up the oven vent and through the roof.

Ranch Dressing

2009-07-03T11:42:00.000-07:00

The truck eased to a stop, just shy of the dirt road turn-off. Without a word, he opened the driver’s door and got out. She watched him as he walked around the front of the truck, dust swirling about him. He opened the passenger door. “Get out, whore,” he ordered, the slightest of smiles etching across his rugged, sun-baked, face. Dutifully, she stepped down out of the cab, her delicately polished toes dropping like blood into the soft dirt. As ordered, she had worn, only, a thin cotton cropped t-shirt and her tiny ragged denim cutoffs.

“Turn around,” he ordered. She turned her back to him. Instantly, he grabbed her left wrist and slapped a metal cuff around it. He brought her right wrist around behind her and snapped the hard steel around it. The wetness started to seep out between the folds of her pussy, coating the thin strip of rough cloth that ran between her legs. She stood there, hands secured behind her back, her hardening nipples lifting the skimpy t-shirt off her skin. He reached around and gave them a strong pinch, nearly making her knees buckle. Deftly, he wound the blindfold around her head, tying it tightly. He turned her around. “You’re gonna be a good whore, aren’t you?” he said, running his strong hands down her hips. She almost whimpered when she answered, “Yes.”

He slowly unbuttoned the top of her shorts. “Tell me what you’re gonna be,” he ordered. “A good whore,” she gasped, as he yanked her shorts off. “Damn right,” he said, as he slapped her bare ass. He lifted her into the truck, picked her shorts up out of the dust, then closed the door. She sat, waiting, her wetness soaking into the biege leather.

He climbed into the truck and turned onto the dirt road. The windows were down and the building heat of the morning caressed her ribs and tummy and naked crotch. The road was rough, but he drove slowly. He drove silently. She could feel his dark intensity from where she sat. His strength controlled her. She would do anything for him. It seemed like they had driven an hour when the truck finally came to a lurching halt. He shut the engine off. The air was dry and hot and quiet. The muscles in her inner thighs twitched in anticipation. She could hear him open his door and get out, could hear his boots scuffing around the front of the truck, could hear the latch on her door being pulled and the soft clunk of metal as the door swung open. Cool air rushed over her legs and feet.

He lifted her out of the seat, his thick strong arms cradling her as he set her down, gently. A warm duff of juniper needles, dried sage and dusty dung cushioned her feet. He pulled her head to his chest. He had taken off his shirt. The smell of his skin drove her wild. “What are you gonna be?” he asked, his deep voice resonating through his chest wall. “A good whore,” she answered weakly. He stroked her hair with his large hands. “Yes,” he growled, “you will.”

He put an arm around her small body and led her to a long, low, branch that reached out under an ancient juniper tree. The gnarled branch arched behind her head. He grabbed her long, ropey, hair and twisted it around the branch. He wound a rope around it, tightly, so that her head was securely tied to the branch. A thin streak of cum dribbled down the inside of her leg. She stood there, waiting, tied to a tree with her hands behind her back and her chest heaving. She heard the thin snap of a jackknife and felt the cool blade slide between her breasts. He started a small slit in the fabric, casually folded the knife and dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans, then ripped her t-shirt wide open. It fell off her shoulders and gathered in a wad behind her back. Then, he said something she would never forget, as long as she lived.

“She’s all yours, boys.”

Feels Like Home

2009-06-23T12:45:00.000-07:00

“Feels like home to me,” he said, as she eased onto him, her hair dangling in his face. There was a split second, when their flesh met and all the lights in the house went on. Then, it was nothing but the thick warmth of exotic carpets, the smell of vanilla and sugar from another room, the deep ringing sound of chimes in the summer breeze. None of that existed, of course. It was all in his mind. They were, after all, in a tent. The sleeping bags had been moved aside. Under his back, he felt the roots and bark and cones and pebbles of the forest floor. The rising sun made the yellow fabric of the tent glow. He was surrounded by light, and by her. The wood smoke from the night’s fire had permeated her hair. He breathed her in, the most erotic of incense. The sweat from their late night entanglement had dried on her chest. It was as sensual and maddening as any delicate oyster he had ever passed over his tongue. And here she was again, insatiable, taking him in long, slow, strokes, her eyes deepening with each wanting searching grabbing touch. He watched her, watched the sleepy happy lust in her face, the upturned wickedness of her smile. His hands ran over her like a warm winding brook in the sun, swirling in eddies and riffles across her flexing skin. The river next to the tent rushed over the changing earth while she rushed over his body, moving and shaping his chest and hips. Yes, this was home to him. This was the place he had wanted his entire life. She arched into the yellow light and he filled her with his joy and happiness while the china in the cupboards and the mirrors in the bathroom and the windows into his soul were shattered and lying on the floor, all the musty memories and discontent and barriers to the world, gone. Amidst those ruins, there in the forest, a new home; her.

Her Hair

2009-06-19T22:18:00.001-07:00

The thin line of her hair swam in the sweat on her stomach. It was there after the tossing of her head, the arching of her back, the deep gripping spasms of her abdomen. It was there to draw the boundary between her skin and her heart. It told her where his touch ended and she began. Sometimes, that was not an easy thing to know. When his chest was in her hands, and the wide cap of his cock rubbed against the door to her soul, she could not tell the difference between his flesh and hers. She drifted in warm clouds, verdant and emerald valleys below. The wind blew across her naked skin and lifted her in its arms. Every thought became like a tiny brilliant point of light in the darkness, and the point drove into her, again and again and again, raising her up until she felt weightless and free. When the white dove flew out of her mouth, it was her voice that it carried. And the mountain spring from within her burst, anointing his hardness with her love. And the hair, tangled in passion, fell like a protective web upon her, to hold her in, to keep her safe.

Feel

2009-06-15T14:56:00.000-07:00

Lie upon the bone earth. Feel it moving about the center of its soul, whirling about the life source, about the center of its galaxy, rushing through the universe. Feel it breathe and crack and flow. Feel the light reflecting off your naked membrane, seeping into you like love. Feel the lungs of the planet exhaling across you, inhaling your essence. You are a part of this just as surely as every heart that beats and every leaf that locks within itself the energy of existence.

Saturday Afternoon

2009-06-12T09:18:00.001-07:00

When he touched her skin, it was with the hot tip of his cock. Her hands, tied to the tree limb over her head, flexed and extended into the warm summer air. She wanted, so badly, to close her legs, to slide her labia over her engorged clit, but her ankles were spread and bound. With each light brush of his cock, she arched and thrust, her body craving more. He circled her in the sunlight, running his hard meat across the concavity of her back and the bone of her hip, along the gentle convexity of her belly.

When he touched her stiffened nipples, it was with the tenderness of his lips. He kissed her breasts, almost imperceptively, barely. Her breathing was sporadic and ragged, each breath forced out of her with the electric spark of each kiss. Thin lines of her wetness ran down the insides of her legs, cooling in the flowing breeze. She wanted his hands, his probing fingers, the smothering warmth of his body on her. She ached inside, anticipating the muscular thrust of his ass as he drove the long pole into her depths. Still, he kissed her and rubbed his cock against her. He kissed each dip and slope of her neck and shoulders. He kissed the satin underbelly of each breast. He kissed the firm terrain of her ass and the quivering lips of her open, groaning, begging mouth.

When he touched her clit, it was with the blinding, exploding, universe of his tongue.

Making Clothes

2009-06-08T21:51:00.000-07:00

“Here, put this on,” he said, with a grin. She did. Slipping the oversized t-shirt over her head, she smelled him, his scent, his essence, his sex. Her nipples reacted and her lungs filled. He ran his fingers along the front of the shirt, feeling where the comforting downslope of her breasts met the firm arch of her rib.

“Here,” he said. “Now, how do we mark it?” He searched around, keeping his fingers in place on her chest, looking for a marker or piece of tape or…sticky note! He ripped off a ubiquitous sticky note and spread it across the front of the shirt. This is where he would cut it. He reached for the scissors and held them in front of her. “Hold still, now,” he cautioned.

Using the sticky note as a guide, he plunged the point of the scissors through the thin fabric, careful not to injure the delicate skin of her chest. Then, he sliced along, just under her breasts. She could feel the blade gliding along her skin. She barely breathed. She crossed her legs, then opened them, the dampness beginning to build. He cut a straight…no, perfect…line under her breasts, then around the side. She stood straight and unmoving, as if she was tied to a tree, as the scissor blade ran along her back and around her side to meet the bottom swath of the t-shirt, where it dangled below one breast.

The tubular remains slid down to her waist and she was left with the shortened t-shirt, his old t-shirt, now hers. The air flowed in from the bottom and licked her nipples. When he finally set down the scissors and ran his hands up into the sweating valley between her breasts, she nearly fainted.

And Then

2009-06-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

"Did you cum?" she asked while straddling my face, dripping the white cream from her pussy onto my face. All I could see, from my vantage point, was her rose-colored swollen clit and the belly-soft undersides of her breasts. She moved her crotch above me, coating me with the product of our synchronized orgasms. I was tied to the bed, and had been for most of the afternoon. She had done it all to me. I was her toy, red and swollen and boiling, every muscle in my body exhausted from constant spasm and release, contraction and expansion. I had been rigid and flacid, sweating and chilled. Her soft spongy labia, swollen with desire, had left a trail from my toes to the top of my head. I had been coated in her sweetness, had felt the insistence of her nipples on my legs, balls, cock, stomach, chest and face. She smelled like every flower, fruit and pussy in the world. She had hovered over me like a bird of prey, all afternoon. The smooth glass dildo was her favorite tool. She massaged my insides, while sucking on me, building me to the point of constant, slow, seeping. When I finally filled her with the confection of my exploding cock, I screamed into her breasts, straining against my bonds. She bellowed into the air, her pussy sucking and pulling and gripping, spasmodically, with each thrust, until she collapsed onto my chest. She regained her breath, kissed me and fed me.

Lost & Found

2009-06-02T11:19:00.001-07:00

(Photo by David Rolin)

When he touched her, he lost his mind. There were nothing but radiant circles of vibrating molecules emanating from the tips of his fingers to tell him he was alive. He was alive in a bubble, swimming in clear oil, slick and shining. Everything flowed around him, parting to allow him into her. And, there, he was nothing but nerve, conduit for the electrical charge that was she. She moved along him like light, all waves and bursting energy. They swam together, alive together, vibrating in harmony, becoming... a new mind found.

Secret Garden

2009-06-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

Click, whir, click, whir... the camera spoke to her, guiding her to this place. "Oh, that's good," it said. "Marvelous, beautiful, sexy, awesome," it repeated, over and over. It was not just the roaming hands of her lover, the hot bulb of flesh between her lips, the thick magma flowing from her. It was not that she was in love or that his tongue drove her to heights of delirium. It was not the double-dare novelty of what she was doing at this point in her life. She had suddenly entered a new, unexplored, world, a secret valley full of naked men and tall ferns and flowers of intoxicating scent. The cacophonous calls of brilliantly colored birds rang in her ears. The flashing neon electric of butterfly wings blinded her. The moss was thick under her bare feet. The sun was pure and liquid on her skin. The air was sharp and bright. This was her Eden, the place she had only dreamed of. She was free and reborn, soaked with childish emotion. His cock inside of her led her to clear still pools and warm stones, in shaded groves of large leafy trees. His lips brushing across her nipples carried her into broad meadows of tall grass moving in orgasmic waves in the passing hand of the soft wind. She ran like a girl in this place, opening herself, laughing, squealing with sensual release, the camera gently recording it all. Click, whir, click, whir. "Marvelous, beautiful, sexy, awesome!"

To Feel

2009-05-27T09:38:00.000-07:00

To feel her stomach retch at the insistent plunging of his cock into the depth of her wanting throat; to feel the warm acid of her guts pour out of her mouth and onto her naked chest; to feel his hand rubbing her hot vomit all over her face before jamming his glistening dick back into her; to feel the grip of his hand on her lower jaw as he shot bullets of jism into her gagging mouth; to feel the crystal liquid of her desire tracing the inside of her thighs; to hear him howl like every animal in the world; to lick him clean as his contractions subsided; to growl with lustful abandonment; to live as one should.

Marked

2009-05-26T20:48:00.001-07:00

They walked up the old utility access road together. A cool spring breeze swished through the Douglas firs that towered like sentinels above them. The soft forest duff cushioned and quieted their steps. The sun shone uncharacteristically for a day in April. They were in search of a special place, a place to be alone in the sun. The road was not long, maybe a quarter of a mile, but it was enough to transport them out of the busy hustle of the highway into a world of their making. They wanted to sample the early spring sun, to spark the life of their cells with star energy. They wanted to make love in the open air, in the cool April breeze, overlooking the majesty of the Columbia Gorge. At the top of the overgrown road, still damp with winter’s moisture, was a tiny plot of ground, open to the slanting sun and surrounded by basaltic scree. It was nothing fancy, but it was theirs. They were alone. They were buzzing with desire.

He unfurled the blanket. The wind was stiff and cool. When she pulled the shirt over her head, her nipples became like pebbles in a mountain brook. When he pulled his pants off, his scrotum pulled into his body and all but disappeared. They undressed and fell upon the blanket, giggling in the realization of the bold insanity of it all. The sun was warm, but the air nearly cancelled out the warmth. Still, there they were, finally naked in the sun, wrapped together in love. They drank beer and took pictures and fucked and sucked and licked and kissed and ran their fingers through each others’ hair.

Suddenly, she announced that she had to pee. “Wait,” he said. “Do it on me.”

“Are you serious?” she asked. He had asked her before and, out of fun, she had pissed on his chest in the shower. But, out here? Out in the grass, in the open, in the sun? No one had ever asked her to do this. She was leaping with joy, inside. Never had she met such a man. He was an animal.

“Mark me,” he said with a wolfish grin. “I’m your territory.”

He reclined on his elbows, in the grass. “Piss on my head,” he ordered.

She straddled him and gazed off into the awesome beauty of the gorge. Seagulls arched and dove in the river wind and she could feel the same cold wind flowing across her tingling body. The stream was tentative, at first. It dribbled on to the top of his head and ran down the back of his neck. He reached up and soaked his hand and rubbed it across his face, breathing in the strong aroma of her. She saw his reaction and relaxed and the urine flowed easy from her. It sprayed out of her and down his face and across his chest. Soon, he was swimming in her currents. His body shone like a beautiful stone in the sun.

As soon as she was spent, he turned and smiled at her, piss dripping off his chin. “Your turn,” he said, with a large smile. “Really?” she asked, nearly leaping out of her sensual skin. He got up and said, “Sit here.” She did.

She leaned back, her legs splayed in front of her, and she felt the torrent of him pouring through her hair and over her face and down her breasts and into her open crotch. She was coated in the feral essence of him. When he was done, she pulled him to her and kissed him like she had never kissed him. With all of the power of instinct she pinned him to the ground and, piss dripping from her hair, drove her tongue into his throat, growling. Their soaked bodies ground into each other while the sun and wind dried the perfume of their sex onto their skins. They were forever marked, forever belonging.

My Turn

2009-05-21T19:57:00.001-07:00

Liza had a wicked smirk on her face as she sipped on her Bloody Mary. “I’m gonna make you scream,“ she crooned.

This was about day three. We had danced nearly all night. Andrea, Greg and Shawn had joined us. The warm, dry, air of the desert caressed our nearly naked bodies all night. With the chemical soup of alcohol, THC and “E” coursing through our brains, we moved through the dusty night like bats, bouncing off bodies and feeding off senses. We literally crawled into a pile of sweat and skin just as a peach slice of light crept over the eastern horizon.

So, here we were, four hours later, lapping up vodka-spiced tomato juice, warming our bodies in the rising sun, like lizards soaking up energy. “I’m gonna make you scream” was such an ominous threat, full of intensity and electricity and deadly intent. I knew she could do it.

“Stand up,” she ordered. I knew better than to argue. My balls grew tight as I stood. Something told me I was in for some fun. I stood. She dug around in the toy box and found the cuffs. She moved behind me and grabbed my hands, one at a time, and slipped the cuffs around my wrists. I stood there, naked, before her. She walked around me, running her fingers up and down my chest and across my ass, purring with approval as she moved. I admired her. She was strong and in control. She knew what she wanted. The radiant beauty of her confidence was overwhelming. She moved behind me. A few seconds passed and, then, my head was wrapped in a scarf and my sight was gone. Now, I could only move into my mind and wonder what was coming next. “Don’t move,” she said as she grabbed my cock and kissed me deeply. “I’ll be right back.”

I stood there, naked in the warming desert air, my skin alive with sensation, my ears straining to hear what Liza was up to. She came back, in what seemed like an eternity, and said, “Come with me.” She grabbed one arm and I stumbled along beside her as she led me to the sex gym (I knew we were going to do something on the structure). My mind and body buzzed with anticipation. The soft dust of the playa felt like hot talcum under my feet. The sun flowed across my skin like hot olive oil, falling into and across every nook and cranny, exposing my body. We reached the gym and Liza led me up onto the platform. The beam had been left over from the day before and I could feel its wood against my hips. Liza unlocked the cuffs and directed, “Bend over.” I complied and, as I did, I felt another set of hands grab one hand and direct it forward to be tied to a post. As that was happening, another set of hands tied a rope around my left ankle and then my right. After both hands were secured to posts in front of, and over my head, the ropes on my ankles were secured. There I was, bent over and tied and blindfolded. I was helpless. That is what Liza wanted.

I stood there, waiting, a cool lazy river of playa air flowing between my legs. In spite of the steady boom, boom, boom, boom of the techno beat of the gathering, everything seemed to be quiet and remarkably peaceful. A light, damp, touch of tongue on the very tip of my dangling cock sent a spark through me. My fingers arched and my toes curled, just a little. I could hear some shuffling in front of me and, soon, a pair of hands led my head into a very damp and earthy crotch. My tongue matched the rhythm of the tongue that circled the head of my cock. My mind was focused on my dick and the pussy that was spread in front of me. That is why it came as a bit of a shock when a finger went up my ass.

There I was, bent over at the waist, a slick cunt in my face and a warm mouth on my cock and a finger probing my ass. I was racing through the math. There was Liza, and Andrea and Greg and Shawn. Who was on my cock? Who was up my ass? Initially, I was concerned, but the feelings were so fucking good. After the initial consternation, I settled into a bubble of senses. Damn! Everything felt so good. The pressure was building inside my balls. The tip of my cock was tingling. Then, the mouth popped off the end and I was left dangling in the air.

The finger in my ass pulled out and things became quiet again. I still had the clit on my tongue and I licked it with abandon, listening to the moans of the woman who lay sprawled in front of me. I thought it might me Liza, but I couldn’t be sure. The geography felt similar. The skin was smooth and the clit was about what I’d come to know. I was busy trying to figure out who I was eating when the blunt end of a cock pressed against my anus. I tensed. I couldn’t believe someone was going to fuck my ass! But, my cock was hard and a slick pussy was in my face and I was tied up and immobile. The mushroom head popped inside of me. It burned, at first, and I groaned with pain and desire. Then, that long tube slid deep inside of me and I thought I’d collapse. I would have, if it hadn’t been for the crossbeam over which I was bent. The hot meat rubbed my prostate and it started flooding with semen. Still, my cock waved in the breeze, waiting and begging for attention. It didn’t happen.

I lapped at the pussy at my face, all the time being plunged into from behind. The sensation of the cum building inside of me was indescribable. The long, fleshy, tube plumbed my depths and, with each stroke, the liquid of my ejaculation flooded the labyrinth of tubes that ended at the tip of my straining dick. The rhythm in my ass escalated until, suddenly, the cock was pulled out and cum spilled all over my low back. It dribbled down the sides of my hips while the pussy at my lips flooded me with female cum. She wailed and I knew, at that point, that it was not Liza at the end of my tongue. She bucked and twisted while I kept up the onslaught. Finally, she relaxed and I drank her juices while the deep muscles in my loins settled and the warm liquid of my balls inched down the length of my semi-turgid organ.

Then, it was another cock. It took the place of the last one. It felt larger, but it just felt good. It pumped into me with craziness, like it was attached to a machine. The cum that had been building inside of me started to drip out of the end of my cock. With each thrust, a drop. Cum streamed out of me and drifted in the hot desert air, like a gossamer spider web. It flew through the air in thin wisps. Unbeknownst to me, it dripped into Liza’s mouth and drifted across her face. She was there, underneath me, waiting, coating herself with me. The pussy in front of my face beckoned. The cock in my ass was ready to burst. It pumped; I licked. He groaned; I groaned. Cum leaked out of my cock in a constant, agonizing, ecstatic, gut-wrenching stream. I had to explode, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t happen. There was just this excruciating, teasing, never-ending, aching, leak; a slow, inexorable, leak. The cock in my ass kept pumping, the clit at my tongue kept throbbing, the sticky cum from my balls kept filling the air, landing softly on Liza’s face.

Soon, the cock in my ass was pulled out and another load of cool cum sprayed across my ass. I thought I might get some relief. I thought that this was the end. I thought that someone would take my cock in their mouth and make me pass out with an earth-shattering orgasm. That didn’t happen. My ass was fucked for hours. Men fucked me. Women fucked me. Pussies changed places. I was tied and immobile and captive and a piece of fuck meat. Cum ran down my legs. A river of cum spewed out of the end of my cock, but I didn’t have an orgasm. I couldn’t until, finally, Liza gripped my balls in one hand and sucked me like a fiend, while a cock pumped deeply into my bowels. I screamed, just like she said I would. I screamed until my throat was raw. I screamed like I had just been fucked by every god that had been named. I don’t know who fucked me; I didn’t care.

Road Trip

2009-05-21T09:53:00.001-07:00

The road scraped across the simmering dryness like a pencil line. Dark volcanic escarpments, bleached in the sun and capped by sage and juniper, held back the rushing sky. He slowed down to steer onto a rough dirt track that twisted its way toward the base of Obsidian Butte. A mile off the highway, he rolled the truck to a stop, dust swirling, beneath a spreading juniper. Against the red and fraying bark is where she would stand, her small hands gripping the low branch above her head, her glass hard nipples at the beckoning of his lips and fingers. It was there, naked in the late morning stillness and rising heat, that she would thrust her bare mound toward the sun and howl like a coyote while his fingers flowed across her slick and steely clit. It was there that she would fall on her knees into the pine needle and cow dung duff and swallow him until she gagged, again and again, until he poured across her, an offering of life in the high desert.

Banana Bread

2009-05-11T17:17:00.001-07:00

The egg sat in the bowl, perfect in its daisy radiance, swimming in a slick halo of albumen. It was the visual music of life, it’s thin skin vibrating upon touch like the steel string of his guitar. He hated to destroy the peace of the moment, but the egg had some work to do with the oil and oat bran in the mixing bowl. The oil, of course, had experienced the length of his cock before dribbling into the bowl. The essence of him mixed well with the bran. Next, the wanton egg.

He took the simple spring egg beater and pummeled the egg into a light bubbling froth of light yellow. This was not done with anger, but with the love of creation. The fluff of protein and fat would hold everything together, would make a browned loaf fall out of the baking dish like a baby. He stood above the bowl and ceremoniously poured the bubbly liquid over his meaty sex, felt the flowery soft color dripping off his balls and into the bowl. She watched.

Then, it was the soda, the powder, the salt, the vanilla, and the bananas. The bananas were ripe and fragrant. Sweet in taste and smell, soft and pliant in texture, they released their mottled skin like lingerie peeled off a lover. They lay in a separate bowl, their penis curves arching into the thick fragrance of the vanilla, touching the acrid bite of the salt. Before her eyes, he forked the tender fruit into a slippery thick lotion that wanted, only, for her essence. One tablespoon of her, one measure of her pheromone power, one thin stream of her water, that’s all that was needed before the fecund fruit could flow off of him and into the caldron. He collected her tenderly, adding her formula with an alchemist touch. Then, it was up to him.

The formula, the nectar, the potion flowed over his straining tool, slicking it like her pussy. She watched as spurt upon spurt flew into the mixing bowl, along with banana, vanilla, salt and piss. His stomach tightened and he called out, invoking the muse of the life-giving property of bread. After calling to the gods, he stirred the pot, folding the flour, the ground seeds of fertility, into the fermenting unity of light and energy and life that would become a simple loaf of banana bread.

Driving

2009-04-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

It really had nothing to do with sex. Sitting there in the front seat, windows down, tearing down the highway naked -- damn, what a feeling! She’d never done this before. Something (or someone) told her that it was bad, or dangerous, or illegal, or all of the above. She was nervous, at first. But, when he so easily stripped off the laundry and relaxed into the drive, she felt encouraged. She took off her shorts and underwear. “Underwear, schmunderwear,” she said, with a smile.

Wow, that felt good! The air rushing in through the windows caressed her bare thighs and pussy, like a warm comforting hand. She felt a familiar tingle coursing through her body, but this had nothing to do with sex. He looked over at her, briefly, and smiled. He was so happy that she felt secure with him, and willing to take a step toward sensual liberation. He put his hand on her bare leg and traced its contours up to the delta of the river of her body. She parted her legs, wanting. But, this had nothing to do with sex.

A few miles went by before she realized that no one was really going to see, or notice, if she took off her top. The wind through her hair felt like tiny fingers. They brushed her bare skin. When she lifted her top over her head, they cupped her breasts. She felt so exposed and so free so fucking confident! She was swimming in a sea of sensation, suddenly diving and floating and skimming along like a dolphin. He reached out and stroked her hair.

They rolled along in silence. The sun melted against her skin, pressing into her. She closed her eyes and just felt and smelled the sweet air. He nipples seemed to fly away from her with each breath. Her mind raced. This was not bad or dangerous. She didn’t care if it was illegal. When his right hand touched her chest, she involuntarily exhaled like the wind had been knocked out of her. By the time his fingers fell into her opened crotch, she was buzzing in her own molten liquid. He touched her clit and the world narrowed into one sensual point of light and gravity. This had nothing to do with sex, but she exploded anyway, not caring if the world watched her do it.

Word Game

2009-04-14T21:09:00.000-07:00

“Pudendum, P-U-D-E-N-D-U-M,” he said with a grin, as he carefully placed the wooden squares on the board. This was naked Scrabble, and he just moved ahead. It was a double letter word, worth 28 points. The stakes were high. If she lost, she had to go out on the porch and make herself cum as the rush hour traffic streamed by. If he lost, he had to run out and jack off. But, that was hardly fair. After all, he could whack off in about two minutes. It took her a little longer. She was somewhat titillated by the prospect. Still, she didn’t really want to lose. Her letters sucked.

P
R
O
B
E

That’s all she could come up with. She spelled it out… a big 5 (big deal). He was 20 points ahead of her, and they were running out of letters. She took a swig of absinthe and ran a finger along the folds of her pussy. She was still wet from their late afternoon love-making. It was so fun, to sit there nude in the living room, listening to James Taylor and the birds outside the windows, playing this game. She really wanted to just be fucked, but the anticipation, spiced with the language of the Scrabble board, was a nice little break. Without it, they would have never left the bed. She took three of the squares, an “A,” another damned “P,” and a fucking “U.” She groaned, inside, knowing this was going to be difficult. He was gonna win, dammit!

Happily, he took the bait. -R-G-A-S-M was tacked on to the “O” in “PROP.” It wasn’t a big-value word, but it made him smile. He took a swig of his absinthe and grabbed the hair on the back of her head and kissed her hard. They both giggled like high schoolers at a “spin-the-bottle” party. He took the last of the letters. There were only two left.

It was then that the universe opened up and the future became clear. She could see it all. Suddenly, she could see him beating off on the porch. She had never been able to do this, to fit all of the letters into one glorious word. Her toes flared, she twitched inside, her nipples stood out just a little harder. She placed the letters carefully, so as to relish the moment. It was a double-word, triple letter, word. It ended in “M.” One by one, slowly and deliberately, “P…R…I…A…P…I…S.” She looked at him, “It means a ‘persistent erection of the penis.’”

The word was worth 34 points! She was out of letters. She won!

“I wanna watch,” she growled.

The Haul

2009-04-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

He remembered her sweat, how it beaded up between her breasts in the sun, how it ran down her back as she straddled him, how it dripped off of her hair and splashed onto his face. It was animal. It was her. It was passion pouring on him like warm honey. How he longed for that, now, as he sat in his truck, making the run from San Francisco to Seattle. He was hauling 70,000 pounds of lettuce, listening to the cackle on the CB and the pounding of the windshield wipers. He sat high above the four-wheelers that whipped by him. In the city, he would have been worried about how the bastards cut him off, and how they paid the inertia of his load no mind. Out here, on the long stretch between Shasta and Eugene, he had plenty of room. His thoughts wandered.

The air was cool, but not cold. It was almost springtime. The rain poured down in fits and starts. Sometimes, it would beat down ferociously; other times, it was a mist. The heat in the cab was comforting. Before heading over the Siskyous, he had stripped off his clothes. It was how he liked to travel. Especially during the summer, he could open the windows and feel the warm air rush over him as he drove. It was sort of like flying inside of the head of a whale. He sat there, looking at the passing scenery, barreling down the highway at 70 miles per hour, naked as a baby. There was something exciting about that juxtaposition of power and vulnerability. He often thought of her.

On those long stretches, in the winding darkness, he remembered her. How pretty she was, in her cotton dresses or her ripped jeans or her thick sweaters. Nothing could hide her beauty. Her eyes were enough to make him hard. They were like onyx against her vanilla skin. Her smile tore him apart. Her hair was a cage that captured him like a fly in a web. But…it was her scent, her smell, her aroma, her sweat that drove him like a bull elk through the deepest of forests to her. When he thought of her…her back arched in orgasm, her eyes closed, her mouth open and loud, her sweat coating her skin like a thin gauze…he could not control his feelings. How many times he spilled the contents of his balls upon his belly and bare legs he could not begin to count. His chest would heave, his stomach contract, and he would roar above the drone of the enormous Peterbilt engine that hurled him down the highway. For spasm after squirting spasm, 70,000 pounds of lettuce would plummet toward the markets in Seattle.

Model for Me

2009-04-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

Do not look directly into the eye, that small hole into which the colors and borders and character of you get sucked. Look away, be shy, think of how your body is being gazed upon, stroked by light, touched by want. Breath quietly, feel the press of air against you like the soft breasts of your lover. Move your muscles to her sighs, the slow scrape of her nails. Listen to the language and rhythm of the voyeur, the shuffling and dancing around you. Throw back your shoulders, daring the touch, baring yourself to all possibility. This is a piece of you that no one will know, because they do not know you. As much as you reveal, you hide. Expose yourself to that eye. Let it absorb who you wish to be into it. Allow it to tell you who you are. Surrender.

Meeting Eros

2009-04-12T10:48:00.000-07:00

It had to be the wickedness in her quirky smile, or the lazy invitation in her gaze. The voice, like dark red wine, was not expected from a woman so petite. Clearly, I was prey. I felt exposed; she had me backed against a stone wall. She had me stripped and delirious with passion, and I didn’t even know who she was. Her toes caressed the wood floor and made it a lover. I wanted to spread my arms, become an angel, lift her up into my heaven. But, it was she who had wings. She flew through me like my body was melted butter. Every nerve, muscle, sinew that was touched hummed in harmony. If she had ordered me to die, I would have done so, instantly and without question. When I reached out to touch her, it was with fear, but familiar. Her small earthly body drew my fingers like divining rods looking for blood and life and love. My mind was rolling like beads of mercury, scattering in all directions, longing to flow together in her. When I did touch her, she disappeared. She became me, filling every blank space inside the skin of my helplessly captured body, cradling my soul in the terribly gentle palm of her hand.

Here

2009-04-11T19:22:00.000-07:00

The sun licked me clean. I was a kitten at the end of its rasping tongue. It fed me the milk of its shiny power and I fell fat and sleepy against its belly. I woke to the sweat of my dreams, the mud of the earth on my back, and the rising pillar of my lust deep within her mouth. Above my face, the soft folds of life rocked, hanging like the last drop of water on earth beyond my thirsting lips. I touched her. It was morning. Small bumps of cool flesh fell into the slick creases of my tongue, mixed with the sweet scallop-scented liquor of her. My fingers, the nerve endings of my brain, ran along her back, following the crease of her arching muscles, digging into the dents that forced her hips onto the paper-thin membrane of my lips. The slow creep of breathing earth crawled like ants against my nakedness, each small quivering hair feeding on invisible insects like the waving tentacles of sea anemones. Her muffled, stuffed, groans washed over my saliva-coated balls. A gentle, insistent, pressure grew within my depths. She had me where she wanted me. I was caged beneath her golden body. She took my full length into her throat and held me there. A small trickle of piss dripped upon my chin, then became a torrent as she coated me with her essence. I drank her and lapped her up like a puppy. I was hers. I was her territory. I belonged to her. My face was covered with her urine. My shoulders and hair sank into the mud of the playa, as I sank into the depths of her throat and further into the rocks and trees and sky of her world. She settled into my mouth and offered the soup of her body to me. I ate until I was full, and until I filled her with my own life.

Paris

2009-04-08T06:42:00.000-07:00

They had never been to such a place, she and Billy. She was nervous and excited. Her stomach felt tight. There was a dampness to her whole body. Her introduction to this world happened so fast, so innocently and delightfully fast. Billy parked the car about a block away. They walked along the dark, rain-dampened, street and entered through the solid wood entrance. The outdoor lighting was stark, white, neon. There were no windows. Inside the door was a small room. A scruffy college-aged kid sat behind a ticket-taker’s cutout in the wall.

“Good evening. Five dollars a piece. Have you ever been here before?” he said.

“Nope,” Billy replied.

He looked her over. “Do you have any ID?”

She dug around and came out with her driver’s license. He glanced at it and handed it back. She felt a jolt, suddenly knowing that she was going to enter into a world she’d never seen and had only fantasized about. Billy handed the attendant his credit card. After the transaction, the kid said, “Go through that door behind you, and I’ll meet you and show you around.”

They walked through the thin, plywood, door and were met by the attendant. Past the door was another small room. The walls were lined with porno flicks and magazines for sale, along with an assortment of condoms and dildos. The college kid escorted them through another door and into the theater.

On the large screen was a jumble of naked bodies, gaping holes, long cocks, cum-coated faces. The sound system blared the liquid sounds of impending orgasms, the “ohm’s” and “yes’s,” the dick-muffled groans and squeals of young women with too much make-up on their faces.

Billy held her body close to his, as the attendant led them down the aisle of the theater, past a small corral to the right. In the corral was a woman who seemed to be mimicking the sounds emanating from the movie screen. She was bobbing on one cock, while gripping another one. She was in heels, stockings, garter…the stereotypic fashion of the whore at play. Men, semi-turgid dicks in their fists, stood outside the corral wall and watched the woman as she moved from one fleshy pole to the next, waving her naked ass in the air.

The attendant led them past the corral to another on that had a bed and night stand and lamp in it. “If you want more privacy, you can rent this room out for an additional $5.00,” he advertised. “The sheets are cleaned.”

The kid continued, “In the back is the ‘couples area,’ and you can use that without any additional cost.”

All of this was swimming through her head. She really didn’t hear what the attendant was saying. She was in a room full of strangers, most of them men. She was in a room where women were sucking cocks and men were beating off. She was delirious in the sensations of the place, the darkened room, the soft smell of liquid sex, the sound of her own thumping heart. She was afraid but confident in the presence of Billy. She was willing to follow his lead. She felt safe in this bubble. Billy’s deep voice stirred her.

“We’ll just head up to the ‘couples room,’” he told the attendant. They walked up to the gated space. It was fully open to onlookers and was spacious enough for at least sixteen lovers. The area enclosed long vinyl-covered benches where couples could watch the movie and each other. Two people were inside. A woman was sucking the cock of a large man. They looked up, briefly, as she and Billy entered the space, then went back to what they were doing. The attendant hooked the chain gate and left.

She and Billy sat on one of the benches, their backs along the wall. She felt a little confused, at first. She didn’t know that live sex would be going on right next to her. She thought they were going to a movie theater. The confusion gave way to electric knotting toe-curling lust when Billy turned to kiss her, running his hands over her breasts and down into her crotch. Her knees spread, instinctively. On-screen, the orgy continued endlessly. One after another, faces were coated in cum, assholes were plugged with thick cocks, lips were open and wanting. Next to her, a woman in heels and garter was sucking on her lover’s (or john’s) cock.

Billy undid her pants. He had her stand and he yanked her pants down. As ordered, she had worn no underwear. Billy then reached up and pulled her top off. She stood naked, in this strange place, in front of total strangers, with the sights and sounds of sucking and fucking going on all around her. Billy pulled her down onto his lap and engulfed her nipples, one at a time, back and forth, in his warm lips. He pulled at them with his teeth, while his hands cupped her ass and pulled her body against him. She felt safe and warm and free and so shamelessly horny.

Suddenly, Billy flipped her around and laid her, sideways, across his lap. She lay back, fully exposed, Billy kissing her, probing her, spreading her naked legs, exposing her to the men who stood just outside the “couples room,” slowly masturbating. Billy looked into her eyes, and rubbed her engorged clit. “Spread your legs, baby,” he urged. “Show off that beautiful pussy.” He shoved his tongue into her throat and his fingers into her cum-slick hole. She spread her legs and pushed her hips into the air, inviting everyone to see how lovely and wet and lusty she had become. Billy’s fingers danced lightly, then roughly, then feather-like, then hard, bringing her closer and closer and closer to the teetering precipice. He teased her, prolonging the show she was putting on. Men in the shadows watched as her hips started to buck and shake, and her legs tensed.

Billy gazed into her blue eyes, and licked the edges of her lips as she released the tension in her body with a wracking orgasm that made her feet and legs flail, her stomach gripping and releasing in spasm after glorious gut-wrenching spasm. Billy’s hand was soaked with her liquor. He cupped her pussy in his hand as her pulsing subsided, her breathing eased and she opened her eyes. She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him long and deep. She wanted to crawl inside of him and become him. She forgot about where she was. She was his, only his.

Her Back

2009-03-28T17:17:00.000-07:00

The arc of her back cascades into time. My hands have slid along it and disappeared into another universe. It is the energy of creation itself. It flows from her heart to her womb. When I view the line of her body from afar, I want to cry. Trilliums, camellias, wood tits, creepers, ochre muds and dusty emeralds, wind chimes, music, vanilla, olive oil, honey, the curvature of the earth and space, the light of a millions suns, a million galaxies, the agonizing fragility of life…all of this rushes at me like a mad cacophony, a symphony of creation, and I am left breathless and helpless. I have to touch this, have to hold this for a fleeting moment in the vast cold unknown of all time. I am Pizarro. I am Cortez. I’ve seen the gold and I want to hoard it, to make it all my own, to carry it with me until death separates me from it. I will kill for it and carry it across the earth. Her back is what civilizations have been built, flourished and perished for. It is the gathering place of the tears of men. It holds my beating heart in the vessel of its gentle slope.

Winter Picnic

2009-02-16T07:09:00.000-08:00

(Photo by David Rolin)

It was the anticipation, his order to wear a skirt and no underwear. The air was cool and damp, and clouds swirled about a winter moon. They met to walk under the full moon, to feel the heat from each other. They met to make love and to fuck. She buzzed inside when she saw him walking toward her, in the darkness, the roll of towels under his arm. She had an hour.

“Do you want to go up to the top? There are some picnic tables over here, where we should still be able to see the moon,” he said, in a calming, playful, voice. She didn’t know why his voice made her feel so comfortable. It was soft and deep and had some indescribable power in it. He seemed not to be tentative about anything. The strength in him flowed into her and she breathed easier. He looped his arm around her and kissed her, deeply. “Let’s walk over here,” he said. She followed.

The tables were on the east side of the hill, under towering fir trees. A sheen of moisture caused them to glow under the moon. He unrolled the towels and placed them, side-by-side, on one of the tables’ benches. They sat there, his arm around her, slowly warming in each others’ presence, assisted by the Johnny Walker Black in his flask. He ran his hands through her thick hair and she rested her head against his broad shoulder, drawing him closer.

The cloudy sky opened, and the full moon cast her light upon them. He reached into her skirt and lifted it. “The winter moon is lighting up your pussy,“ he observed, dipping into her wetness. She spread her legs in the light, as he kissed her and invited the power of the moon into her. His fingers moved like clouds through the thick folds around the little moon of her clit. She groaned into his open mouth and he sucked her breath out of her lungs. Her atmosphere, her oxygen, her wind and air and life were drawn into him.

She was rising to meet the moon, when he stopped and stood. “Come,” he demanded, softly. He took her hand and helped her onto her quaking legs. He led her to the end of the table, lifted her up, spread her legs and impaled her with his cock. Just that quickly, just that unceremoniously, just that passionately, he was slipping in and out of her, there on the picnic table in the park, in the coolness, in the subtle warmth of a winter moon. Her head almost exploded. She closed her eyes to keep all of the feelings inside. This was exactly what she wanted, in this hour, with this man. This was an experience she had held inside of her for so long, and now it was swirling around her in magical streams of sparkling moonlight. He was feeding that winter moon to her, driving it deep. He pushed her back onto the table, hiked up her skirt, fully exposing her. His thumb circled her tiny moonlet until she cried out, the sounds of her radiating lunar orgasms absorbed in the strong silent firs that stood above her.

Crash

2009-02-12T05:07:00.001-08:00

He had her tied like a bundle of cotton on a truck. She was pinned on his coffee table. The windows were open, and the spring air washed over her body, lapping in waves across her neck, ribs, hips, thighs. Outside, birds twittered and, occasionally, people walking on the sidewalk below could be heard, talking. She could not move a muscle, except to breathe. The ball gag kept her jaws spread and tight. Her hands were tied behind her head. Her ankles were tied to the table legs. Her breasts were bound. A rope held her stomach and hips in place. Her pussy was an open mouth, the gaping mouth of a hungry fledgling, waiting to be fed. It was the mouth of a flowing river, waiting to cascade over him.

The sharp sting of the crop on her breasts and inner thighs had left her groaning and breathless and aching. She was quivering flesh, wanton flesh, flesh wanting to be devoured. She was meat, his meat, bloody and soft and salted. She could not see him, but she knew he was there. She could barely feel his soft breath on her clit as he breathed the aroma of her into his animal nostrils. A pool of her essence spread across the table top below her opening. It soaked into the fibers of wood and became a testament to her torture.

He placed the tip of his cock against the soft, hungry, opening to her. It was all he could do to keep it in that place, without pushing forward, without satisfying the ultimate urge. She held her breath, waiting for that buzzing nervous explosion that would surge through her body when he entered. But, he didn’t. The perfect end of him rested there, nestled in her labia, unmoving. Maddeningly, unmoving. Excruciatingly, unmoving. He held himself steady, just outside of her. She wanted to press down, to envelope him, suck him into her. She couldn’t move. It was up to him. He would feed her as he wished. His thumbs pressed into her labia, massaging her, moving her, making her swell.

Every nerve ending inside of her sparked and sizzled as the head of his muscle stick slid like thick lava just inside of her. The fledgling mouth snapped around him, wanting to swallow him whole. He held her there, his hips resisting the urge to plow into her with all of his force. She moaned and rocked her head from side to side. Saliva spilled down the sides of her cheeks. Fireworks went off in her brain. Her fingers were spread, then clenched, as she gripped the air with each spasm of her pussy. He slapped her breasts from side to side, then pinched her nipples hard, never giving her his length. His thumbs worked her clit until she screamed past the gag, the veins standing hard in her arched neck. The muscles inside of her felt as if they were tearing apart, as orgasm wracked her, tossing her against the inner walls of her own body. When, she finally regained her breath and her toes uncurled, he pressed his hands into her abdomen and slammed into her. She passed out.

The Run

2009-02-07T15:29:00.000-08:00

The trail went straight up, or so it seemed. It taxed them both, their lungs burning, the muscles in their legs aching, sweat running down their backs. She ran ahead of him, her small buttocks firm with each powerful stride. He noticed. He also noticed the swing of her muscular shoulders and the soft, confident, placement of her tiny feet. She floated over the rocks and roots and mud. From his angle, it appeared that she expended no energy. He, on the other hand, was nearly wheezing. He had asked her on this run, dammit, and he was going to keep up with her!

Finally, they made it to the top of the interminable climb. She had peeled off a layer and had only the small jog bra covering her nipples. She stopped as the trail came to a high lookout. Below was the Columbia River, winding upstream to the east, flanked by layer after layer of receding basaltic bluffs. The sun reflected off the water like the silver scales of salmon. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to his chest. Their lungs panted in unison in the luxury of each others’ heat. “Do me a favor,” he nearly whispered.

She turned to look at him, her blue eyes deep as the Gorge. “What?” she asked.

He took her head in his hands. “Kiss me.”

Her mouth gave itself to him and their lungs exhaled into each other with an ache that went far deeper than skin, muscles and bone. She wanted to crawl inside of him, and he into her. For a few seconds, they flowed into one another, a single river of want and desire.

Showers With the Team

2009-02-06T17:30:00.001-08:00

What a liberating thing to give up one’s will to an external force too great to resist. I
might as well begin by telling you that I am an addict. I thirst for all of him, I love to taste him,
the slippery texture of his offering makes me flow, and the feeling of the splash across my skin
sends me into spasms. I could engulf him, surround him, envelop him all day, longing for the
reward at the end of it all. I used to make my boyfriend give me his juice in a jar, so I could
mix it with suntan lotion and rub it all over my body at the beach. The hot sun beating on my
browning breasts and tummy would bring out the strong scent of my lover and, by the end of the
day, I’d be near delirium. With that background, let me describe the ultimate addict’s fantasy, a
fantasy that came true for me.

My husband is a baseball player who plays first base for a Midwestern farm club. During
the summer, while he’s away playing ball, I lie in the sun in our backyard, dreaming of how I’m
going to swing my baby’s bat when he gets home. I always lie in the sun nude; there’s no other
way. My husband loves my skin to be a deep, golden brown. “It contrasts so nicely with my
cum,” he tells me.

One blistering afternoon, I decided to take the afternoon off from work to lie by the pool
in the backyard. My hubby would be at the ballpark, practicing, so I’d have some hot, peaceful
hours alone, during which time I could fantasize and masturbate myself into a frenzy. I rushed
home from work and ran excitedly into the house. My panties were wet and my nipples were
begging beneath my thin, cotton blouse. In about ten seconds, after entering the front door, all
of my clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

I thought it might be nice to get a little high ( I get even hornier), so I took a couple of hits
and then ran upstairs to get my beach towel and lotion. Then, I skipped back down to the
kitchen and poured myself a glass of rum. Grabbing my shades and a copy of my favorite
erotica, I padded out into the blazing sun and toward the far side of the pool.

The hot walkway next to the pool caressed the soft bottoms of my feet, and the sun
pouring across my breasts, belly and ass felt incredibly sensual. When I reached the far side of
the pool, I spread the towel out on the ground and set my drink and magazine down. Slowly and
deliberately, I squeezed white, creamy, tanning lotion onto my breasts and stomach then smeared
it all over the front side of my solar-charged body. The pot was beginning to take effect and all
of the blood in my body seemed to be rushing into my clitoris. The sensation of my slippery
fingers gliding across the even more slippery folds of my opening flower caused me to close my
eyes and take a short gasp of the broiling air. Already, tiny beads of sweat were starting to form
on my chest and back. I stood next to the glimmering pool, massaging the unsheathed head of
my little button and kneading the firm flesh of my breasts until the muscles in my abdomen
began to grow taut. Then, giggling at my hedonism, I dove into the cool, clear water. The
water felt like silk as it flowed between my legs and over my pursed nipples. My clitoris
screamed for immediate attention.

I climbed out of the water and walked over to the towel, took a long sip of rum and
settled down to some serious reading and long, languorous masturbation. The pot had really
taken effect, and it was difficult for me to concentrate on anything other than bodily stimulation.
Every word I read seemed erotic, somehow, and I felt as though I was personally involved in
every fantasy that I read. I experienced several small waves of pleasure, but I made a conscious
effort to keep from climaxing; I wanted the feelings to last all afternoon. Finally, after what
seemed like hours, I couldn’t stand my self-imposed torture any longer. I stood up ( I love to
cum in that position) and gently eased the middle finger of my left hand into my ass. The sweat
rolling down my back and between my firm cheeks provided more than enough lubrication. I
started sliding the finger in and out of my rectum, slowly, while the fingers of my right hand
danced tantalizingly over my clit. Things started to heat up rather quickly and soon my head
was spinning with delight. No wonder I didn’t hear the cars drive up to the house.

The rhythm of my hands was driving me delirious, and when I finally started pumping
two fingers deep into my dripping cunt, I closed my eyes and started the climb toward a glorious
climax. My back arched and my hips thrusted, spasmodically, against my plunging fingers. I
started moaning, softly, but the moaning soon was replaced by loud gasps and groans and,
finally, by cries of pure animal delight as glorious wave after wave of orgasm wracked my body.
Lights and colors swirled in my head and I became dizzy and collapsed onto my blanket where I
lay panting and sweat-soaked beneath the steaming sun.

Suddenly, from somewhere in my blissful half-dream state, I heard a voice say, “Beautiful
show, baby.” I was startled at first, but instantly felt a familiar flood of warmth when I opened
my eyes and saw my beautiful husband standing next to me, stroking his long, rigid cock.

“Practice was called off today because of the heat,” he said. Then, with a mischievous
smile, he teased, “Are you all worn out?”

“My tongue isn’t tired,” I teased back, licking my lips. “Get over here so I can lick those
sweaty balls.”

My man was facing the house as I rose to my knees and started licking his shaft like it
was a popsicle. The pot I’d smoked made me hungry and I imagined the cock and balls to be
sausage and meatballs, banana and plums, sucker and marshmallows. His shaft was soon
dripping with saliva as I alternated between deep-throating him and jerking him off while I
sucked on his balls. Every time he tensed up, I’d squeeze his meat at the base and roll the tip of
his pecker between my lips. Sweat was streaming down his chest and down the hot crack of his
ass. I was so focused and so totally involved in what I was doing that I didn’t notice, for a long
time, that I had an audience.

I suddenly became aware of a presence to one side of me and stopped sucking long
enough to glance over my shoulder. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Four of my husband’s
buddies from the team were gathered around. None of them had clothes on and they all
appeared very excited. I could even see some clear drops of pre-cum oozing from the tips of a
couple of twitching cocks. At first, I was scared. I looked up at my man and he smiled down at
me as if to assure me that everything was O.K. My lips and hands began to quiver, and then I
sank back, with a groan of lust and abandonment, back onto the shining muscle that hung in front
of my lips.

Apparently convinced that I was not offended by their presence, the other guys gathered
closer to watch the fireworks. I made up my mind that I was going to give them everything and
more than they could imagine. Playfully, I gazed up at my lover, the head of his engorged penis
resting on my tongue. I reached between my legs and seductively slid my fingers across the
slick folds of my labia. When my hands glistened with my own juices, reached between my
man’s strong legs and slowly pushed a finger deep into his tight little asshole. I started purring
to him, “Squirt me, baby . . . all over my lips . . . Fuck my mouth . . . feed it to me, yeah . . . .”

As I urged him on, I increased the tempo of my finger pumping into his ass, and my other
hand jerked him with short, quick, strokes. His hips began to shake. I could tell that the cream
was ready to flow out of his furry balls. When I was sure he could hold back no longer, I warned
my appreciative audience, “Watch this, boys; your turns are next.”

I pumped my lover’s muscle hard while the tip of my tongue tickled the underside of his
purple helmet. With a long, guttural moan, my lover’s floodgates opened and stream after long,
white stream of his delicious cum splashed across my lips and cheeks, dripping from my chin
onto my breasts, running in warm rivulets down my neck. I was in heaven. I could taste and
smell and feel my lover’s cream all over me, and I was excited like never before because of the
audience that crowded around me. As I kneeled in front of my lover’s shining pole, fondling it,
rubbing its cum-slickened head across my lips and cheek, I heard a moan from behind me and
turned just in time to catch a big load of hot sperm with my tongue as it cascaded out of the very
thick tube of one of my excited guests.

My clitoris was rock hard and begging for attention, so I sprawled out on the grass under
the still spurting cock and masturbated while trying to catch the last sputtering drops in my
mouth. I guess the picture of my writhing, wet body was too much for the rest of the guys
because, one-by-one, they started unloading their precious cargo onto me. Cum rained down on
me from all over the place. I was masturbating furiously as hot juice splattered my body. I
rubbed the slick stuff all over. I washed my face in it and ground it, desperately, into my pussy
until, whimpering and moaning, half-laughing and half-crying, I succumbed to a mind-blowing
orgasm that left me breathless and wasted.

Poker 8

2009-01-29T12:10:00.000-08:00

It turns out that, after all of that frenzy of flying clothing, I was the only one who still had something on. Liza ordered me to lie down on my back, in the middle of the floor. Good slave that I am, I did as told. Liza climbed onto my chest, pinning me. I could feel her hands untying the strings to my apron. Then, I felt a warm and very wet pussy settling down onto my left leg, followed by similar feelings onto my right leg. The women had me in place and utterly immobile. Karla straddled my face, with her front to Liza, her breasts brushing against Liza’s back as she lowered her ass onto my mouth.
One after another, the women sucked my cock. Two or three deep swallows, rim the head, stop, trade, swallow, rim, lick, stop, switch. I was delirious, licking Karla’s asshole and pussy, smelling her sex, gulping in her liquor. The unseen hands stroked and tickled the tender skin of my balls, coaxing, teasing, bringing me almost to the edge. My cock seemed as tall and solid as the Washington Monument. But, it was almost numb. The nerves had been worn to the edge, and all I could feel was an enormous tension inside of me. It burned and ached. Sensing my impending explosion, Liza gave orders.
“Grab his balls,” she told someone. “Put your hands like this,” she told someone else. “Hold him down. Make it straight.”
I couldn’t move a muscle. Hands pushed down around the base of my cock and it stood straight up into the air. Hands circled my aching nuts and pulled tight. Liza rose up enough to wet her hands with the steady stream of her slickness that coated my chest, then settled back and took hold of my helpless prick. She announced, “Watch this.”
Liza pumped my cock like she was angry. She wailed on it, showing no restraint. She beat it, furiously, from tip to bottom, her grip tight as a vise. The universe was born in an instant. All of the energy of creation spewed through the tiny hole at the end of my cock and expanded, at light speed, to the edges of eternity. Cum flew into the air like a geyser. It coated Liza’s hands, ran down between my spread legs, dribbled in rivulets down the sides of my wrenching belly. I screamed into Karla’s pussy, my tongue stabbing like a murderer into her pouring hole.
The girls squealed and laughed and muttered in admiration at what they had done to me. The card game was over, I was a free man, flying into eternity, a lump of sex.

Poker 7

2009-01-28T16:26:00.000-08:00

So much for the poker game! Amy spun around, cum dripping from her happy face, and met Karla's voracious kisses. Judy slumped into a nearby couch and looked at me with eyes like emeralds. She held the lips of her pussy wide and told me to feast on her. Apparently, I was still a slave. As Liza inched her sticky body out of her perfunctory clothing, I knelt obediently before Judy's altar. So smooth, so wet, so rosey, so intoxicating was that little playground between her legs!

The room was filled with the music of sex, all of those thick liquid airy smacking slapping giggling oily lines of bodily interaction that combine and flow together in symphonic bliss. I was too intent on Judy's body to notice the stream of orgasmic energy in which we all swam. Judy was delightfully multi-orgasmic and once the waves started lapping against the shores of her bowl, they filled her over and over, spreading in all directions until, arms and legs flailing insanely, she nearly passed out.

Poker 6

2009-01-27T17:43:00.001-08:00

After I whispered my choice in Amy’s ear, she gave me a squeeze then turned toward the table. Just watching that delicious ass caused my earth to move. By this time, we were about 90 minutes into the party. My cock wasn’t hard, anymore, which was a good thing. I would have been in great pain if some of that pumped-in hydraulic fluid hadn’t released some tension. But, the third leg was certainly primed. It hung there, semi-turgid, full of blood, waiting, waiting, waiting….
Amy danced slowly around the table, touching Judy and Karla and Liza, keeping them guessing. While she touched them, she rubbed herself. The tension in the room was thick as my cock. Finally, she knelt in front of Liza (who only had an ass-high skirt on) and lifted her legs up over her shoulders. Liza looked at me and smiled, then reclined and closed her eyes. Judy and Karla, each down to panties, were visibly disappointed, but that didn’t last long.
Liza opened her eyes, as Amy started to lick her, stem-to-stern, and crooked her finger at me, beckoning me to her side. Dutifully, I approached and was met with a hungry mouth that took my semi-rigid meat all the way down to the root. The card game was over at that point. Judy and Karla lost the remaining laundry and joined in. Karla started in on Amy’s wagging bottom, and Judy focused her attention on Liza’s little birds, making them spread their wings and fly into her lips.
The sounds of quick breaths, slurping tongues, soft moans, filled the room. The sun came in through the picture windows and poured like maple syrup over our naked bodies. Amy knew what she was doing, and soon Liza was arching her hips to meet the onslaught of the tender tongue that played around her asshole and clit. Her legs were splayed wide. I held one ankle in my hand, Judy held the other. It wasn’t long before Liza started humming around the head of my cock. She held me deep, saliva leaking out around the edges of her mouth and running down her chin. She started bucking, the muscles of her stomach tightening, tightening, tightening to the point of snapping. She almost gagged as she came, pulling me deep to stifle her cries. I looked at Amy. She was smiling, her face soaked.

Climbing With Balls

2009-01-23T19:39:00.000-08:00

The morning sun had just blinked over the top of the eastern escarpment, and it washed like orange gouache across the volcanic tuft. Magpies called from the gnarled cedars and a subtle shimmer of sage scent wafted through the heating air. Overhead, the intensity of the spotless tourmaline sky drew deeper in the waxing light. She stood motionless, like a golden pillar, naked, against the stony coolness of the vertical earth. Her eyes were closed. She was a lizard, soaking in the solar energy of the baby day, the goose bumps at the surface of her mahogany skin slowly smoothing. The nostrils of her fine nose flared in the sharp pungent scent of the dirt on her feet, the sweet acrid intoxicating smell of juniper berries, the comforting salty wet-meat aroma of her own glowing body.

The cracked and pocketed wall behind her rose over 200 feet above the valley floor. It wasn’t a big wall, but it was as exposed as she was, as naked as she was, as muscular as she was. The two were a match. She was there by herself. It was she and the rock. The two knew each other. She’d made love to this rock before. She had been scraped, scratched, broken and bloodied by this rock. The rock had torn her hair, bitten her nipples and made her cry. It had also made her laugh. It had fucked her hard and put her away wet. It had left her breathless and boneless.
She was back for another round, and she smiled wickedly in the rising sun, as she mapped her climb in her mind. She knew the holds, the cool cracks, the slippery skin of the wall. She knew where to concentrate and where to cruise. She knew where to fear for her life and where to laugh at death.

Her skin felt and glowed like caramel when she turned to face the roughness of her lover. She reached into her backpack and brought out a small, velvet, sack. Inside were two golden balls, the size of quail eggs. She took them out and put them in her mouth. Once warmed, they were inserted deep inside of her, to press and play against her as she climbed. She could feel them, there, as she placed her bare foot against the wall and pulled herself up, into her first move. The sun lit up the small hairs on her back and buttocks as she lifted herself up into the next position.
She felt so strong, and so powerful and so horny. The balls in her vagina pushed against her, making her wet, causing her muscles to grip and grab and spasm. It was distracting. This is what she wanted. This was the challenge. She would take this monster on, and spread her sex all over him and come out on top.

With each move, the heavy orbs within her moved against the walls of her sex, pressing, tickling, exciting. Her pussy dripped upon the face to the wall, coating him in her liquor. About 100 feet up, she gripped the rock with her left hand, stood spread-eagle in the sun, and rubbed her clit until her head was spinning. She had to stop. She pressed her chest against the rocky lips of her geological lover and felt the radiating warmth flowing through her. Her legs ached to throw themselves over her head, to succumb to his hardness.

With twenty feet to go, she felt as if she was being pulled into, and onto, him. This vertical challenge, this pulsing force of strength, was fucking her upward, forcing her to the top. She was light, she was air, she was color, she was beauty. She floated those last few moves, until she pushed up over the tip of him, her arms aching, her bare feet shaking, a stream of her love running down her legs. She collapsed at the head of her lover, spread her tired legs in the sun, and screamed…..

Poker 5

2009-01-23T16:50:00.000-08:00

So, Liza, Amy, Karla and Judy were just about out of wine. Amy, who was very relaxed after her delightful performance, asked me for a refill. I happily obliged, filling her glass about halfway with a very smooth and deep cherry merlot.
“Wait,” she said, as I started to step away. “I need some flavor.”

She reached out and grabbed my cock and pulled me to her. She lifted her glass between my legs and submerged my hot balls in her wine. Then, after a proper soaking, she lowered her glass and licked me clean. “Yummm….,” she swooned, “I love this wine.”

Whether it was due to drunken inattention or just plain luck, Amy lost again. She had nothing to lose, however, so she sat in her chair with a Cheshire grin, looking smug. That was until Liza announced that, since Amy had already had an orgasm, she had to give one of the girls one.
Amy was a bit surprised at this unexpected twist in the rules of the game. Unconsciously, her hands dove into her wet crotch and she worked her fingers through the swollen folds of her oyster while she thought. She looked at Liza and gave her a wicked smirk. Then, she rose out of her chair and sauntered, seductively, around the table, touching Judy’s hair, biting Karla’s neck, rubbing the satin skin of her breasts across Liza’s face. She padded over to me, bent at the waist and slid her lips up and down my straining shaft. She stepped back, cupped my package in her hands, looked into my eyes and asked, in a soft voice, “Who do you want me to go down on?”

Poker 4

2009-01-22T17:02:00.000-08:00

Amy is long and lean, with shoulder-length auburn hair straight and shiny. Her skin is baby soft and golden. Bright red toenails decorate her high-arched feet, and contrast with her blue green eyes. She giggled, nervously, and rose from her chair, her battery-powered toy in hand. Her breasts swayed, gently, as she walked up to me. She got down on the carpet and lay back, in front of me. Gazing, longingly, at my veined meat, she spoke to it, “Stand over me. I want to watch your balls move.”

I straddled her, above her face, turned toward her feet and watched her busy hands. With each slow stroke of my cock, my balls slid lazily in their smooth sac. With that visual stimulus, Amy was quick to get off. The vibrator was pressed, tightly, against her clit and her legs went rigid and shook as she made herself cum in front of the admiring girls. I tried not to speed up the manual rhythm on my piston, but I subconsciously met each one of her thrusts with one of my own. It was all I could do to keep from boiling over. As her orgasms subsided, I put my hands behind my neck and just moved my hips, playing “air drum” with my stick.

Amy cooled down, rubbing her hands all over her body, feeling her hardened breasts, catching her breath. The women crooned with approval. Slowly, Amy rose up and returned to her seat, and picked up the next hand of cards.

Poker 3

2009-01-20T19:38:00.000-08:00

Somewhat surprisingly, Liza lost the next hand. At that point, the girls were getting playful, testing their toys and laughing.

“Oh slave…” Liza said, with a grin. “I think we need some more wine. But, come here, first.”

Obediently, I approached her, half expecting another good slap. Instead, she peeled off her damp thong bottoms and looped one leg opening over my head so I could wear her essence around my neck. The aroma, so subtle, so sweet, so pungent, so intoxicating, swirled around me. She gave me a deep kiss and squeezed my balls.

As Liza dealt the next hand, I poured the wine. Instead of punishing me, the women started touching me. Their hands explored my body, roaming across my stomach, chest, ass, cock, legs. They touched me tenderly, and they invited my touch. Amy guided my free hand to her breasts. They were tight and firm as small balloons. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her silk blouse. Karla, not surprisingly, took off her panties and hung them around my neck. As she had already been eyeing my cock and experimenting with her vibrator, the crotch of her knickers was quite wet and added much to the drunken scent that rose up from around my neck. She grabbed my hand and led it to her pussy, so I could feel how slippery she was.

As I worked my way around the table, I made certain to brush my crimson boner against the bodies of my customers. One by one, they lost articles of clothing. Pants, skirts, blouses, t-shirts, bras littered the floor. I shuffled about, burying my cock in Amy’s hair, touching Liza’s neck my lips, licking Judy’s nipples. It was easier to stay nice and rigid as the game went on.

Amy was the first to lose it all. She feigned disappointment, as she peeled off her sheer bottoms and placed them around my neck.

“Show us all how you cum,” ordered Liza.

Staked Out Again

2009-01-20T19:02:00.000-08:00

On the fourth day of our Burning Man adventure, we decided to try something even more fun. At least it sure was going to be a lot more fun for Tawnie. After breakfast, we had some fun on the floor of our desert shelter, oblivious to those around us. Tawnie was pretty excited, thinking about her next public display. She came pretty hard, which caused somewhat of a ripple effect in the campers around us. Pretty soon, cries of orgasm could be heard all around us. We sprawled out in the desert warmth and listened, giggling.
As usual, the day was hot until about 2:30, when another ripping sandstorm pelted the camp. We hunkered in our shelter, getting high and playing with each other, and making a new sign. At about 4:00, the wind died out and the dry warmth of the desert settled in. Tawnie and I walked out to where the four posts were. Tawnie was pretty nervous, but we agreed that I would be with her the whole time. As she stood there in the middle of our little stage, I tied ropes around her wrists and ankles. When I had them nice and tight I had Tawnie kneel on the ground, onto a blanket I had spread out below her. I twisted four large metal screws into the hard earth and then tied Tawnie’s wrists and ankles to them. There she was, pinned down, on hands and knees. With her like that, I walked back to our tent and picked up the sign we’d made and a bowl full of condoms and, of course, the blindfold. By the time I returned, a small group of people had already started to show some interest in what was going on. Apparently, word about Tawnie’s last show had gotten out.
I walked up behind my lover and pulled the blindfold down over her eyes. Then, I poured oil over her naked body and rubbed it all over, paying particular attention to her hanging breasts, her cute ass and her hot pussy. After she was nice and hot and oiled, I set up the sign. “FREE FUCK,” it advertised. I waited to see if we would get any takers.
It actually did not take long for a couple of guys in their mid-twenties to take Tawnie up on the invitation. They were a little drunk, but not too much, and they were clearly interested in what was set before them. They egged each other on, and they were cheered on a bit by the gathering onlookers. One of them stepped up to me and asked me if the invitation was real. I smiled and handed him a condom. “She’s all yours,” I assured him. He took it from me and kneeled down in front of Tawnie. He ran his hands over her back and dangled his cock in front of her mouth. When the head of his cock touched her lips, she sucked it in and started running her tongue around the head. It wasn’t long before his dick was nice and hard. He pulled away and took out the condom and positioned himself behind Tawnie. He placed the head of his nice hard cock against the opening of her pussy, grabbed her hips and drove in deep. Tawnie gasped and then shoved back against him, grinding into him. He stroked long and hard into her, while his buddy positioned himself in front, offering his cock to Tawnie’s open mouth.
Tawnie had an orgasm right then and there, yelling around the head of the cock in her mouth. The guy in back of her sped up. He was nearing climax. I could tell by the intensity in his face and the flex of the muscles in his ass. Someone in the audience shouted “money shot, money shot, money shot.” The chant was taken up my the group. Men and women both wanted to watch the guy unload. Finally, he couldn’t take it any more and he pulled out, ripped the condom off and sprayed cum all over Tawnie’s ass and back. It dripped down her sides and down the crack of her butt. The young stud moved away so that his buddy could have his turn.
I had already handed the second guy his condom. He was anxious to have his turn. As soon as his friend had moved away, he was in place and started driving furiously into Tawnie’s sopping pussy. He fucked her hard and she was cumming again just as her next customer kneeled in front of her face and offered his cock to her. It went on like this for hours. Tawnie was fucked by about twenty guys. She sucked almost as many cocks. Sometimes she was offered a naked pussy to lick, while she was being fucked silly by some girl’s boyfriend. She was worn out by the end of the day, but had one more, unused opening to offer me at the end of the afternoon. I took advantage of her that way, fucking her ass in front of the crowd and making her scream one last time….

Poker 2

2009-01-19T21:48:00.000-08:00

Liza dealt the first hand. The women were, by rules, barefooted. Only four articles of clothing were allowed to remain. I stood in the corner of the room, stroking my cock, trying to keep it rigid. When the cards were all dealt, Liza brought out four “pocket rocket” vibrators and set them in front of Judy, Karla and Amy.

“Use them, if you want,” she said, with a grin.

Karla picked up the tiny vibrator, licked it, and looked at me. That was a good sign! My blood rushed. Judy and Amy looked at their cards, then at me, then back to their cards. Needless to say, no one’s attention was really on the card game. But, Liza was the master.

Judy, just to Liza’s left, looked at her cards. “Hit me,” she said, with a serious look. Liza flipped a card in her direction. She picked it up and slid it into her hand.

Karla passed. I stroked….slow, quick, jerks. My left hand pulled on my balls, while my right teased the head of my cock. I tried to keep the tension, but (with attention diverted elsewhere) I started to lose it. Amy took a hit and scooped up the card, with a serious look on her face. I stood there, in the corner of the room, a fixture, a lamp, a wilting flower. Finally, Liza looked up. She noticed my flagging member and stopped what she was doing.

“Come here, slave,” she ordered. “Didn’t I tell you to keep that thing hard?” she barked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Yes, what?” she shot back.

“Yes, master,” I said.

“Let’s see what we can do,” she said. She took me in her mouth, again, and ran her lips the full length of my shaft. Blood engorged it, again, and it soon stood tall and wet. Just when I thought I was in heaven, Liza lifted her lips off my cock and slapped it with her hand. The head of my cock slapped against my belly with a resounding “whack.” It stung and jolted my body. I cried out in pain. But…it felt so good.

“Judy, slap his cock!” Liza ordered. “He loves it.”

I walked over to Judy. She gripped my balls and held my cock high, and slapped the end of it twice. Fuck! That hurt! My member was in pain, but so hard. Karla was next. She shoved my cock deep into her throat again, removed it, and slapped it so hard I thought the head would fly off. Shit! Fuck! Damn! I was in pain. Amy slapped it side to side to side. My cock was flying back and forth, engorged and in pain. I stood before her, gasping.

“Go over there, and keep it hard,” Liza ordered, again.

Sheepishly, I stood in the corner, stroking my throbbing pole, feeling the ache.

Karla lost the first hand and had to take something off. She opted for her pants. That left her with some very nice panties into which she could slip the vibrator. I liked this girl. We kept looking at each other, as the next hand was dealt.

Poker

2009-01-18T22:02:00.000-08:00

“Come here,” she ordered. “Put your hands on your head.”
I complied.
“Now, girls…this is our slave,” she explained to the other three. “He will get you something to drink, or eat, any time you want. He will rub your shoulders. He will kiss you. He will go down on you. All you have to do is ask.”
“Right, slave?” she said, as she slapped my bare ass.
“Yes, master,” I replied, dutifully, but with a smirk on my face.
“You think this is funny?” she barked.
“No, master,” I replied, trying hard not to smirk.
“Girls, take your turn! He needs to be spanked,” she ordered.
She gazed at me. “Give them your ass,” she commanded. “And keep those hands on your head.”
The women were arranged around a table. They were there to play poker. I was there to keep them happy. I was wearing only a small apron that covered my front, but left my rear open. I walked up to Judy, who was giggling, nervously.
“Turn around,” she said, rather timidly.
When I did, she slapped my right cheek. She would have stopped with that little tap, but Liza ordered her to lay into me.
“Harder!” she urged Judy.
Judy obeyed, whapping my ass with a good swat that stung, but felt so good.
“Harder!” Liza said. “Make him know it! He thinks this is funny! Show him you mean it!”
Judy let one rip on my ass that, clearly, left a good mark. She gripped her hand and giggled. “Ouch, that hurt!” she said.
Next was Karla. She laid into me. Both cheeks were stinging by the time she was done. Amy was next. She was just as brutal. By the time I made it around the table, by ass was radiating enough heat to warm the room. I stood before Liza.
“I’m out of wine,” she observed. Go get us some more. “Drink up, girls!”
I walked into the kitchen while Liza dealt the cards. I returned in time to hear her lay out the rules:
“We’re playing blackjack, girls. Strip poker. The winner gets to call all the shots. ‘Mister Bare-butt,’ here is just part of the prize. If you lose, you have to masturbate for us. You can use ANYTHING you want. Any questions?”
Karla piped up, “Even him?”
Liza: “Of course.”
I had poured each woman some more wine, while Liza was talking. “Come here,” she ordered.
I stood at her side. She ordered me to put my hands on my head, again. “Keep them there,” she directed. I put my hands on the top of my head. She slid my apron around, so that that fabric covered my ass and my genitals were exposed. She bent down and sucked on me, in front of her guests. As they watched, my cock grew to its full stature. Liza held my balls in her hand and licked the head of my cock. When I was good and hard, she passed me on.
“Your turn,” she said to Judy.
Judy was fun. She gripped the base of my cock and clutched it, tightly, while she popped the head in and out, smacking and slurping, until Liza said, “Next.”
I moved to Karla. Karla took me all the way. I thought my legs would buckle and I would fall to the floor. She held me, deep in her throat, and swallowed. The gripping motion of her throat made me feel like I was being milked. The other girls clapped and cheered her on. She was a star! This could not last long, and Liza knew it. She ordered me to move on to Amy.
Amy looked at me. She smiled. She started jacking me off, holding my cock just shy of her beautiful, fruity, lips. She looked into my eyes, stabbed the tip of her tongue into the tiny hole of my rod and jerked my meat as if she wanted it all. I started breathing hard. This was just NOT going to last long. Liza ordered it to stop.
“Ok, slave, go stand over there and keep it hard. We’re gonna play some poker.”

Customer

2009-01-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

It was her first time. I could tell when she showed me the room. She was nervous, afraid that I wouldn’t approve. I tried to comfort her, by complimenting her on the open but intimate feel of the place, the bed, the corner heater, the blond wood floor. She asked me to get undressed and slip under the sheets. I happily obliged, anxious for her educated touch. She didn’t disappoint. Her fingers found all the right spots, sending spasms of delight through the deepest reaches of my flesh. Her hands glided over my buttocks, drawing me to her. The light poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I was exposed to her and to the world. My neck, shoulders, back, ass, legs, feet…parts of me flowed like hot butter below her. I was a pool into which she dove. She entered the surface without a ripple, the turbulence of her body swirling through me, driving my blood to the edge. Then, she was done. I lay there, in the warmth and light, breathing in the stillness, my body returning to itself.

Hair

2009-01-16T12:24:00.000-08:00

She came to me. I didn’t know her; I still don’t. I remember her hair. As I sit here, I can feel it spilling about my face as her back arched with each thrust, my hands gripping her small ass. It was that hair, the angry wild curls of Medusa falling across her back and tender shoulders, that made my guts spill into her. I envisioned my thick juice flowing through those curls, wrapping into them in a helical swirling ecstatic dance. I wanted her body like I wanted her hair, free and willing and uninhibited, and she gave all of that to me. She left me breathless, my fingers gripping the sheets, the feathers of her thick mane brushing forever through my thoughts.

Touchless

2009-01-14T16:52:00.000-08:00

The sun was flowing in the windows, bathing the wood floor and the furniture in honey light. It was late in the morning. I was alone. I was naked and didn’t really want to get dressed. I thought about a lot of things, but one thing that stood out in my mind was an afternoon in years past, when I was hanging out in my apartment, waiting for my lover to show up. She said she’d be there around 3:00 p.m. I was going to get primed.

Cindy was her name. I had fallen in love with her in college, and we had moved from Wisconsin to Oregon to pursue our respective professional dreams. I was in science; she was in art. She lived on a farm outside of town, where she could work in some old man’s vegetable garden in the nude on hot summer days. I worked, in town, in a ski shop. She had strong legs and shoulders, large breasts that browned in the sun, thick Scandinavian hair to the middle of her back, and sapphire eyes. We were young and into exploring the sensual sides of ourselves.

Cindy was on her way. I had a little pot that I thought might put me in a good frame of mind. I stripped down and smoked a bowl. It was about 2:30. By 2:45, I was sinking deep into myself, feeling my inner self, focusing on myself. By 2:50, I was feeling my outer self. I sat on the bed, cross-legged, leisurely stroking, thinking of the moment Cindy would knock on the door. The more I stroked, however, the less I thought of Cindy, and the more I thought of how good it felt to stroke.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d flogged my dick for years. It always felt good. But, here I was, naked, sitting cross-legged on my bed, high as Mt. Everest, waiting for Cindy’s wet pussy, with a hard-on that felt like a baseball bat. I didn’t want to cum, because I wanted to fuck Cindy’s lights out and spill an incredible load inside (or outside) her. So, I just kept up this incredibly maddeningly slow rhythm on my cock. I would pump until I almost spilled my load, then stop until the intensity subsided. Then, I would start the process all over. In my mind, this took a few minutes. Clearly, however, I lost track. By 4:00, I was still naked, with an aching stick between my legs, and Cindy was nowhere in sight. I fell onto my side and went to sleep, my dick wilting in my grip.
I remembered this incident, years later, as I walked around my house, in the late morning. I had always wondered what it might be like to make myself cum without actually touching my cock. I remembered the intensity of the feelings I had had, in that college-grade apartment, years earlier. I remembered what it was like to bring myself to the brink, without allowing the floodgates to open. I wanted to recreate that intensity. This time, however, I could not touch my cock. That was the rule.

The gear: contoured butt plug, rubber dildo, lubricant, my favorite movie. Just the thought of what I was going to try made me hard. That was a good start. I lubed up the plug and eased it into my ass. It pressed firmly against my prostate and I could feel the pressure building inside of me. I sat on the couch and turned on the movie. It was one of those “Shane’s World” movies, full of beautiful kids in exotic places having uninhibited fun. As some young stallion pumped his meat deep into a lovely mare’s pussy, I moved my hips in concert. My hands were up on the back of the couch. I couldn’t touch. My cock was long and tight, swaying side to side, slapping against my belly, as I thrust in time with the guy in the movie, listening to the joyful squeals of his lover. The plug in my ass drove the liquid out of my gland and into the root of my rod. The pleasure was intense and somewhat maddening. For about half an hour, I gyrated on the couch, hoping I could tip myself over the edge. The head of my cock was dark with blood, and smooth, straining against its nerve-buzzing skin. If I had reached down to touch, I would have shot like a geyser. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I had to bring out the big gun.

I stood up and removed the plug. Clear syrup beaded at the tip of my member as it arched through the air. I lubed up the dildo and slid it deep into my rear. The feeling was of the deep guttural groaning type. Damn, that felt good! I could envision just why gay men have so much fun. The sensation could make me insatiable. I started pumping the long slab of realistically-fashioned rubber in and out of me, standing in front of the television set, watching some guy getting sucked off by two gorgeous sets of lips. I pumped hard. The oil in my well worked its way to the end of the derrick, spilling down the sides in a long, slow, seep. I couldn’t get myself to erupt; it just wasn’t happening. I pumped harder and faster, my rigid muscle flailing in the morning light, my balls tight against my body. Finally, I had to admit defeat. I couldn’t make myself cum without touching; it just wasn’t going to happen. As delicious and consuming as the feeling was, the final blast was going to need some help.

I pulled the long probe out of my ass, and fell into the couch. I reached down and grabbed my cock, pumping it madly. Instantly, a torrent of cum flew up and hit my chin, splashing against my neck and chest. The next shot coated my belly. I was bathed, lying there in the caressing light of the morning, my stomach in spasms and my chest heaving.

Trial by Daydream

2009-01-14T11:22:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know I’m not the world’s greatest attorney. My mind wanders. I can’t help it;
the rest of my life is too damn good.

“Good morning, your Honor.”

Judge: “So, what are the issues from the claimant’s perspective?”

Other Attorney: “Well, your Honor, the claimant......

.......The morning arrived like a subtle hint of her aroma. Fairies danced across my skin. I
woke up slowly, and rolled over in the wadded sheets, baring my legs to the muffled warmth of
the morning sun, and smiled. Motes of dust, small worlds, sparkled in the air. She -- her touch,
her fragrance, the warmth of her breath -- always it was she on my mind. She was coming over,
was on her way. There was a pit in my stomach, a good pit, not one of those dread things, but a
gathered-up rubberband ball of energy that begged for bursting. I envisioned her crotch, nervous and damp, trapped in the seat of her car like a small animal. I lay there, fondling myself, lightly tracing the ridged underside of my turgid tool, tugging on the head, feeling, feeling, feeling....The liquid sun drooled, like saliva, across my stomach, cock and upper thighs. The pressure in my bladder added a certain urgency. Should I jack off, or take a leak? It would have been easy to give a few good jerks and have cum flying all over my belly, but that’s not how I wanted the feelings to end, and I knew that she would feel cheated if she found out.....

“......agree that those are the issues?”

Me: “Huh? Oh, yes your Honor.”

Judge: “Does the employer have any cross-issues?”

“None, your Honor.”

Judge: “Does the claimant have any witnesses?”

Other Attorney: “Yes, your Honor, we call Ms. Smith.” (Pause while witness approaches
the stand)

Judge (to witness): “Please raise your right hand. Do you......”

........Pissing is such great fun. This hot stuff running like lava down the long tube,
snapping through the opening of the urethra, bursting into the air and into the toilet bowl. All the while, there is this sucking, squeezing, collapsing feeling in the gut as the bladder implodes and relaxes. Ahhh...what a liberating sensation. Reminded me of peeing on her tummy, in her wild hair, in the desert -- another story.

I knew her routine. She would take a languid shower, using the opportunity to glide her
hands through the soap on that mocha skin stretched like latex across her muscles and sinews and bones. She liked touching herself, reaffirming her internal vision of herself. She would slip her delicate fingers along her arms and legs, across her ribs and seamless, brown, buttocks. She
would cup her plump, fruity, breasts and hold them up like offerings to the feast. Her hands
would roam down her belly to her smooth pussy, teasing.......

“Objection! Calls for speculation.”

Judge: “Sustained......”

After the shower -- a long deliberate towelling, followed by a slathering of juniper-scented oil. She would stay naked until it was time to leave, looking at her lithe body in mirrors as she walked through her house, picking up clothes, feeding the cats, nervously arranging the catalogs and magazines on the end table. Finally, with seconds to go, she would throw on the barely micro-mini skirt and sheer bikini top that had been draped over the back of the couch the night before. At 10:00 a.m. she climbed into her car, toenail polish in hand. The gas pedal and brake would feel sensual on her bare feet, the air rushing into her wet hair makng her shiver, the sun on her arms and shoulders like warm butterscotch. I pictured her, wriggling in her seat, the
slickening folds of her pussy nuzzling against her anxious clitoris. I imagined the wad of nerves in her stomach expanding and aching until she pulled up to the front of my house.

The air was still and hot when I heard the scraping of her car’s brakes. (Time to change
those brake shoes, I thought). It was 10:14 am (I was counting). The sun-warmed sidewalk
caressed the bottom of her feet as she padded to the front door. I was waiting, bladder empty,
prostate primed....

Judge: “Any cross?”

Me: “Yes. Thank you. Now, Ms Smith, you didn’t witness the accident, correct?”

Witness: “No, but I heard about it.”

Me: “From your husband, correct?”

Witness: “Ummm....yes.”

Me: “The same husband who was recently released from prison after serving time for
check forgery, correct?”

Witness: Yes, but.....

Me: “That’s all I have, your Honor.”

Judge: “Any redirect?”

Other Attorney: “Yes, your Honor.........

.........Before she could knock, I opened the door and invited her in. The look on her face
was one of tentative aggression. She stood there for an awkward moment, trying not to watch
my cock jerk upward with each beat of my heart.

“It’s a medical condition,” I explained.

She stepped in. The house was shaded and cool, the morning air washing like the waxing
tide through the open double - glass doors in back. She stood just inside the door and watched
my buns leading the way into the kitchen. Michael Franks was playing in the background --
something about making love in the backyard on a hot summer’s day. I turned. My cock was
arching toward my chin. Her eyes were momentarily glued upon it. She moved quietly across the thick space between us and stood before me, her hands behind her back, her swelling breasts stretching the thin fabric that pretended to cover them......

Judge: “Anything more?”

Me: “Uhhhh....no your Honor.”

Judge (to witness): “You may step down. Counsel, another witness?”

Other Attorney: “Yes, your Honor. I’ll call the claimant.”

Judge (to witness): “You may take a seat. Please raise your.....”

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” I crooned, as I unclasped her top. She arched her back as the
material slid away from her and fell to the floor. Her breasts were ripe and full. They fell into my cupped hands, warm and weighty. The dark brown nipples jutted toward my lips. I loosened her skirt. It dropped to the floor. She stood there, gloriously naked, her legs visibly shaking, while I cradled both breasts in my hands and bent down to savor each one.... The taste was saltysweet, with a mild scent of sweat and juniper. Dionysus had nothing on me.

Still holding her breasts I kissed her lips -- small kisses, butterfly wings, tropical raindrops. I flirted with her lips, licking them (as I intended to lick all of her), thrusting the tip of my tongue into her small cock-head mouth. I squeezed and pulled on her nipples. She sucked my tongue into her mouth and arched her back, pushing her chest out, offering her naked body to me.
“Come on, I’ll show you your throne.” I took her by the hand and lead her out, through
the glass doors, into the bright backyard. Lawn chairs, a blanket, colorful flowers, oil, champagne glasses, towels -- the stage for her indulgence was set. The muffled shush of traffic in the distance, the gleeful squeals of children in the playground down the street, boats motoring out on the bay, Latin and rock music from the neighboring houses, rock doves conversing on the roof -- a white cacophony of noise -- enveloped our bodies like the subtle comfort of a favorite blanket. A slow simmer of air rippled through the palms.

“Take a seat,” I offered. “I’ll get the champagne and be right back.”

She sank into a chair and watched my ass as I walked away from her. The sun was hot at
10:30 am. Brush grass poked and warmed the soles of my feet as I left her and strode into the
kitchen. I returned with a bottle of cold champagne, my turgid cock swaying from side to side,
the dark hair on my chest reflecting the sun. I stood before her and twisted the cork out of the
bottle, then filled two glasses. After setting the bottle down, I knelt in front of her, in the grass,
and grabbed the oil. I poured it on her chest. It ran thick and warm, down her belly, pooling into
her bejewelled navel, spilling over into the naked folds of her soaking crotch. I smeared the oil
across her shoulders and down each arm. I lubricated her nipples, sliding my fingers around and
around and around. Then, down across her delicate ribcage and her glistening flat tummy I trailed my fingers. Her breathing followed the rhythym of my stroking hands, her body moved back and forth as it chased the sensation of my roaming fingers.

A thin line of oil was poured down each leg, from thigh to foot. My hands ran the length
of her strong, sensual legs until they, too, shone in the sun. My hands slid to the thick floodgates
of flesh that surround her pussy. I gently, slowly, spread the oil. The skin was baby soft, swollen, hot. Her legs parted, a little bit, a little more. Her clit peeked out, hardening, glowing like an ember. I massaged her labia, squeezing, pulling, pressing the swollen flesh. The dance was slow, to music only we could hear. No words needed to be spoken, but I knew she wanted them.

“You are a wanton little slut, aren’t you?” She nodded. “You want to be fucked hard,
don’t you?” She nodded. “You want me to grab your legs and lift them over your head and drive
my stiff cock into you until my balls slap your ass, right?” She groaned flung her legs apart, as far as they could go, opening herself to me completely, totally. A drop of clear liquid hung like a
jewel at the opening of her pussy. My fingers circled her button, close but not touching. I
caught the jewell on the tip of a finger and licked it off, chasing the pungent earthsea saltiness of it with a swig of champagne. My cock was straining in its skin, as I knelt in front of her splayed
body. A clear drop of pre-cum dropped like syrup into the grass, leaving a viscous gossamer
thread that dangled in the air, flicking with each beat of my heart......

Judge: “Any cross?”

Me (clearing throat, shifting in chair, rearranging penis): “Ummm.....Yes, your Honor.”

“You injured your back when you slipped and fell in your motel room, correct?”

Claimant: “Yes sir.”

Me: “And no one witnessed this fall, correct?”

Claimant: “No one else was in the room.”

Me (shifting again): “And you didn’t tell your employer about this incident until elk
season started, about six months later, correct?”

Claimant: “Yeah, well...well, I thought it’d just go away, but the pain just kept getting
worse.”

Me: “And the first time you saw a doctor about anything was about two months after this
fall, correct?”

Claimant: “Uhhh...well, I don’t remember when exactly.”

Me: “Well, the records indicate that you went to Dr. Hack on July 3. Does that ring a
bell?”

Claimant: “Yeah.”

Me: “And that was for a physical examination to see if you were fit for work in the
slaughter house, correct?”

Claimant: “Yeah.”

Me: “And you didn’t say anything to Dr. Hack about any low back problems, correct?”

Claimant: “I don’t recall.”

Me: “In fact, Dr. Hack said you were capable of lifting up to 100 pounds, didn’t he?”

Claimant: “I don’t recall.”

Me: “And you told Dr. Hack that you had never felt better in your whole life, correct?”

Claimant: “I don’t recall.”

Me: “You took that job at the slaughter house, correct?”

Claimant: “Yes, I’m still working there.”

Me: “Nothing further, your Honor......”

........Her breathing was deep, and her hips pressed forward, ever so slightly, each time my
fingers grazed her clit. She could have been impatient. She could have asked for my cock at any
time. But, she loved this long, langorous, teasing, this aching want. The sun blanketed our naked bodies in its rising heat. A small bead of sweat ran between her browning tits. Very slowly, I ran my fingers over the head of her clit. One ... two ... three ... four ...stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke. Then, a quick couple of flicks, back and forth across its slippery surface. She groaned and the tension began to build. I backed off --- one ... two ... three ... four .... Deliberately, measuring the magnitude of her reactions, I brought her to the edge again and again. She had to cum, to explode. It was sweetly killing her. She tried, desperately, but couldn’t spread her limbs any further apart. Her chest was heaving, deeply. Her nipples were pebbles, threatening to pop off of the hillocks of her shining breasts, sweat glimmered all over her body. I stopped....

“Take a drink,” I ordered, “and don’t spill a drop.” She looked at me, dreamily, and
reached out, weakly, for her glass. She moved it to her slighly parted lips and started to pour the

elixir into her mouth. As the sweetness began to run into her trembling mouth, I rubbed her
aching clitoris, hard and fast. Her mouth flew open, her neck muscles strained, her legs quivered
uncontrollably, and her hips lurched as wave after wave of sweet orgasm wracked her body. The wine of her body flooded out of her and she cried out, filling the still air with the music of her
ecstasy and release. The palm trees and bougainvillea soaked up the sound. Not a drop of
champagne was wasted......

Judge: “Anything more from this witness?”

Other Attorney: “Nothing, your Honor.”

Judge (to Claimant): “You may step down. Any further witnesses?”

Other Attorney: “No, your Honor. Claimant rests.”

Judge: “Any defense witnesses?”

Me (taking my hand out of my crotch, shifting in seat again): “No, your Honor, the
defense rests.”

Judge: “Are we ready for closing argument?”

Other Attorney: “Yes, your Honor. May we take a short break, first?”

Judge: “Certainly. Let’s take a ten minute break and we’ll reconvene for closing.”

Me (hand back in crotch): “Sounds fine to me......”

......I settled back and watched as she gradually recovered. She was so absolutely angelic,
with rivulets of sweat on her face and breasts, her hair flat and wet against her forehead. Her
chest was still heaving and her hips still ground into her chair. I took a sip of champagne. “Did
that feel good?” I teased. She took a sip from her glass and pierced me with her silky eyes. “I
want more,” she growled.

“Well,” I replied, “I think you ordered a shaving, if I remember correctly. I’ll be right
back.” I rose and returned to the house. Moments later I returned with a bucket of warm water, some shaving cream, a washcloth and a razor.

“Now, just relax,” I cautioned. “I don’t want to have to call 9-1-1.” Once again, I kneeled in front of her. My cock was aching. Each vein was etched in relief along its surface. It’s color was of partly-cooked meat, reddish-brown. Her torture had been, also, my torture. The plumhead was engorged, spreading wide, taut against its skin. She stared at it while I lathered up one of her legs, from crotch to ankle. Carefully, I ran the razor down her leg in long strokes, shaving it smooth. The process was repeated with the other leg. I had her move forward in the lawn chair and spread her legs wide. Her lovely peachfruit was shamelessly open before me. Every fold was thick and shining with her cum. I slathered shaving cream all over and, very carefully, shaved her labia, her pubic mound and all around her asshole. When I was finished, there was not a hair in sight. The skin was smooth as oil on rubber. I wiped her clean with the warm washcloth.
Admiring my work, I sat back and took a drink of cold champagne. Then, I bent down and sucked her clitoris into my cold mouth. The sensation sent a jolt through her body and she
groaned in approval. Champagne spilled out of my mouth and ran into her orifices, cool and
sensual. My tongue began a deliberately torturous exploration of every fold and bump and crack and hole. I licked from her ass to her clit in slow motion, my saliva mixing with her juice and the
champagne to create an intoxicating liquor. “I could spend all day doing this,” I purred.
She watched me with her deep, half-closed, eyes. “Please do,” she implored, offering her
pussy to my mouth.

She was slouched in the beach chair, her arms thrown over her head. I reached out and
played with her nipples, pulling them gently each time my tongue ran over the nub of your clit.
She nonchalantly took a long drink of champagne. “Don’t stop this,” she murmered.

By 11:30 am the sun was like a furnace. Sweat ran down my back and chest. I sprayed us both with cool water, took a sip of champagne, then returned to pleasuring her. “Ready to cum?” I asked, with a grin.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “This feels so good, I don’t want it to stop.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” I smile. “I won’t make you cum too fast.” I filled her glass with champagne. I tickled her perfect butthole with my tongue, then dipped into her creamy pussy. Next, I moved up to her soaked clit. Gently, I popped it into my mouth and flicked my tongue, quickly, until your hips begin to rise and legs tighten. I stopped. She lay there, panting, on the edge. “You fucking bastard! God, that feels good!!”

I began the process over, starting with her cute little asshole and working up to her rigid
little button. Over and over, I brought her to the edge, then backed off to let her roll back. She
wanted to cum so badly, and I knew it. I had her right where I wanted her, and she knew it. And loved it.

Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. She begged, “Please do it.”

“Do what?” I teased.

“I need to cum .... please make....me ....cum,” she begged, in between short gasps.....

Judge: “Okay ---

Me (mumbling): “Damn.”

Judge: “What, counsel?”

Me (blinking, stalling, clearing throat): “Oh, sorry your Honor --- nothing.”

Judge: “Do we need to record closing?”

Me: “No, your Honor.”

Other Attorney: “Not necessary for Claimant.”

Judge: “Okay, we’re off the record then. You may proceed, counsel.”

Other Attorney: “Your Honor, Claimant was injured on.....”

“.......OK,” I mumbled, her aching clit resting on my tongue. “Pick up your glass and,
remember, don’t spill a drop.”

Obediently, she picked up her champagne. I pulled on both of her brown, oily, nipples and rolled them around in my fingers while, at the same time, I unleashed a fury of tongue flicks on her love button. Her hips rose from the chair and she thrusted her pussy to the sky. She
screamed as an enormous orgasm stole all control. Her free hand was in my hair, pulling me into
her crotch. She could hardly get her breath as convulsion after convulsion jolted her body. Her
cries were music; she was a piece of performance art.

Her head rolled from side to side as she came down. Her grapefruit-half breasts were
riding the waves of her breathing, her tight stomach was streaked with sweat and oil. I couldn’t
help but stroke my aching dick as I took in her beauty. I wanted to cum badly, to let the white
stuff stream across the folds of her pussy.

I sat in the chair next to her and took a long drink of champagne. She was silent for a
long time. The hissing and roaring traffic on the nearby freeway, and the small “chipping” chatter of hummingbirds in the flowers were the only sounds. “Damn, that was intense,” she finally sighed. “I’d swear you know just what I need.”

“I only react to your response,” I replied. “You came here to have fun, and I’m going to
make sure you have fun. Ready to have your toes painted?”

She smiled and took a gulp of champagne. “Sure.”

I rose out of my chair and kneeled in front of her, again. I took the warm washcloth and
washed the oil off her nails. Her toes were small and lovely. I sucked each one into my mouth
and ran my tongue around in circles. She watched me, sipping her wine, lazily running her fingers across your clit. After her feet were thoroughly cleaned, I blew on them until the nails were dry. Then, one by one, I painted them. She lay back in the beach chair and closed her eyes, slowly masturbating while I spread the polish evenly, from nail to nail. When I was finished I screwed the top back on the polish and refilled our glasses with the last of the champagne.
It was 12:30 by this time and the sun was cooking the juices out of us. I sprayed us with
water until we were soaked. Then, still kneeling in front of her, I pulled her hips to the edge of
the chair. She opened her legs, inviting me in. I rested the tip of my cock at the entrance of her
cum - filled pussy. Gazing into her half - open, golden, eyes, I pulled on her nipples while, inch -
by - inch, I slid deep into her. I felt like I was being swallowed. She was so tight and hot inside.
I pulled out slowly, until the head of my meat nearly dropped out of her. Her juices shone on my
pole as I slowly entered her again. I pushed until I felt her cervix brushing the tip of my cock.
We were dripping with oil and sweat. Her breath began to quicken. She stared at me, her
bedroom eyes widening. I knew she was building to another climax, and it was coming quickly.
“Take your champagne,” I ordered, “and don’t spill a drop.” Obediently, she complied.
Then, she got this sly grin on her face as I picked up speed, pumping in and out of her in long
strokes.......

Judge: “Counsel?”

Judge (again): “Counsel?”

Me (focussing, putting both hands on table): “Yes, your Honor. Let me begin by saying
that the story that has been fabricated for you is simply not borne out by the medical record.
Keep in mind that Claimant is a convicted felon, that the nature of his crime reflects directly on his credibility. Also, keep in mind that this alleged fall, in which Claimant so severely injured his back, was in a motel room and was unwitnessed. Also, note that this alleged back problem did not arise as a medical problem until hunting season started in the fall. Claimant did not report his alleged injury to his prior employer until months after its alleged occurrence. When he did see a doctor, in July, he was feeling just fine. In fact, he told the doctor he’d never felt better. He took a job working for a slaughterhouse and meat packing plant, where he is required to lift weights up to 100 pounds. This claim simply is not compensable and you should affirm the employer’s denial. That’s all I have, your Honor.”

Judge: “Thank you, counsel. Rebuttal?”

Other Attorney: “Yes, your Honor. Defense counsel........”

“......What ... oh, god .... what ... uh .... happens .... oh shit! ... when ... FUCK! ...if ...uh ... uh... I ... oh, god ... spill ... oh, FUCK! .... a drop ... Shit!!” she asked.

I grabbed her ankles and spread her legs and drove into her, holding back my cum. “Then ... I ... fill ... your ... pussy ... with a ... nice ... big ... dildo ... and I ... fill ...your ...cute ... little ...ass ... with ... my ... cock ... and I ... fuck you ... ‘til you ... scream.”

With that, she started to cum. I held her hips and ground her clit into me. She raised the
glass of champagne to her lips and, smiling wickedly, cried out with pleasure and laughed as she
poured the liquid all over her face, our wet and slippery crotches pounding together, her body
twitching like a fish on the end of a line.

“Naughty girl,” I growled into her ear as I lifted her up out of her chair, my stiff cock still
clutched deep within her pussy, and carried her into the house. Lifting her small body off my
gleaming pole, I set her on the floor, turned her around and bend her over the dining room table.
“Don’t move,” I ordered.

She waited, bent over, her oily breasts pressed against the cool table top. I returned with
the dildo and a tube of Astroglide. I set them on the table next to her, then kneeled between her
legs and spread them wide. I sucked on her pussy and drove my tongue into her holes, tasting the pungent saltiness of her body, lapping up the slickness that oozed from her. She responded by wiggling her delectable ass in my face. I took the hint and gently pressed the dildo into her pussy, as far as it would go. It filled her with its cool, smooth, soft texture. I moved it in and out of her, in short, teasing, strokes, while I opened the Astroglide and ran a stream of its viscosity down the cleavage of her tight little butt. I pulled the dildo almost all the way out and, as I slid it, slowly, back into her body, I slipped the middle finger of my other hand deep into her ass. She took a quick breath and gripped the edge of the table. Spreading her legs, she shoved her fruity bottom into the air each time I pulled my finger out.

After a few minutes of this, I gently slid two fingers up her hole, stretching and reaming
her. She sucked in her breath, but the dildo pumping in and out felt so good and, together, the
sensations made her head spin. She started to moan with each alternating thrust of dildo and
fingers. I took my fingers out. She knew what was coming next. She was open and willing and
waiting, standing there, bent over my table with her painted toenails on the cool wood floor and
your ass in the air. I drizzled a thin thread of Astroglide down the length of my cock and moved
in behind her. The tip of my penis slightly touched her ass. It was like a spark. She pressed
backward into it, wanting it inside. I pressed the head into the tight opening and pushed. She
stopped breathing. “Push out, push out, push out.” I popped past the tight ring of her asshole
and slipped inside. I stopped and waited until she was used to me. We stood perfectly still except for the finger on my hand that gently circled her bulging clitoris. With the other hand, I slide the dildo out to the end. I waited until she told me what she wanted.

“Fuck me,” she growled. “Fuck my ass and make me cum.”

“What did you say?”

I slid my dick and the dildo deep inside of her and waited.

“Fuck me, please,” she begged.

“How do you want it?”

“HARD!” she yelled.

“So, what do you want?”

“I want you to FUCK me REAL HARD!!” she yelled in near anger and frustration.

I grabbed her hips and drove into her ass, again and again, harder and harder. We were
pushing the large dining room table across the floor with each thrust. She was on her lovely
painted toes, clutching at the edge of the table, throwing her hair into the air.

“Oh god!! Yesss!!” she screamed. “Fuck me! .... Fuck me! ... stuff me with that cock ....
Cum! ... Cum! ... I ... Oh, Yesss!!! ....

I felt the power building deep within me. It felt like a dam about ready to burst. She was
outrageous in her orgasms. Her feet and arms flailed wildly, uncontrollably, and her tossed from
side to side. I drove into her like a machine. She was crying, the tears streaming out of her, as
wave after wave of sensation and emotion passed over her. She was an animal, nothing but raw
nerves and passion.

The cum boiled up inside of me. It felt like it started at my feet. It burned through my
cock and erupted into her ass with such force that I was left weak. I was delirious as I pumped
load after creamy load into her. Long after the last of my white cream had spilled from my aching balls, I continued to push into her body. I didn’t ever want to come out; I wanted to be sucked inside of her, to become a part of her, to swim through the sea of our liquids, to drink it and tasted it and cover myself with it. I collapsed over the top of her, and we lay there, together, on the table, our chests heaving, until my flaccid cock dropped out of her and a thin, white, stream of cum escaped and dripped off her clit onto the floor.

We lay together, spent, our breathing slowing. I eased off of her, reached between her
sopping legs and pulled the dildo out of her, gently. She didn’t move. I took her by the hand and
led her down the hallway to the bathroom. We climbed, sleepily, into a warm shower together.
She stared at me, silently, as I lathered her body from head to toe. When she was covered with
soap I held her close. Her breasts slid across my chest as I kissed her. Our tongues entwined, my cock stiffened again and burned into her belly. She grabbed it in her hand and pumped it, slowly,
while we kissed. I reached between her legs and slid my fingers between the thick folds of her
swollen labia. Her clit was hard, again, wanting more. We stood together, in the shower, kissing, licking, moaning, masturbating each other until we reached the edge. We stared into each others’ eyes and came together. My thick cream splashed across her tummy. I wanted to collapse. So did she. We giggled and clutched onto each other, to steady ourselves. Such delightful insatiability. We wanted, but it was simply physically impossible.

I turned the water off. We stepped out, and I dried her off with tender swipes of the
towel. We stood in front of the mirror together, smiling at ourselves, at our comfortable
nakedness, at our mutual sexual appetite.

“Damn, that was good,” she purred, with a smile.

“Sure,” I teased, “that’s what you tell all the boys.”

We walked into the kitchen where I helped her climb into her skirt and put her top on. I
held her one last time and kissed her deeply. “You have the prettiest toes on the planet,” I said.
“Let me know if you ever need a touch-up.”

She walked out my front door, tanned, polished, weak, sore and totally satisfied......

Judge: “Okay, the records closed. I will try to have an order out in thirty days. Thank
you, counsel.”

Me (releasing my grip): “Thank YOU, your Honor.”

Photo Session

2009-01-12T07:01:00.000-08:00

Sitting in my office, I think of the walk up the path to the towering basalt columns that make up Horsethief Butte. I led the way, the expedition leader, in a sense. After all, I talked Brian, the photographer, and Jeanie, the model, to come to this place. It was a warm day along the Columbia Gorge and I was anxious on the drive, hoping that we might have the butte to ourselves. This was, after all, scheduled to be the backdrop for scenes of sexual eroticism, and I
did not want insensitive intruders. As we pulled to a stop, along the road, I was relieved to see that there were no other cars.

Jeanie, Brian and I had each had a glass of wine on the drive and were feeling warm inside. We talked about the beauty of the place as we walked. I was somewhat nervous, but comfortable with what I had planned. Jeanie giggled every once in awhile, revealing that she,
too, had a butterfly or two in her stomach.

The walk was not far and we soon stood within the circle of stone that rims the butte and creates a natural corral on the interior. I remembered a tree that grew in a corner of the corral. It was tucked into a small indentation in the rock wall and had a low-slung branch that would serve as a prop in the first series of shots. I walked up to the tree and visually checked the branch.

“Jeanie, come here a minute,” I said with a smile. My heart was beginning to beat into my crotch as she walked toward me. Jeanie is a friend/lover of Brian’s and he had described her to me. He was right about the pert, young breasts and the small, firm ass. He failed to tell me about her over-all beauty, however. Long ringlets of shining dark hair framed a small, delicate, face with full lips, a thin button nose and blue eyes that a man could swim in, completed the exquisite picture. I was in love at first sight. She sauntered up to me.

“Here,” I directed, “see if you can reach this branch.” She smiled as she easily reached up and grasped onto the smooth bark. She almost had to raise up on her toes.

“Like this?” she asked, with a tease in her voice that told me she knew what was coming.
Jeanie was a professional dominatrix, by trade. She knew all about teasing.

“How’s this spot?” I turned and asked Brian.

“This is great,” he said, enthusiastically. “Let me check the lighting.”

Without a word, Jeanie and I pulled off our shorts and t-shirts and stood together in the
late morning sun, while Brian took light meter readings against our skin. He stepped back and
adjusted his camera, took the lense cap off and positioned himself. “O.K.,” he said, “let’s see
what you had in mind.”

“You wouldn’t want to see what’s in my mind,” I joked.

“Sure I would.”

“Alright, Jeanie,” I said, “grab the branch with both hands.” She did as I directed.

“Now,” I whispered, “try to hang on.”

I stood behind her and kissed her neck and earlobes, touching her only with my lips and
slowly rising cock. She immediately reacted, moving her head back and from side to side,
pushing her rear into my body.

I reached around with both hands and lightly traced the undersides of her taut breasts. I
circled her areolas, feeling the nipples harden, hearing her breathing become more rapid.
I buried a kiss and a small bite into her neck while, at the same time, rolling her nipples
between my thumbs and forefingers. Jeanie’s hips lurched and shook and she groaned. I dug
the fingers of one hand ito that soft space between her belly button and crotch and pulled her into my body.

Brian’s camera was very busy. “Keep going,” he said, “I’ve got to put in a new roll. You guys are great, just great.”

Jeanie was saying about the same thing. “God, this is great. I can’t remember when I’ve
been so hot,” she murmured in between moans.

I ran my tongue down her back and down into the soft crevasse of her butt. I trailed my hands down her front, from her breasts to her hips. Next, I reached through her legs with one hand, tickling her soaked labia as I went. Her ass muscles were shaking as my hand smeared her
juice all over her crotch. I pressed the heel of my hand into the opening of her vagina, forcing
her engorged clit between two of my outstretched fingers. Then, I rocked my hand back and
forth, gently, while I licked and nibbled the smooth young skin of her rear. Whenever I thought
she might come, I stopped the rocking motion until she settled down.

“You are fucking teasing me to death,” she cried. “I need to come. Uugh! God . . . oh
. . . this is . . . uugh . . .fucking GREAT!”

“Hold on Jeanie, don’t let go,” I coached, as I moved around to one side of her. I cupped
one side of her head and plunged my tongue deep into one of her ears while, simultaneously,
flicking her dripping clit. She took a deep breath and held it and I knew she was ready to burst,
so I withdrew from her.

“You bastard!” she growled as her hips shook. “Just wait . . . you’re next.”

“Oh,” I teased, as I sucked a nipple into my mouth, “and what are you going to do to
me?” I moved over and sucked the other one. “How many times can you come in one day?”

“Forever, you fucker,” she whined. “I need to cum now . . . please let me cum now.”

“Promise you’ll do it again?” I tormented her.

“Yesss . . . you fucker . . . hurry . . . make me cum.”

When I stepped back from her, she looked absolutely frantic and absolutely heavenly. A
thin trickle of sweat ran from her beaded chest to her belly. I crouched in front of her, spread her pussy with my fingers and slowly licked her little nub . . . once . . . twice (she was shaking and every muscle in her long legs tightened) . . . three times, then unleashed a flurry on her clit that
sent her into convulsions of pleasure. She cried out again and again, throwing her head from side to side. She was up on her toes, grinding her sopping pussy into my tongue. My tongue was on her like a vibrator, and I kept it up until she literally collapsed on top of me, her chest heaving, her legs unable to support her.

“That was outrageous,” Brian exclaimed. “I almost did it in my pants.”

“Don’t waste it,” ordered Jeanie.

This Shit is Bananas

2009-01-11T12:49:00.000-08:00

It’s January, I’m in Palm Springs, the temperature is in the 70’s, my daughter’s riding her horse at Indio. What do I do with all of this time? The Santa Rosa Mountains are looming to the southwest; I want to explore them, climb them. I’m not going to waste precious moments watching horses shit and run around in circles. I take off for the hills.

A week before, I’d severely sprain my ankle while running railroad ties. When I sprained it, I cried out in pain and sat down. I was a mile into my run and had more to go, so I ran another….no, hobbled another….two miles. By the time I got home, my ankle was twice its size and my foot was swollen down to the toes. In a couple of days the whole foot looked like a bloody corpse.

So, there I was in the Santa Rosas, intent on climbing a 4,000 foot peak, in the nude. After all, I was going to take advantage of the sun. In my trail shoes, I struck out. There were no trails; this was a climb through scree and cactus, on a goat path. The cactus, of course, posed some rather interesting threats, given my state of dress. As I made my way down the path, I had an epiphany; I could be lacerated to death and the search and rescue people would find me, somewhere on the side of a mountain, naked. The thought was hilarious, and as I stumbled through the rocks, in my birthday suit, with an ankle the size of a grapefruit, I began to realize how funny the whole thing was. I started singing Stephani’s tune….”This shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S,” at the top of my lungs, laughing all the way.

Desert Run

2009-01-10T07:24:00.000-08:00

The morning was cool in the desert. The sun washed mango orange against the distant mountains, a harbinger of warmth. I walked, barefoot around my campsite, waiting for the coffee water to boil. The earth was solid and cold beneath my feet, but comforting in its grainy hardness. Dust worked its way up between my toes. The hiss of the heating water was the only sound. I was anxious for it to stop, so I could listen to the silence.

I strolled about my camp, taking photos of the desert as it transformed before the rising sun. Awakening in the stillness, the greasewood and sage in Ralph Lauren hues of deep green/blue/brown/tan, the line between earth and sky in stark and unambiguous contrast. Soon the water was bubbling and I poured it into the cone filter and turned the stove off. Now, the soft breath of the morning air brushing past my ears was the only sound.

With coffee in hand I stood contemplating the sun, as it peered over the hills to the east and flowed like thick syrup over me and the desert. As the air warmed, so did I, and my clothing lightened until it was no more. The sweet radiance of the sun warmed my skin alive. I tied on my running shoes, stood and stretched, ran my hands over my naked body and took off running. I ran to the east, into the rising. I ran through the heating scent of sage and creosote. I ran lightly toward the hills. The air flowed around me and through me. I felt as free as the pronghorn antelope, the golden eagles and the coyotes that called the place home. I felt like part of the desert, the land of the ancient Paiutes.

I ran up into the hills, sweat beading on my body, my lungs burning in the high desert air. I explored an ancient river bed and gazed out over prehistory like one of the ancient ones who used to live there. Mirages of another world passed before me as the desert floor heated, rising into the deep azure sky. I stood, my body a fragile flash of light in the limitless expanse, an untamed animal returned to its home.

Seeds

2009-01-09T22:29:00.000-08:00

This is not so much an erotic story as it is a story about the development of eroticism.

In 1964, I was ten years old. I lived in a small Midwestern community where my father worked as the town doctor. The town had about 1,200 inhabitants in it, and everyone heard you fart in the morning.

I developed a friendship with another boy, which is not unusual. Actually, there was a small pack of us who used to run through the woods, along the creek, and play "cowboys and indians." One of the group was a bit more adventurous than the others and he, and I, spent some hot afternoons playing naked in the creek. We would just float in the cool water, while the air above us was thick with humidity and mosquitoes. I will always remember the sensuality of it all; the cool water rushing around my unclothed skin, the grinding sand on my bottom. We had great fun. There was nothing sexual about this. I still had never had an erection and didn't know what it was. It was all about doing something a little naughty but, oh so fun.

This friend had a "dirty" magazine that he had found somewhere. It was full of 8"x 10" black & white photos of women in provocative poses. In the mid-60's, full frontal nudity was forbidden in most publications. There were no crotch shots and, certainly, no penetration shots. These photos depicted woman sitting, lying, standing in poses that, mostly, showed off their breasts. But, it was pretty racy stuff. My friend gave me the magazine. I felt a buzz of excitement, even though I had no clue where it was coming from. I took the treasure home and hid it (as all resourceful children would) under my matress.

My bedroom was on the second floor of an old wood-frame house. Walking across the floor caused a chorus of creaks and groans that resonated in the spaces on the first floor. This was how I was busted.

At night, when I was quite certain everyone else in the house was soundly asleep, I would turn on a small table lamp, pull the "dirty" magazine out from under its secure hiding place and turn to a photograph. I would sit on the wooden floor, with the photo in front of me, and try to mimic the pose of the woman on the page. It was exciting to try to experience what she may have experienced, there in front of the lens. I was too young to have an erection, and I certainly did not know what an orgasm was, but I felt something inside of me as I sat on the floor, naked, trying to look like the model. It all felt nasty and scary and exciting and fun. I knew it was wrong, but I could not have told anyone why.

One day, I came home from school. I knew something was up. My mother was acting a bit strange. Nothing really happened until my father came home from work. He was always the disciplinarian. When he came home, he called me into the kitchen. I entered, not quite sure why the tone of his voice was confrontative. I did not know that I had done anything wrong. He reached up and pulled the magazine off the top of the refrigerator. "Where did you get this?" he asked, in a rather angry manner. I was dumbstruck. Where did he find it, I thought. It was, afterall, under my mattress.

I 'fessed up and told him the name of the friend who had given me the taboo material. He promptly told me that I was never to associate with that friend again. The magazine was confiscated. I was shamed, embarassed, injured.

I look back on that and smile. I went on to become a sensual hedonist, an art and photo model, a writer of erotica. The experience could have scarred me, or made me stronger. The latter was the path I chose.

Blood, Piss & Sweat

2009-01-09T13:02:00.000-08:00

About desert earth

Wild tossing screams

Windy passion

Damp flesh swirling

Dusty sweaty thrust

Loud sun stipped call

Blood wine bodies

Rolling in piss

Seeping deep

The mindless feral

Muddy love

For All Time

2009-01-06T21:11:00.000-08:00

Oh that we might, for one brief hour

Forget that we are bound apart

And lie within each others' arms

Mouth pressed on mouth, and heart on heart

For one brief hour, from both our lives

To sink unchained through passion's deep

And, cast upon a further shore

To lie entwined in tender sleep.

Lunch.1

2009-01-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

I led her from the couch to the bedroom, where I had lit candles and placed a plate of brie, crackers and apple slices. I wanted this to be perfect for her. On the way to the bedroom, I picked up the poured glasses of Pinot Noir, her favorite wine. In the bedroom, I pushed her onto the bed and removed her remaining strip of cloth. “On your tummy,” I said.

My god, that ass looked yummy! A cute little tatoo adorned her low back. She settled into the deep comforter and I straddled her body. My balls fell against her bottom and my cock nestled against her, as I spread honey-scented massage lotion across her back and shoulders. Touching her skin was like touching the still surface of a summer pond. It felt like my hands would fall into her and bury themselves. The only thing that had structure to it was that persistent piece of muscle and blood between my legs. Otherwise, everything felt like angel hair, or sheep’s wool, or warm butter. The sensations overwhelmed me; I felt like crying.

The Amazing Mushroom

2009-01-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

Stinkhorn fungus: Phallus impudicus

"It begins as a small egglike body beneath the soil which enlarges to the size of a golf ball. An erect phallus-like stalk breaks through the 'egg,' forming a cuplike basal volva as the stalk rapidly elongates. The swollen 'head' or cap is coated with a black, putrid, musilaginous mass of spore slime."

Evolution: The Sexual Experiences of a Cell

2009-01-04T21:25:00.000-08:00

My brain felt like it was going to pop out of my head. But, upon further reflection (which would also be impossible) I realized that I was a very lonely member of the genus and species Escherichia coli. I was floating around, somewhere off the coast of Zanzibar (don’t you love that name? I’ve always thought I’d like to name my first clone “Zanzibar.”) when I came upon a lung fish. Now, this fish was no ordinary fish. Even those amongst us one-celled organisms who do not even react to chemical changes in their environment know that lung fish used to be considered extinct. And here was this thing with rudimentary legs trying to hang on to its aquatic existence. Duh! Should have gotten out of this soup about 100 million years ago. Actually, I think the damned fish was showing off. What makes a fish hang on, so long, to what is quite obviously NOT it’s destiny?

I kind of waved my cilia and moved in closer to this obviously fucked up animal. “Wassup?” I oozed. The fish didn’t seem to notice. Hey, move in closer, here…have you ever noticed how blank the eyes of fish are? It’s like they just never see nothin’ or hear a thing you say. It’s kind of irritating, on the cellular level. I was trying to make some small talk with this ignorant piece of flesh. After all, it doesn’t take much for me to end up in, say, New York Harbor. Life just sort of whisks by me, or me by it. So, I try to learn something from every organism I meet. Obviously nothing was going on in this interchange. I moved on.

So, no shit, there I was. I was just drifting along, watching phytoplankton fucking around in the water, when I felt this gentle nudge along my cellular wall. Boom! I couldn’t control it! My pilus shot out of me like a fucking spear and half of my genetic insides spilled into this incredibly beautiful E. coli cell next to me! Like I said, my brain (what there is of it) felt like it was going to pop out of my head! And, as I watched in amazement, she floated away, splitting into something that would, someday, look like a fucking fish!

That Afternoon

2009-01-04T17:48:00.001-08:00

After our stroll out to see the Man, Liza and I returned to our camp. The sun was high and the wind was like the hot breath of a dragon. It was a bit too hot for sex, at least the ball-slappin’ kind. Instead, it was a good time to break open an icy beer in the shade our tent, smoke a joint, and lounge around. That, of course, could always lead to something else and, predictably, it did.

After Liza and I had stripped down and taken a couple of hits, we brought out the Scrabble board and tried keep focused as the buzz kept building. Sometime in the middle of the longest game of Scrabble in the history of the game, I got up to walk out to the truck. I noticed that the girl who had watched me and Liza, the day before, was back with a couple of friends. She was wearing a g-string that was nothing more than a cord that ran down the middle of her pussy, covering absolutely nothing but her clit. While the concept of wearing anything, at all, eluded me, I thought about how nice it would be to be that cord. Her friends were a couple of very fit-looking guys, who wore even less. They approached me. Andrea (that was her name) asked, in a somewhat shy manner, if she and her entourage could play on our gym. I was quite happy she asked, of course, and invited her (and her slaves) into our tent, first, for some introductions and libations.

Liza was a bit surprised to see three new people walk into the tent. She took one look at the bodies, however, and had absolutely no objection. In rather hurried manner, she started to put the Scrabble game away. Andrea stopped her, however.

“Wait,” she said. “I wanna play! I love Scrabble! Let’s play teams; the winners get to tell the losers what to do. By the way, I‘m Andrea and this is Greg, and this is Shawn.”

Damn! I very much liked the sound of this challenge, and so did Andrea’s cohorts. So did Liza. She stopped, giggled, and dumped the letters back out. “Let’s make this even more interesting,” she said, with a sly grin. She looked up at Shawn. “It’s you and me, against Andrea and Brad.”

Well, that got the juices flowing! Poor Greg had to sit and watch the game, but I’m sure he didn’t mind too much. The odds that he might be involved in the outcome of the game were pretty good. The game was fun. The obvious sexually-charged words came out on the board, and we tried to outdo each other with our ingenuity. A few more hits, and a beer later, and we were nearing the completion of the match. The score was tight, kind of like the skin on my cock. I couldn’t help fading in and out of an erection, as the upcoming end of the game loomed. With a couple of turns left, Andrea and I had the upper hand on the score, and it was apparent that we were going to win. Liza was quite excited about that prospect and just wanted the game to end. The last points came when I added an “s” to “cock.” That was a good 13 points. Andrea and I were victorious. Andrea looked at the last word and said, “Just what I was thinking. I see three of them, here, and Liza looks lonely.”

Liza looked at me and smiled. She got up and walked out of the tent, toward our sex sculpture. Damn! Watching that delectable ass and her bare feet just had me going! I was very jazzed, to say the least. Our new friends followed Liza; the guys were clearly excited, as in noticeably excited.

I caught up with Liza as she was climbing onto the stage. “Wait,” I said. “Don’t climb into the chair. We have other things in mind.”

I bolted one of the horizontal beams in place, in front of the chair. I then tied Liza’s ankles in place, spread-eagle, and had Shawn climb into place in the chair. Andrea strapped his legs into place, and tied his arms behind his head. When he was firmly in place, I bent Liza over the beam and tied her arms to her ankles. Shawn’s cock waved in front of her face and her rear was open for exploration. She didn’t need much encouragement. She immediately sucked Shawn’s cock head between her lips and took as much of him in as she could. Andrea positioned herself between Liza’s legs and licked her ass and pussy with great enthusiasm. Greg and I stood and watched, our members swollen in the heated air of the desert. We knew we’d all get a turn with Liza.

Oysters

2009-01-02T12:43:00.000-08:00

"In marvellous fashion, oysters are a stimulant, hence shameless and lascivious women eat them in order to be more apt for the amatory act."

From-- "Lewd Food, The Complete Guide to Aphrodisiac Edibles," Robert Hendrickson

The only way to eat a raw oyster is to lick it, between the folds of its gills, to the clit at the end, then to swallow it whole, as you would your lover, followed by a swig of dry white wine.

From -- BadAssKona

The Small Girl With Freckles

2009-01-01T16:48:00.000-08:00

The door opened and she stepped in.
That is when everything stopped and
Every word dripped from the ceiling,
Into the pond where eyeless fish waited
Where thin emotional fronds waved
Soaking in the barest of nutrients.

The door opened and the din disappeared.
Everything became as clear as mountain
Air rushing through the gasping lungs
Of a hillside runner, as light off volcanic
Glass in a field of ancient dreams retold
In the fragments of necessary protection.

The door opened and the stagnant breath
Of the book-filled study rushed into space
Full of metaphors of feeling, capsules
To the stars and generations to explain
How the small girl with freckles burned
Elements into life with her smile.