Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Master and Commander

It’s purely symbolic.
Nothing but a title that creates an illusory relationship between us.

It’s no secret to you, or those who know me, that I’m not any more dominant than my quiet, amicable and agreeable demeanor projects; it can even be successfully argued that I’m not the most deserving of suitors for such moniker. However, that’s just what I am… at least called… by you: Master

Enunciating it still chuckles me up silly. “”Master…” kkkk, hehehe,” I quietly giggle as if a grade-schooler hearing “Uranus” for the very first time. A reaction that alludes to layers of suppression weighing down an inept super ego. Yet, there is a delightful significance to being called Master: arousal! An invigorating insatiability that rises up through me, blasting into a million-and-one-nearly-atomic-particles of lust that scatter all about you, to repeat again and again.

But behind all the giggles and stiffened reactions, the struggle between my innate personality and the emotions drawn by “Master” breaks from its restraints very late at night; much after it’s become obvious that sleep no longer requires further indulgence. The walls of the room are forced to expand trying to contain all of those times I wondered how our intimate agreement came about. “Master & Slave” flashes in neon pink all about the room. “Master” is as clear now as it was when you first said it. Oh… despite the presence of skepticism and inadequacy I still feel as invigorated as if the first time hearing it.

Our relationship is a mutual agreement between “giveth” and “taketh” of sexual nature. “You shall give, and I shall take… whatever it is you deem I deserve,” is precisely how you phrased it initially.

Play normally began with similar commands intended for cerebral foreplay –how I always enjoyed hearing you ask for penance. The manner in which your mouth rolled the musts to endure that atoned your misbehavior — until you pleaded for action. Eventually, that euphoria diminished. It withered away as the joy turned nearly contempt knowing that behind my capability to threaten your mind naughty, there was a failure to realize the verbal prowess. Transgressions that once made your mouth lush anticipating my reaction no longer excited you. They, in turn, reminded you that there wasn’t and isn’t a capital “M” prefixed to “aster“. There is simply no commander, even slight dominance to merit misbehavior.

The disappointments compounded rapidly until your desire to join me in adult play moved on. One, two, three, to too many more; each after another misbehavior meeting your disapproval until finally you abhorred every single one of my consecions. My inability to “giveth” what you “wantedth” destroyed all illusions of both “Master” and “Slave”. I received each challenge by backing off, by willingly accepting an unwarranted defeat time and again. And that, you couldn’t overcome.

Well aware of “rules”, I was still unable to respond accordingly. I unequivocally believed that satisfying you was achieved through “gasms” and consummation. Never once did I considered the results of not dabbling in my role. It was, perhaps, when little could be restored that my denomination grow heaviest and most worrisome. It all came to an unfathomable realization when calling you a plethora of well delivered nouns no longer compelled thrill in you and arousal in me. The playful, thirsty and willing partner was gone, replaced by a sexually indifferent individual; one whose infractions were intended to shame me, be it privately or not.

Perhaps death to the old and dawn to the new is true after all. At least so it read my horoscope for August 21st, 2017, and how dearly much I desired it to be factual.

It was the day of the much anticipated solar eclipse. We were to be guests at an invitation only gathering held at Plunge. A rooftop pool located at the Ganesvoort Hotel in New York City’s meat packing district. Hours before departing, an argument ensued where you questioned my ability, my vigor, and my desire to indulge your whims. Even your longing to remain in the relationship was raised. It became increasingly obvious that you unequivocally bound masculinity to an ability to please you in more ways than I had demonstrated. You no longer saw me as a man.

Resorting to the very behavior that had cease to affect you, I warned about the outcome of your actions; of the grave consequences which you’d have to endure if this deluge of infractions were to continue. Inconsequential… all of my verbal attacks, inconsequential a best! You reacted by voicing your displeasure, throwing the outfit you were to wear against the wall, claiming that another one was going to be wasted. It all ended with your condescending tone stating to “go dress up for my “punishment” and wait in the car.” You mocked again and again until it was time to depart.

The hour-plus silent journey into New York City was seldom disturbed. Your infrequent gasps alluded to both your presence and wishes to be absent. I wondered if this drive was destined to be our very last encounter. How different was the future to be? I reminded myself time and again of he horoscope and the dawn of a new, yet life apart. Were it not for the change of landscape from lush vegetation to mortar, brick, cement, steel and polluting noise it would felt as if we were fast approaching nothing.

Once parked you took the lead by quickly walking towards the elevator. Before even fully walking inside the lift, you reached for the button panel attempting to close the doors on me. It was a futile attempt that garner no reaction from either of us. Mid way the ascent some civility returned as I spoke: “The doors will open overlooking the pool. Hand your belongings to the attendant. Everything you are carrying but, of course, your outfit. The top of our hands will be color stamped burgundy. It reveals our identity to security. It also gives me, and only me, complementary drinks and other certain liberties.”

“All of it?” you disgruntledly questioned. A small affirmative nod was my response.

When the elevator’s doors opened, two charming fellows greeted us hello. Both dressed in body fitted suits; one black, the other orange. The smaller fellow wearing the black suit stood in front of the larger fellow dressed in orange, nearly blocking him completely.

“Parties…,” you huffed while handing them your items.

“Thank You! Your companion can claim these at anytime. Please, the floor is yours. Enjoy the event.”

As we look to walk away from the two fellows, one of them hands me a briefcase. “Sir, as you requested. The combination is 8,21,17. Enjoy.”

Indifferent to our relationship, you barked to fetch you a drink, completely ignoring the briefcase. You walked off towards a small group adjacent to the pool, I went towards the bar. Once at the bar I placed the briefcase on it, adjusted it, took a deep breath, entered the combination and full of doubt, opened it. Nicely tucked inside were a flogger, with a collar and leash.

“I like those,” came from behind the bar. A mature, dark skin, long-curly-hair-in-pony-tails, deep piercing eyes, and calming demeanor bartender. “Someone must have misbehaved to earn such treats,” She continued.

After a few minutes engagement with the bartender, I close the briefcase, grab it along with your drink, then head towards you. During my approach, I can hear some of our discontents being revealed to an older couple you’ve met. From behind you, reaching between your right elbow and flank, I hand you the drink: red sangria. You ignore it, ignore me until completing your thoughts, then grab it. I walk around you, introduce myself, too ignoring you for the duration of the formalities. After the pleasantries conclude, I excuse myself, get on one knee to place the briefcase on the floor, flip it open, and grab the collar and leash.

With a calculated ascent, I look towards the couple that’s been curiously staring at the items on my hand, smile at them and turning towards you, I deliver a heartfelt smack to your right cheek. “There, there… pick up your hair on the back that I’m going to put this collar on you,” I ask in a mixed emotions tone. All intentions were to stop there, then return to the bar to sip on the double of Catskill Straight Rye Whiskey. But, that wasn’t enough. Instead I recoiled, quickly shooting forward, grasping your bra and tearing it clear from your chest. A sudden jerk enticed a few sweet moments of sway before seeing the leash come to a rest between your breast. It’s bottom end resting not two mouths away from the top of the camouflage booty camp shorts. Left there wearing your breast, booty camp shorts and a pair of mid-calf-high-straps-three-inch-heels, “This is how I want you.”

Visible was more than your heavy breathing and palpitations against your breast; along with it, “You shall give, and I shall take… whatever it is you deem I deserve,” came rushing back into the pupils of your eyes, notifying me that you were smacked awake, and willingly awaiting penance. The traces of sangria that had spilled upon your hands through the jerking of your body when your bra was torn off, soaked your hand in prelude to the evening. I grabbed the liquid moistened hand, kissed the sangria while raising my gaze to look at you glisten.

Your eyes grew flirtatious, lower lip caught between your teeth, “Now?” you asked. I raised my hand to your lips, hushing you from further conversation. “Yes, now. You “gonna” be a good girl,” I responded.

Myself caught by the shock of overcoming years of inaction, I had neglected the attempts of the older gentleman to interject against my ill discretion.

“Look here young fellow, that is no way to treat a lady,” gently placing his hand on my shoulder as if about to deliver a comforting account. His companion used the opportunity to cover Cece with her scarf, “cover up yourself, young lady.”

“I’m so sorry. Thank you for your concern. I really am okay. I had nearly stopped waiting…. or at least I thought I had, on the way here,” You replied to the concerned interjection. To which I added, “It’s her wishes my dear.”

Security responded promptly. Assuring the older couple, and the crowd that had formed around us, not to be concerned. To note the various identifying hand-stamps around the room; that ours, differing from all others, granted the freedom to misbehave as we wished.

I returned to the bar mentally and physically stimulated; fully aware that you shared the sentiments. By then some folks had gathered around me but, remained silent until the bartender asked “when is it my turn?”

“At my pace? Not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, or in a few years. I’ve been known to be rather slow,” I replied.

The pleasantries between the bartender, fellow bystanders and I lasted until the shock of the moment had been forgotten. Folk seemed rather excited, some certainly showed discomfort yet, fancied a go at the details of adults at play. To a fault, my half-dressed-companion mixing in with the crowd with a leash tied to her neck, lapsed my mind. It must have been obvious that I turned to look for you, because you too, looked for me. I had allowed your drink to grow empty. Unlike prior de facto behavior of barking out orders, you crossed your legs, tilted your head, slightly swayed the empty glass from side to side, and shrugged your shoulders.

“Injustice,” I thought out loud. Booty camp shorts meant to provoke rendered inoperable behind crossed legs. “Injustice,” I cried again. My mastery of your figure quickly sought justice. You had to be revealed to my approval. “Such a cover up as if Sunday Mass is bloody pointless,” I murmured.

With the company of a tall glass of sangria I make my way to you. I take time to stare at you. To look at your breast, the collar, the leash freely placed between your chest; I follow it down all the way to your crotch. You look at me with bright, smiling eyes, watching me replace the empty glass with a new one, and simultaneously helping your hand up to your mouth. “Drink. I’m going to take liberties with this picture,” I say while staring at the tip of the glass against your lips. The motion of your throat giving passage to the liquid surfaces memories of coughs, gags, and saturation of your mouth.

Grabbing the leash where it meets the collar between my fingers, then briskly sliding my hand down to meet the lose end, I pull you towards me. Your “giveth” and “taketh” stare that finds solace with selective behavior nods in approval. I can feel the anticipatory warming of your body detonate. It’s as if fully aware of the soothing about to receive through some of this and a lot of that.

Rather than permanently stopping at the end of the leash, I release it, intently awaiting the gentle slap against the tender of your belly, before resuming this venture. My left knee meets your crossed legs, easily penetrating the crossing blockade. Your body relaxes welcoming the separation. I push your legs apart until I’m appeased that the separation concedes full allure. Nothing exaggerated in fact, simply enough to feel a full hand’s cusp of you, followed by an unobstructed spank. I signal with my face for you to have another sip then, I reach down to squeeze my fingers between the top of the booty camp shorts and deliberately tug upwards until they snuggly wedge between your labia. A tasty slap culminates my hands tracing and sculpting of your form.

“I want it like that. All night!” I command.

“Yes, Master.”

Once again I grasp the cloth covering your labia and dislodge the wedge, much to the delight of surrounding observers.

“Fix it,” I whisper.

“Yes, Master,” you whisper in response.

A quiet storm hushes poolside as your hands deliver the very same message to your booty camp shorts as I had previously delivered. Snug, improperly wedged to my enjoyment, just to where an advanced education isn’t required for meaning.

“I like that. You are wet. Look at my fingers.”

“Yes, I am Master. I am.”

“Turn around bad girl.”

“Like this, sir?” you ask.

I cusp both your cheeks with my hands right where the thighs meet the buttocks then, deliberately raise your cheeks while spreading them. I release.

“Squeeze the shorts between your cheeks,” I spank you, then walk away.

Wandering eyes gawk, react with disbelief, shock; some smile and others look away. Voices grow discernible, occupying the space growing between you and I. Curious men talk about drawing closer for a better look; women wonder about whatever feelings you might be experiencing, and, little to any surprise, the more prudent in the discourse of civility rush to your aid.

Adulation welcomes me back at the bar. The bartender reveals a joy that would have otherwise been replaced by stagnation from what could have been another gig filled with stale decorum.

Bravo. Well done. I fancy her lips against mine. A mouth full of her. She looks wet,” the bartender chatted on. “Can I taste her from your fingers?”

She reached for my hand and I for the double of Barrel Strength Whistle Pig Drink Up New York Rye awaiting my arrival. “I thought the moment merited it,” reiterated the bartender swaying the bottle of rye by the neck, “I am further excited in anticipation of the next event.”

Small chat, some more sips of this appropriate spirit, and a long pause before recognizing that my fingers had been mouthed clean from the lustful soaking from minutes ago. I grew quiet after a while, distracted by the absence of you figure comforting my hand. I contemplated the venue, those adjacent, those far away, even the distinguished yellow planters around the pool. I used the time to keep to my own company when time demanded my presence else where.

Whatever is left of the double of rye I place gently on the bar, then slide it to the opposite corner where the bartender entertained inebriated guests. She catches the sliding three finger tumbler, looks for the bottle then, instead of tendering the drink, she urges me to go on.

What’s her name…” is the last I recollect before dismissing the torment that my hands had lost your scent with the realization that I still held the flogger on my left hand, and not all was necessarily final.

Two of the people conversing with you point in my direction, alerting you of my advance. Your hands run about the booty camp shorts, shifting them about, adjusting just so where it best displayed her – It is dearly invigorating to watch as your hands shift the commando shorts all about in the rear, slightly spreading your cheeks to improperly nudge them where you’d know I’d approve.

Yeah, yeah. You got it,” a fellow says, just as I reach around from behind to grab the leash and spin you face to face. Away from all the obstacles, at least those obstructing the bar… we walk to a clearance, “hinge at the waist,” I say.

A heartfelt slash across the chest revealed the seriousness.

Startled you tense, asking, “I earned this, didn’t I? For being a bad girl?” You hinge at the waist, raise your head to look at me, and quickly return your gaze towards your perked ass. Another flog just on your right cheek, another the left cheek, a combined one.

Squat! Hands behind your back.”

Your breast are shaped firmer by your hands position behind your back. Maybe the position displays them in ways other methods can’t, perhaps it’s your arousal reacting to my timely behavior. I engulf one with my hand, run about both of them, touching, slapping, tugging at the nipple, pinching, teasingly twisting them.

Grab your breast, push them together gently, don’t be medieval. I want you more tender than brute.”

I look at your body, legs spread in a squat, distressed hair strands falling on your shoulders, other strands towards your back, and rest remained to the front, nearly reaching the top of your areola.

Pinch your nipples until it hurts then release.”

There is that stare again! You look at me, blinding me with your appetite.

Unzip me!” I drag the flogger’s tresses across the back of your shoulders, down your back, then down your breast until all of your long hair rests on your back then, with a swift jerk of my wrist I strike your persona. That catches your attention. Longing erupts from your eyes. The cravings ignored through out or relationship where being buried as a group right here, right now.

Pull me out.”

Hands behind your back.”


I dip myself into your mouth.

Once, twice, thrice… the last of which I firmly grasp your head, holding you throat-deep until you whimper, gag, cough, then tear to my delight.

Withdrawing… I zip up, grab you by the leash and stand you up. A tender pussy flog. “Today, I’ll take whatever I want,” I say, leaving you behind to curious minds.

As so – gagging, coughing, soaking me with your saliva, me back to the bar for a chat, for a drink, to return to you – we continue well into the eclipse.

Most times I hold you firmly against my abdomen for as long as I deem necessary. Fully inside of your mouth, I watch you react to my comfort. I can feel myself throb, nearly wanting to reach all the way down your tummy and explode all my intentions into you.

The sight of a shaft and head covered in your spit leaves me gasping each time. I stroke it once, maybe twice just to feel the sensation of holding myself while covered with your saliva; pull it downwards just enough to increase the tension, then release me to force a hearty slap against my lower abdomen. Slap! goes the wet sound. 

I walk away the same way I arrived. Aroused as if the very first I feel your mouth devour my cock.

Time to prepare for the height of the eclipse,” is announce by the lovely folks who greeted us upon arrival.

Equipment to facilitate viewing of the event is passed around to all but us. Ours are brought by the host who’s finally made an appearance. “Welcome to the party, Martha,” I greet her.

I’ve been watching you,” staring down at my crotch then your lips. “Cece, dear, you’ve produced a soaking; right there on the…,” Martha says while cleaning your lips with a napkin.

We take the eclipse viewing apparatuses from Martha… “It will be about an hour before viewing peaks. Would you care to come mingle with me? Of course there is no need, you may go about as you were. But, I have unfinished matters to cater for which I’d like your input,” Martha says to me.

I never really give her a direct answer. Instead, I turn to you, insert my fingers through the top of the shorts then, sway the shorts downwards, coming to a stop at your thighs. “There, there good girl. Come out and play,” I say while tracing your shape with my hand.

Look at your moisture against my finger. This is how I like to see you. Have a taste,” putting my finger in your mouth.

I feel the sensation of my finger being sucked down at my crotch where I’m being detained behind a zipper and under pants… aching to do more than remain captive.

By now a sizable crowd has gathered about us. A few spectators grow daring by reaching out to touch you. Martha — the doll she is — responds to the transgression by requesting of security to escort the offenders out of the premises. They reluctantly depart after many fruitless apologies and vows to contain their eagerness.

I tell Martha that I didn’t much mind it. Had they been invited the outcome would have certainly been different. Cece would have enjoyed it.

Grabbing you behind the head, I pull you into my lips where we kiss while I flog your bare ass until the tresses turn your firm cheeks a delightful colour.

Mhm, mhm… I’ve be…en such a bad girl. Teach me to behave.”

Extending my hand out towards Martha, handing her the flogger, she too is pulled close to me where I direct her to unzip, expose, and have a mouthful of me. You and I still kiss. My left hand guides Martha down my shaft, and my right soaks in lust between your labia. By now, Martha has dropped the flogger, unable to flog you as I had requested. Instead, her hands push hard against my thighs, digging in, until freed to come up for air.

The drive of my hips into Martha’s throat continues, while I trace, sway, spank, slide, construct figure eights with my fingers on your pussy. Half my hand glistens from the saturation that’s made it down your inner thighs.

Martha –oh, my doll– uses the opportunity to shift from me to you. I allow her to pull away from me and reach your pussy. She grabs hold of your cheeks, spreads them, and fittingly places her mouth on you. I interrupt Martha precisely to spank her lips with me then slide myself between your legs without penetrating. Martha reaches between us to grasp my sac, squeezes firmly. “Don’t be shy,” I tell her.

Before I have a chance to further soak up my shaft, Martha forces me inside of you with a quick shove of the top upwards. Your eyes detonate, opening nearly larger than the eye sockets. Martha giggles like a school girl then, pulls me out to clean me with her mouth.

On the way home you are as chatty as I’ve ever known you to be. “I can not believe we missed the peak of the eclipse. My ass feels so tender. You came in public. It was everywhere. My ass, lips, thighs, Martha’s mouth. Martha seemed to enjoy your cock soaked with my secretion. Did you notice she was stained around the mouth when we left? I’m swollen! Do you think many people there had ever experienced much like it? I don’t think so. Nearly every soul in the place didn’t give two hoots about the eclipse, choosing to watch me be taught a lesson. I coughed, I spit, I gagged, I screamed, I resisted, my eyes teared up, look at my eyeliner down my cheeks; I gave up the ass. I came four or five times, shit! Don’t think I didn’t see you let the bartender feel you fully engorged. I liked it anyways. You felt so good piercing through me. And, and, when Martha spread my ass, the rush of cool air further excited me. I like that you lined up us and throated us. Smacking us to take what you dished. Asshole, where has this been all this time? Oh, and taking turns, you and Martha sucking me. I like that. Why didn’t make Martha get fully naked?”

There is time for that, for Martha to get naked in the future,” was my lone interjection to your monologue.

These days Cece is far happier than at any time during our relationship. She still speaks of it as if having occurred moments ago. Her pleasant mood lasts weeks on end. Each time she’s punished, she follows it with playful transgressions, leaving notes about the house as to how she’s looking forward to being a good girl.

Yet, from the events of that day, my mind still toils with Cece’s attire and make up. The revealing booty camp shorts snuggly tugged between her lips. The leash hanging from her neck below her navel. Her thighs shapely leaving the bottom of the shorts, down to calves perked by high heels. The discolored lips, and running eyeliner. The ass exposed and flogged. The look of the crowd as she stood waiting for me to come take my keep.

That’s’ what I recall most. The shape of her persona with shorts dragged down to mid thighs, gloriously revealing my bounty.

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While She Sleeps

Twilight is an invigorating period of the day for me. For the past two decades it has proven antidote to the anticipation of her sight. She’s long in repose upon my late arrival. Yet never once I’ve missed the tokens of her affection left about disclosing she’s missed a kissed goodnight. I haste through musts and what-nots as not to squander precious new memories. See, for the past two decades I’ve engaged in nightly explorations of her sleeping body, admiring the very same lines, curves and shapes as if the very first time… enjoying the obstacles and chances presented by moonlight creeping through the window. She’s become an alluring stranger I must revere while asleep. I cannot and will not stop looking at her. I have, too, in as many nights as I’ve spent staring at her, wondered if she would scare off knowing I struggle to move my away from her? Would she sneak away during daylight were she to learn about my nightly debauchery?

A smile, there is no time to distract… my sight follows her flanks down to the pelvis where her obliques turn inwards into the lines that meet her privacy. She sleeps in the nude: a pledge she made long ago to always be there for me if so I wished to feel her embrace.

Some nights she mumbles requests to shut the curtains to prevent direct moonlight from interrupting her sleep, which I refuse with fear that the darkness will steal memories meant for me. She too, talks in her sleep. Something to cherish because of the reaction of her skin contracting around the trajectory of my finger from her navel to her inner thighs. A strategy that soundly hushes her back to sleep.

Where I a lewd man, more than just crafting memories through the darkness she’d feel. Perhaps a night or two, admittedly so, she’s felt the wicked of my actions when I’ve dared to do more than just memorize the details of her physique.

She wasn’t made like the rest of everyone else. No, sir no. Dare it be said that she must have been crafted by my very self. She is to me what colour is to flowers, to roses, azaleas, gardenias, lilies: all giving sight a reason to see.

Some nights, a double of Gorge T Staggs accompanies me for an hour or so until I savor every last drop of of whiskey while standing at the frame of the door enjoying her silhouette. Most nights, the nights that have come to consume all reason, she sleeps on her side, back facing the door, right leg bent over and across her left leg. Curves from her shoulders down to her waist rise again towards her hip… ah, but I’m no musician that obstructs emotions with aggressive overindulgence. She, she’s to be consumed with the dexterity of time and patience. Someone who can understand the contours of her body strumming together endless riffs and melodies of lust.

She lures me into journeys that shape into lines, mounds, and valley of the sun with each pulse within her chest. I’m as eager to awaken her as I am to watch her peacefully asleep. So I watch her; I watch her sleep night and again, more times than not until the sun comes up. I don’t miss a breath, yet during weakened moments I purposely awaken her purely to watch new shapes emerge from her body.

“Please wake up… share a drink,” I request.

It’s past midnight. Go to sleep. Please honey, I have an early morning,” is her response.

Quickly falling back asleep.

Is it selfish to wake her? To wake her just to watch the slow ascent of my friend Staggs towards her lips? To watch the three finger tumbler surrender upon her touch? Her head tilt and the liquid poor gently into her mouth?

At night sounds grow louder than any other time. I hear her lips grasp the glass, the rush of liquid spill into her mouth, move about her tongue, to quickly descent into her stomach after which she’ll press gently against my chest, steals a kiss, turns and returns between the sheets.

So I watch while she sleeps. Every night I watch her sleep, listening to air escaping her lungs as well as hustling in… wondering if I’m in her dreams.

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For These Times

I’m inherently aggressive. I excuse it as living for these times.

There is no better indication of my exuberant masculinity than my dark ages appearance: pepper beard, un-manicured chest hair, a rough foreign accent and protruding veins running down from my shoulders to my hands. Even from the distance it’s apparent that a no frills attitude, one that takes without remorse whether impacting someone or not, resides inside. I spit on faculties or any variation thereof.

Where should there have been a reason to think otherwise… it would be more of the same indulgences when she agreed to bring me back to her flat.

During the drive I told her all about my plans; that she had no choice like it or not.

She remained silent as if doubtful yet, made no indication to want anything else. Upon sliding the front-door key into the hole and, opening the door to a minimum; I pressed firmly against her. With my right hand pulling her pelvic bone tightly against my crotch.

“Feel that?”

There wasn’t a response; so I slid my hand down her jeans, reaching over with my left and tugging broken the binding button preventing my freedom to touch her.

“Off. take’em off!”

Anticipating that she’d delay as if her opinion was warranted, I drove her towards the opposite side of her flat where tapered glass floor-to-ceiling-height windows, covered the entirety of the wall. The tapered glass shook from our collision against it.

A faint sigh erupted from her slightly opened mouth.

“Take them off,” I commanded.

Standing with her jeans down to her ankles, facing out, fully exposed to the outside world; I took grasp of her mid-back in length hair, and quickly maneuvered her to a mouthful of me.

But, those weren’t my intentions. I wanted to give her what I imagined such a proper lady had never had. So, I shoved her face first against the cool glass once again.

Another sigh.

Face against the glass, pulling her pelvis away just enough to arch her back and raise her perky behind; I freed one of her legs from the jeans, then ran one of my digits through her, abruptly splitting just where I wanted.

The proximity to her persona revealed that she was enjoying it. Her scent reached deep inside me, inducing a relentless throbbing.

“Hands behind your back. Grab your elbows. Keep your face against the wall, and take a small step back. Spread just so.”

So there she stood.

Face against the cool tapered glass.

Pelvis away from the glass.

Legs slightly spread bringing into sight the entirety of her glutes, alluringly sculpting out from her lower back, down, finally meeting at her thighs; overtly exposing the saturation that notified me she’d done this before.

I drove a deliberate spank to her left buttocks, enticing further moisture to seep foretelling her desires.

This is the point in my life where I realized I had lost the dark of the ages, the medieval behavior that had stopped excusing how I lived in these times.

I ran my nose from her inner thigh, tracking upwards to her buttocks farther searching her lower back; again returning towards the separation between her thighs. At times with my eyes fully closed, concentrating solely on the smell; others with open mouth as if an explorer in virgin lands.

After a deep breath my tongue slide out to touch her. The shiver caused by her warm moisture touching my tongue nearly froze my actions. I thought of nothing, saw nothing, felt and smelled her.

Her hair stood stoically as she quietly moaned as if knowing she had won.

A gentle bite, a tender spank, half giggling, half moaning, she better adjusted her person to my touch. I concentrated on the sensation of her moisture transferring to my tongue, the resistance of her figure reacting to the pressure against it, her quiet lust announcing the experience.

Sitting here today writing about it reminds me of her scent once against my mouth, against my nose, on my hands.

Perhaps I gain some solace. A consolation in believing that by jotting it down, that part of her vividly residing in my mind, will remain behind pressed firmly between the white of the paper and the black of my pen.

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Xmas Elves

We had been invited to a gathering to be held at a bourgeois meeting hall located off the shore of the Hudson river. The island had been the homestead of a local aristocrat until the fire of 1917 destroyed the main living quarters. Unable to undergo restoration, the island was taken over by the State of New York and access limited until a fire in 1970 made it hazardous to visit the island. Unknown to many is the island posh meeting hall that survived both fires. It is presently used for special occasions through an invitation-only group headed by one of the descendants of the original owners. The Hall has operated in obscurity since 1917 and its management handed down from descendant to descendant. Proceeds are generated from each event are used to maintain the hall.

Our friends were extremely excited. They had known about The Hall for a few years but had never been invited, and less so, allowed to bring guests to any of the events hosted by Mateo (the current manager of The Hall and Founding Father of the Meet-Up group). The pre-party was held at a local bar where guests mingled for about two hours before being picked-up by car-service at 8PM. Conversation was consumed by The Hall as opposed to the what happened at The Hall. The fascinating story of the island was presented through large screens but the meeting hall was never presented. What seemed like seconds after our arrival, the first set of guests were selected to be driving up to the docking station where small boats awaited to taxi participants to the much anticipated location.

The forty minute scenic drive north to the boats saw us giggling like children, wondering what this hall was all about and what awaited us. Down a long dirt-paved, one line path, the car service went. Every few hundred feet, a parking attendant pointed us towards the right direction. Once at the docking station, a total of 15 small boats, each sitting no more than 6 occupants, waited for passengers.

Mateo, welcomed us first. He had taken a liking to our friends and wished to ride with to the island. On the ride we spoke about one another, the usual small chat of work, family, hobbies and the such. It was about a 5 minute ride to the island. Two individuals waited for boats to arrive, quickly tying them to a long floating and portable deck that hand been assembled just for the event.

There wasn’t, and isn’t electricity at the island. Whatever path was visible by moonlight was made clearer by a torch carried by Mateo. It truly felt like the turn of 19th century. Mateo spoke with a heavy accent that I couldn’t place, nor worried much about finding out. Soon a queue of laughter built behind us. The rest of the guests had arrived along with their pre-party inebriation.

It was difficult to discern much in the facade of The Hall. At best it appeared to be a relic of a building, a pre WWI smallish construction perhaps 25 feet high. The main doors covered ceiling to floor, giving it an almost barn-like feeling. Torches located on the walls, coupled to old candle-light chandeliers light the inside romantically bright.

At the door, our friends purchased raffle tickets. Not being official members, we were not allowed to directly purchase tickets as the there was a point tally tied to each member that came with some form of price upon reaching different dollar amounts. No cameras, cell phones and anything besides mental pictures were allowed in the trip as not to reveal more than the mind allowed to capture.

We mingled much of the night, mostly flirting and in slight disbelief of the attire chosen by some of the guests; especially the women who dressed much provocative. Towards the middle of the night, our friend had to depart the party, a bit too drunk to make a proper judgment, he chose to leave before being asked to leave. He handed us his ticket and told us that while we couldn’t buy the tickets, as companions of invited guest, we could very well collect the winnings.

At precisely 1 AM, Mateo signals for all the torches but two at a small platform, where he stood, to be turned off. Everyone, perhaps some 60 people, gathered around him awaiting the results of the raffle. Not two winning numbers had been announced when my ticket was called.

The raffle worked as followed. There was a bucket holding the price, the winning participant would randomly select from the bucket. Once the price was broadcasted, guests submitted their names into another bucket. At the end of the night, the winners would select from the pool of names (the bucket) tied to the won price. At the following gathering, the price would be collected.

My lady and I had won, fallacious or cunnilingus; either as recipients or grantors. My lady shied away and granted me to choose what I wanted to do. Enjoying giving greatly more than receiving, I chose to give it. Just before the night ended, winners gathered by the platform to chose names. I put my hand in to select the first name, then again for the second name.

The two women had already left, so it was a mystery who would be my xmas elves. Mateo arrange for us to attend the next event. Not being members, we could not attend without an invitation. Mateo gave us a card with his assistants contact info and instructed us to give her the winning number, that she would in turn gives us further information to collect the prices.

The next morning my lady calls the number. A woman answers, giving us instructions to collect the price. The next gathering was to be held close to our hometown, in a “Castle”. We were to attend, meet the participants, arrange what was or wasn’t allowed then proceed with xmas. That entire week my lady and I “strategized”. Whether to proceed, or simply ignore it. If we were to decline, we would be placed in a “blacklist” and not allowed re-entry into any of the events, ever again. Not sure that this was something we wanted to get into, we decided not to attend halfway through the week. But, come Saturday night, we had changed our minds. We did want to at least try it.

We got to the castle very early, at least an hour and a half before anyone else arrived. We sat by the bar nervous. A few drinks, courtesy of winning the raffle, suppressed the nerves enough to grown rather excited. Mateo was the first to arrive after us. He gave us ideas as to limits that might make it more comfortable for us. We agreed on only allowing the partners to be present during the entire act. There would be no intercourse; I, along with everyone else in the room not receiving the “gift”, would remain clothed. A time limit of 30 minutes was set after which the women would dress and return to bar to share their thoughts with my lady and I. Mateo would act as an “arbiter” in case a conflict arouse.

The two ladies whose name I had chosen from the bucket arrived. We had in fact met at The Hall. A slender yet curvy black women in her mid 20s, accompanied by her husband of two years. And, an older brunette in her early 50s. Meeting her was somewhat stressful for me as I had seen her at my local gym quite enough times to know we lived in the same town. She also recalled me from the gym.

Soon enough we had all made acquaintances. The young black woman had no reservations about what was about to happen and showed me that she was panty-less awaiting my tongue AND fingers. The older woman was a bite more reserved. She wore a simple long red dress falling beautifully on her chest. Her perky butt was a rather welcome experience against the red dress.

In the very order in which the winning numbers were announced, were the participants called to action. The older woman’s long time partner decided to skip the action and stayed at the bar flirting with a young lady. The husband of the black young woman didn’t want to miss this “hell no”. He accompanied my lady and us three to the room, of course, attempting what he could muster with my lady…

It took little time for both women to undress. They kissed while undressing one another. They quickly tasted each other then looked at me and asked what I was waiting for. I looked at my lady, passionately kissed her, grabbed her crotch and walked towards the price. I asked them to get ass up and face down. Have you ever seen the comparative skin tones of a black woman next to a white woman? With the shades of black, brown, pink, beige, red staring back at you already moist? Well, that stared back at me. A perfectly black round ass besides the full maturity of woman who hadn’t lost a day of working out in her life.

I didn’t know who to taste first, who to finger first. I looked back at my lady and she pointed me in the direction of the older woman. I placed my nose around her clit and drove it upwards, splitting her in half with my tongue trailing it until I got to her ass. A deep sigh and moan filled the room loud enough to cause the young girl to wiggle her butt, when I quickly spanked her. She giggled and said “If I’m going to be last, at least finger me until she cums”.

Back and forth between both girls I went. Licking pussy and ass again and again overtaken by the variation of their tastes. It was as if I were trying to determine which brand of Rye Whiskey I couldn’t live without. I spanked, I fingered, I moaned, I wanted to have intercourse yet couldn’t. The young woman’s husband nearly ejaculated on his pants when he saw me spank his lady’s vulva. “Oh yeah, she a bad girl! Let her have it”.

Seven minutes remained and I had yet to make them cum. Mostly because the contentious pauses for me to look at them, to ask them to touch each other again; to taste one another again. My lady asked me to finish before I lost my chance and they, their time. I asked the young woman to sit on the face of the older woman while I fingered, kiss, licked, sucked all of the older woman’s openings until she smeared my face with her presents. From my lack of creativeness, the same fate awaited the young girl. Her though, I roughed up a bit. She had grown to like the deliberate pussy spanks, the hard buttock squeezes and light bites of her labia. A stream gushed out of her that I can still nearly smell today with each deep breath.

A knock on the door declared time was up. The women dressed themselves quickly but not after having my lady dry them clean with towels. We all walked out in a rather good mood. The older woman kissed my lips dry and the young girl handed us her phone number. We stayed at the party until a total of 6 prices had been completed. My lady and I spoke to my two xmas elves the remainder of the night, sharing likes and dislikes, thoughts and ideas.

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Say it once, say it twice

I’ll say it once, I’ll say it twice; I’ll continuously repeat it until undeniably understood… that I possess the extraordinary capability to detect the most of minuscule remnants of untamed desire. Much like a truffle hog able to detect the subterranean fungus three feet down impenetrable soil, I too parallel such olfactory vitality.

Neither sight or taste, even touch is required to know who has been fulfilled and to what degree. Inhaling subtly gives direction, purpose and arousal. Downwind is often suffocating. Not because of an inability to withstand the intensity of multi-directional and rapidly approaching saturations of scents, but because I know that I cannot indulge them all.

I don’t indulge anyone for their sake, nor for some sort of charitable cause that grants the needy, rather to feel my mouth overtaken by euphoria as aroma turns to moisture. To awaken in the morning with my lips, nose, and chin covered with dried saturation.

It is the smell, however, that draws me in. The scent that reaches me from the distance, foretelling the size, shape, suppleness, even wishes to be treated or mistreated. All is revealed by understanding the makeup of each molecule. They speak, they really do. Some say it slowly, others scream it out, many unable to restrain their frustrations launch into a furious soliloquy of submission to my whims.

Not knowing whether smiling, or daydreaming is more appropriate I simply respond by drawing as close to the subject as noticeable. I want to make it clear that any and all emanating aroma revealed through the weak blockade provided by cloth calls to me. “Feel me seep, feel me throb”. This one here, standing in front of me. I wish everyone possessed my abilities, that I could bottle it to uncap it for seconds at a time numbing all reason, arousing enough to grasp in public and rub.

It smells of not just one, but multiple scents as if this here got beaten for a long while yet desires a climax not received. Oh, I can smell the fight withstood, how invigorated it became by losing control and being made do things orthodoxy dislikes. Oopha, the aromas are neatly interwoven. It’s illuminating to experience such smell. Were it not because I’m standing here in public I’d blow a fuse to share with the rest of the smells.

Oh, I feel no shame to walk about in public where the bloom of spring gardens are opaqued by dripping molecules of unfulfilled. I bathe in them each day, purposely walking in and out, weaving through the strongest scents… and there you have it.

Be me for one day and see the joy I receive from all corners and all nationalities. I breathe to that.

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View Halloo at the Richmond

Few beauties opaque the splendor of dense flora during the peak of the spring, including the rambunctious endless imagination of a captive mind all winter long… as those of us in snow friendly geographies can assure. I recall walking into Richmond Park that early May day freshly escaped from a historically generous snow season in my hometown. The sensory overload from lakes and ponds lined with evergreen azaleas in a collage of purple, red, burgundy, even some hybrid colours that shouldn’t have been there, aroused my mind from a winter long recession. Bee on azalea flowerI looked everywhere, nowhere and saw nothing and everything. It didn’t seem fair that the world yielded such neglect during frigid weather. Why wasn’t it like this always? All day, everyday, from midnight to noon… this is how I wanted it to be. I wanted the see sights of red deer laying about, foxes peeking through the shrubs long having forgotten the “View Halloos” of Henry the VIIIs hunting parties; I wanted to experience women revealing that spring beauty wasn’t limited to the biosphere but too, to the recherché of dresses beating about firm bodies as if bees encircling azaleas.

So was the setting under which we met at Richmond Park moments shy of 9 AM. The plan was to elude the onset of the type of sun-rays that vanish the smell of dawn for another 24 hours, taking with it the early morning dew that soaks nature after a good night of sleep. The preconditions were simple. I, as the gentleman in a “Royal” park, would lead. Her, unable to resist submissive desires, wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t reject my whims and simply be part of a “stroll through the park”. I was still somewhat incoherent, baffled by the irony of regional climate until I saw her.

Shortly after noticing this paragon of a person heading in my direction, the picturesque setting affecting all my sensory “paraphernalia” disappeared in favor of her. I felt as if inside a bubble where I didn’t look because of vision, didn’t listen because of hearing, didn’t smell because of olfactory, didn’t taste because of gustation, didn’t feel because of touch, nor perceived the eminent because of premonition but because there at that moment all my intentions augmented the world I was about to experience: I was being, zen if you will.

She walked slowly, left hand holding onto an exaggerated wide brim hat being pulled from time to time by a flirtatious breeze, long strap sandals on her right hand – I’m sure to feel nature’s night residue against her feet, and cotton floral summer dress exposing her shoulders while clinging onto her shapely chest. She smiled all along. Enjoying the movement towards a destination. I stood there in resemblance of the foreigner I was. Alien to both the nature and scattered crowd around. I belonged to a modern Victorian period –unknowingly paying homage to the past of the Richmond Park; a tall top hat, three rings shaped as such out of eating utensils on the my hands, a fitted faint-burgundy long sleeve shirt, a Steampunk corset, slim jeans and a pair calf-height boots strapped to one another by the laces hanging over my shoulder, revealing a set of super hero socks of various colours. Never mind my tri-colour beard alluding to infancy having been left behind decades ago. All I needed was a pipe, a piece of paper and a plume to create the next forgettable essay.

She waved from a distance acknowledging me. I smiled, tipping my hat in response.

I slide my right hand between my chest and laces of my boots, dropping them on the floor. She replied by dropping her sandals on the continued journey. Towards one another we pressed until I the distance was close enough for the back of my left hand reached her cheek… destined to the back of her upper neck where the head meets it. The momentum of our motion completed our union. A dainty collision met our bodies, thereby too, locking our lips. I pressed forward with my hand behind her neck fully notifying her that the wait was over. Her hands flat against my chest grasped alertly to my vest. The depth of exhalations filled the air… we were to move forward with my unquestioned despotism over her physique.

Button by button her dress gave to gravity. It nearly exploded upon impact with the floor, or so I felt by the near thunderous response of my beating heart as I realized little else but her skin tone resisted my desires. Kissing never ceased once, even when my jeans found their way around my ankles, freeing the invigorated body about to be appeased. Her hands easily slid down, grasping me, squeezing me, gently stroking me… “the girth made just for her,” I said within my mind. I laid her down on her back, kneeling over her hamstrings, staring down at her physique. Studying the shape of her eyes, the curvature of her lips, the perk of her chest, the soft of her stomach leading down to her supple self.

“Can the fresh of nature be said to be this nurturing,” I whispered softly.

Slow descent of my finger from her mouth -much after she gently aroused it with her mouth, touching the very same areas just enjoyed by my sight.

I spoke as she knew I would.

“Your lips will foresight to the cum spilling from your mouth, resting on your chin just before coming to rest on your breast.”

Nothing but an innocent glance back into my eyes was her response. With it announcing her favorable agreement to my disposition (I still see that stare at night when I close my eyes. I hear her revealing “I’m all yours”). I grabbed her hands to place them on my cock; with both hands on me she jerked, staring at me, repeatably pulling forward and releasing me to her the sound of my abdomen being smacked with myself.

I turned her around, spread her legs, she gasped. “Mhm, Mhm,” how sweet the sound of want emerging from her.

Laying over her body, I separated her buttocks to place myself between the cheeks, lowering my torso to meet her shoulders for my lips to touch. I swayed my hips accommodating myself in multiple positions searching to touch of her skin pressed against all of my cock, wrapping it, warming it like a woolen blanket in cold cabin. I maneuvered my way southward to where my mouth finally replaced the position my aroused self had been just moments ago. I squeezed her butt now and again, too spanking it loud enough to gain the attention of bystanders. Placing my legs in between her legs, I forced her legs opened wide enough to where the mist of the night was visible right on her pussy. I spanked, and again…. quick, anxious shallow breadths, she audible over and over. Her ass shaking in what I consider the resistance of her morality to what she was allowing to happen.

Lust seeped from her, the saturation of my hand was proof of it. She glistened like sin cared by angels. The colours, shapes, contour of all her glory begged to be attacked. I took a deep breadth, spanked her pussy on last time, then ran my cock from her clitoris upwards, splitting her beauty right through the middle, collecting on my head the allure of her aroma.

“Fuck! I am going to punish you for spreading out in the open with the public as alibi of your indiscretion. Sway your ass for me to watch the unrest of your pussy,” I commanded her.

I fully slid into her with a quick thrust to where my pelvis met her rear. I was all in to the harmony of my balls smashing against her. Thrusting, withdrawing repeatedly then… slowly out. I was soaked, wet, her whitish residue smeared throughout the full of my body. I walked around her face, adjusted myself, smacked myself against her face, “Open and suck, Clean your lust from my dick!” A tender slap to her face. “There, there, all the way in!” By the time I had return to a view of myself being swallowed by her pussy two officers stood above us. She look straight into the ground not moving the least of visible details as if an infant playing peek-a-boo under the impression that not seeing the person makes one too, disappear.

“Mate, it is illegal to fornicate in public. I fear this will cost you.”

I sat up on her hamstrings again. “Look down,” *SPANK* on her pussy. “Sway your ass for the officers, honey,” I requested. “See that? Now watch it swallow my Richard! Watch closely as that vibrant body spreads to the sides for me taste her glory.” I grasped myself with the left hand, spread her with my right and slowly slide inside of her. *SPANK*, *SPANK*, *SPANK*… “Officer, come down a bit and watch my hands mark against her ass, watch how I effortlessly slide in and out. Can you imagine how tight she feels? She’s supple, tender, a full accompaniment for a throbbing member.” The tall officer tried to touch, I smacked his hand. “You may watch but not touch!”

Sitting on her legs I moved my ass to and fro, causing myself to withdraw almost completely from her, just to insert me right back in. Her hands grasped onto the grass as if preventing herself from falling from great heights. She was panting, slowly and steadily… finally unable to remain looking down, she looked to the side, exposing her sculpted lips. The second officer noticed. “Oh, my. Let’s not arrest her,” said the guardian of justice. “I tell you what,” I said. I’ll have you witness her submissive desires. But, you’ll have to pull your cocks and cum for her.”

It took very little reasoning to be escorted into a more secluded area. There I squatted her, she dripped out… I stood in front of her, telling her to open wide. “Be a good girl, let the authorities standing here see the beauty of cum dripping from those lips.” She opened and I pierced her mouth, holding onto the back of her head to prevent her from freely reacting. I shoved in, she gagged; I shoved in, she coughed; I shoved in; her eyes teared; I shoved in; she struggled to breathe. The officers stood close to her face as if hoping to get into the action.

“Do you like what you see? Get closer, close enough for her to feel you near her face, near her mouth, to almost unload on her and if need be, your cum inadvertently smear about her face, her lips, her persona. The harder they beat themselves, the longer I held her with my cock fully immersed in her mouth… “See her lips tightly wound around me, see how wet she makes me!”

Woman walking awayAs we came is how we left… I stood back watching her disappear into the distance. Officers long gone… the Richmond Park again increasing in beauty the farther away she got from my senses.

When I breathe deeply, it is the aroma of her pussy during that May morning that I smell. When I day dream is to the vision of her ass staring back at me moist, tender, raw… ready to be consumed that makes me smile.

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Pool Side

I daydream for a substantial period of time everyday. And, everyday does include nights. See, it’s become increasingly difficult to sleep as I’ve aged. Being that I’m not very good at just about anything, daydreaming has become a hobby of mine. A world to which I can escape the insignificances of life: work, incapable friends, broken vehicle on the side of the street, sleepless nights.

That day I might as well have been dreaming because that sort of behavior doesn’t happen very much, at least to me it doesn’t, I might even guess it is the sort of event that isn’t well received by the puritan police. We all know them, the notable republican congressman condemning illegal immigrants while hiring one for over a decade; the married pseudo-christian bound to a bed while being flogged by his mistress just to repent during Sunday mass. The sort of folk who hide their human behavior while attacking another’s.

Any who, I was sitting pool side, feet dunk inside the water to stay cool in the heat of the summer, accompanied by a good amount of strangers, of course. Enough of them to maintain the many ‘proper’ facades we are expected to wear at different social gatherings, you know, the self-policing type of deal! So, I sat there with my usual daydreaming face: staring into space. I mustn’t been deeply in dreams because this particular young gal caught my eye. She was a young woman whom I had dated for a very brief period of time. It was very short amount of time. I had just gotten out of a long term relationship and thought the best way out of the downer was to hookup with a hot little thing. It proved too much, too soon for me as I skipped consummation day and never contacted her again.

Seeing her in cotton-wet-tight bikini sent waves of regret that caused quite the stir in the pool. I did my best to keep calm, to ignore that she was probably as physically gifted as a female or male can be. — Proportionate, symmetrical I believe are the fitting adjectives the fitness aficionados like to use — For every well placed drop dripping down her chest onto her navel was a perfectly tanned and crafted body part. I was an idiot but, so goes life.

She had noticed me long before I her… I came to learn after she approached me and were consequently physically removed from the premises. She advanced towards me from inside the pool, walking and swimming the length of its Olympic size. We had already began conversing by the time she pulled my legs apart, situating herself between my legs; her underarms resting on each of my quads. The memories of our conversation, well, her monologue, are vague. I paid more attention at her barely covered top, and did I the same to the shape of her mouth enunciating whatever it was that she was speaking.

One unheard, perhaps even purposely ignore, word after another had her hand through the left leg of my brief-style swim trunks. No, her hand wasn’t the reason for my invigoration rather, the shape of her nipples piercing through the sheer-cotton bikini top. I like to believe she reacted to me and went ahead to prove that my regrets would be a thing of the past.

The strokes were slow and steady at first, running her fingers up and down as her wrist moved likewise. It made it feel as if a continuous stroke, giving me absolutely no time to catch the daydreams quickly slipping away into reality. I was fixated on her hands, the feeling of soft skin up and down the shaft all the way to the head, back down to the sack, which she’d grasp with her thumb. A few times she squeezed the shaft so hard that it made me want to grab her by the hair and force her mouth on me from the desire to cum inside it.

Whatever little time we spent reacquainting with one another was just the exact amount of time required to rush through courting and romancing right into fornication. She pulled down my briefs by the front, securing them neatly under my scrota. She jerked me as if a chef preventing his dish from being ruined by high flames: hard, fast and relentlessly. It was enchanting to hear her speaking out loud about tasting her ass, the spread of her pussy wet and waiting for it to be tossed. I salivated from the thought of her moist self against my lips rubbing lust throughout my mouth. Had I been myself at that point I would have taken the time to imagine how shapely and colorful she must be. The world would have heard the revelry created by male against female under euphoric confluence, that’s the sort of dream I would have had.

Her breast came lose by the directed grinds of her chest against my legs. Just when I thought I was about to come down into the pool and feel more than her hand, her mouth engulfed me whole in one deliberate shove of her face into my crotch. I exploded like balloon over high flames, she came up with cum dripping down her chin and a cum bubble still expanding on her opened mouth. She was going to dive in for seconds when jealous bystanders rushed to pull us apart. She was pulled out of the pool with an obvious display of debauchery: cum against her breast and mouth, smiling at me as if she’d won some sort of price.

As for me, I was also covered in synergy of semen and saliva. I was still erect, still throbbing, totally unconcerned that I was being wrestled and shoved out of the grounds. My mind was fixated on my remains against her body… she, licking them from her lips and my cock still seeking further gratification.

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Dogging it

I don’t precisely want to come across as some sort of foremost authority in the sex-crazed phenomenon sweeping across parking areas all around the country, as I am not, but ladies and gents, it was much more than expected and I shall be doing it over and over again.

I hadn’t heard of it (the phenomenon) until around a month ago when a friend – who knew slightly nothing more than I did – convinced me of tagging along for some “let’s see what happens” kinda fun. By word of mouth he learned of a kickingly-acitve spot not 30 minutes walk from my home. We decided to heed all possible sexually transmitted decease warning… yeah ok, that wasn’t and isn’t much of a deterrent for the testosterone oozing out of my ears; a time and date were set with much anticipation. Each night prior to the date of the event, imagery of curves and sweat jumping from cloud to cloud kept me awake. Without much hesitation, know that I believe that if it were those images the cause of insomnia, it wouldn’t be possible to label it a disorder.

The daytime wait wasn’t much to have remembered had it not been for the insurmountable anticipation imprinting my thoughts. The sheer vigor pumping through my body during the walk to the destination intoxicated me with the prospect of the carnal fest to be had with perfect strangers. I spoke not one sentence while my friend spoke the entire journey. It wasn’t until after walking back home that I even considered that I didn’t really hear a damn thing he said. I was too happily engorged, too invigorated, too damn fixated by the feeling of vibrations traveling up my legs to my crotch with each step. Every calorie required for any and all mental activity was concentrated in the throbbing in my pants. I was standing tall and ready to spew on or in someone. It was so appeasing that I could have returned home without even carrying out our plan, all because the sensation on my solider was of pure, well, I’ve been had; I might not have even missed bypassing the lust of some stranger dribbling down my shaft, I felt so good. That was the sort of heartfelt lust revving me up that night.

The park and transport was scattered with vehicles. Most were stationed just under post lamps; I reasoned to elicit the most ardent of services. Why else would someone be at full display as if meat hanging form a hook at the market? Head lights, parking lights, inside lights on, off, blinking; windows up, down all the way, half way; doors fully opened, ajar, closed, even locked. It was a Christmas tree spectacle filled with goodies to taste and batter.

I’m an impatient person yet, the thought of missing something too great to have neglected kept me from launching towards it all. I allowed time to let it all simmer. I was just about to climb through the open window of a vehicle with three women spread as if American eagles in full flight about to snatch the pray when the sight staring at me from the corner of my eye stalled my approach towards the tripleta. The figure staring back at me wasn’t just a physique; no sir, it was not, sir; no, it was the scenery that must await every angel at the entrance of heaven. It was one of those structures crafted so tenderly that it instantly becomes one of nature’s wonders. It was figuratively and literally exceptional. Not one, nor very many could have made the slightest, most insignificant of improvements.

As is the case when I’m confronted with superior irrational elation, there was little choice other than climbing the structure to chisel away at perfection with the utter most pleasure of extracting nourishment. As inconceivable impossible sight as that was, is how I stammered towards it. I pushed aside anyone faintly close to my trajectory path; I was about to detonate and the target callously made herself visible.

She swayed side to side; her torso leaned up and over inside the driver’s side open window. Her feet dangling about, at times reaching, others not, the floor. The lines of her calves coming up to meet the hamstrings at the back of the knee pointed upwards to a nearly luminescent yellow panties tug snugly to her figure. I made my way through the crowd that was beginning to surround her, even slapped away the few hands that had lifted her skirt. I drew close, leaned at the waist, grasped her feet, unlatched her high-heel shoes then ran my mouth from her Achilles heel up her calf, to her inner thigh, reaching over with both hands and grabbing the panties; hooking my thumbs just under her buttocks and massaging them until forcing the panties to meet right between her butt cheeks, creating the plumpness of a plum ready to seep into my mouth.

The logical step was to tug a tad bit at the panties to fully sung the piece of cloth to her delicious lady. With my left hand, I quickly unobstructed her by moving the undergarment half way to the left butt cheek. It was done so meticulously that even the aroma that should have stricken me hard and indiscreetly didn’t have a chance to seep into the open air. A few more slaps to eager competitors hands seeking to capitalize on my pray had me on my way again.

Experienced and not, men or women, have not seen this much size, this much joy, this much lip, this much supple cushion creating a vagina; but, because that night decadence shook within me; that pussy was a carnival in a music-less world. It was tightly plush, lips against one another trying to keep secrets from me. Her ass cheeks came down around it caving in creating the illusion of a mitt in receiving stance. Someone took careful consideration into the impact that garden was going to have in those who sew its fruit.

After little consideration, I used my nose to split the lips apart. If any, the sense of smell seems to be the most appropriate of them all to commence this feast. She reached back with both hands and pulled me tightly against her then, released. Her aroma clung onto my nose with scents of devastation speaking to me. They told me to smell, to bite, to suck, to suckle, to finger, to engulf, even to ride my penis right down from the anal orifice down to the clitoris.

I lost track of time, actions, those around me, whether I had or didn’t any help; however, back at home my heartbeat rejected continuous attempts to relax. It beat strangely fast and in total disharmony. My cock still throbbed and the moisture clinging to it and soaking the scrota smelled of her. I insanely stroke it, time and again bringing my hands to my nose to inhale the lust still scattered about. The head sparkled gloriously, in my thoughts from the beating it got, well, at the carnival.

Now, in the AM, sheets with her scent attached them tell me I will refuse to clean them, to bathe myself, to wash my hands for sometime. I want to still feel her against my cock, her joy caressing it, protecting it from feeling alone, soft, cold…

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Moral Injury

Neither the Las Vegas skyline during the dawn of dusk just when the desert mountains in the horizon start to give way to sprinkles of neon lights up and down the avenue, nor the neo-trance music aimed to push young hearts into “funtoxication” complimented the fact that I was stuck at a nearly filled to capacity AARP Boulevard Pool venue gathering at the Cosmopolitan. Not that I am a sprouting bean but, at least two decades of life experience separated me from the next youngest attendee.

I remained at the edge of pool staring due south South towards the disappearing distance that made the strip lively. It is of little wonder why this place is known as Sin City. This is where capitalism thrives and people die; where hopes are lost and adventures won; where calves protrude and men intrude; where ignorance is of use to the women that know how to abuse. I stood chest out, shoulders back, and armed with morals dissecting and accusing the evil in the place that would have gratified me at different stage of my life.

Soon enough the cool of the night suffocated the avenue, with it taking the sole beauty that gave solace: those very distant mountains that gave this empty place a heartbeat. I wondered how, singles as well as couples being surrounded by so much irony, rejoiced at the potential to “succeed” or “fail”. Whatever those two verbs mean to anyone. I looked down at passer-bys, at busses loaded with cash(people) to embrace slot machines. They walked into the casinos in groups of coins, dollars, twenties and hundreds. Each with visions of wealth beaming out of their hopes. I wasn’t one of them; no sir, I wasn’t. I was the voice of reason, of honesty… and so I returned to my drenched prejudices to complain.

Standing in Sin City yet, I could hardly accept that even my one vice hadn’t been clenched. Cheap wine took the place of American Rye Whiskey. I sipped on white and red wine trying to fit in. Eventually, I struck a conversation with two mature women about their attire, my attire and their unexpectedly fit physiques. They were very educated women. They spoke of their young tree-hugging ways, college tuition, the state of American greed, the days of free drugs and, activism.

The Swiss women came to the desert for the same reason as I: to gain a competitive edge on the *competition* by attending an invitation only, business conference. The place finally didn’t seem as repulsive as I’d concluded earlier. They brought a pulse to a place in need of one. At 10 PM, the hosted party at the Boulevard Pool venue ended. They looked at me, asked to head down to the sports bar to watch the Rugby Championship.

They switched the cheap wine to cheap beer and began to root like only a soccer nation fan can. For a country disinterested in anything but American pride, a crowd gathered around us to root for a sport that will never again matter as it did that night. Their tight dresses, flexing arms, and perky butts had the attention of everyone each time they rose to cheer; me included. I still don’t think I saw much of the men but, I can vividly tell you what each was wearing and how many times I got a peek at their underpants tightly adjusted to their persona. I even caught a smile when each noticed my head tilted looking for a more appropriate viewing angle.

It took us a while to leave the sports bar after the game. We remained behind small chatting and flirting. Men after men failed to draw their interest away me. I was sort of happy about it, about the idea that they were there with me while everyone else attempted to infringe my joyful times. The harassment eventually got to the three of us. The one with long blond hair down to the small of her back stood up, grabbed my hand and in her native tongue instructed and motioned us to leave. We dashed out to the strip hailing down cabs. They ran ahead of me with their high heels in their hands in what appeared to be some sort of plot to leave me behind.

They stopped for a moment speaking to one of those very trendy fellows searching to make a quick buck by handing out strip club cards and directions to a good time. I caught up to them looking somewhat alarmed, I wasn’t really going to spend money at a strip joint to see teens spreading their ideas to me for a dirty dollar. Yet, that’s exactly what happened. The two women convinced me to join them in some sort of bodyguard duty to prevent drunken men from approaching them at the strip joint. Easy picking, I’m a gentleman and easily influenced as well. So, there wasn’t much to do but to accompany them.

A limo pulls up to the curb to pick us up. The “entrepreneur” who had succeeded bringing customers to the gentleman’s club hands us tickets for discounted entrance and free drinks. We hop inside the limo and by golly of cheap spirits and wine, the women pull out a bag full of cocaine. I stare at it, they stare at me and proceed to inform me that we would be having that at the club. Ha! Plenty of time for me to plan an escape.

We spoke about our families back home, traded pictures and laughs. Once at the club we were directed right to the back. The worst of fears scared my feet cold. I should have fled at that point but, for whatever reason I followed them to the back of the room where red night lights allowed just enough visibility to see alluring figures staring in our direction. We wedged ourselves in a corner, opened up a tab to be expensed as business entertainment then began to drank the night away until a suitable candidate came to give my companions a lap dance.

I stared more at the women enjoying the dance than did I at the gal fully nude parading her well sculpted physique in all directions. I washed them kiss the striper, slap her ass and touch themselves. I hadn’t felt that much vigor since losing my virginity at twenty six years of age. The bag of coke held firmly in my hand. What in the world was I to do with it? I had never ever held one. I looked it, placed it on the table in which the stripper danced then, the woman with shoulder length blond hair grabbed it from me and asked the stripper to leave. Off to the bathroom we went. All three of us, half wasted, jammed into a stall drawing lines of cocaine atop the toilet paper dispenser.

We traded line snorts, kisses and gropes until about a quarter of the bag was left. We walked back to our spot; I watched them get one last dance from the very same girl then left in search of a regular bar with cheaper drinks and less of a greed for cash. A beggar accompanied us for some twenty minutes of a walk time to a rather cowboy-sh looking bar. I ordered some more cheap beer as did they. While they got lost in the bathroom to finish off the white substance, the bartender, a sweet young girl from back east brought me a wet cloth to wipe my nose that revealed to have just sinned. We struck a friendly conversation until the girls returned. We spoke of her mostly, of me, well, what led to the happy nose and what not.

At the bar we danced to country songs and sang until the mixture of alcohol and street drugs sent us into the street exited to find the way back to the Cosmopolitan on the south end of the strip. More of the same continued during the ride back to the hotel. The girls took turns sitting on my lap kissing me and grinding pelvis against my pants. In all honesty, against my unbuckled pants with more of me than should have been out peeking back at them. I zipped up and stared at their bottoms as each exited the taxi. We laughed through the casino and into the elevator to the west tower. I clicked my floor on the elevator… they theirs.

We stood on opposite ends of the elevator, laughing, breathing heavily and deviantly looking at one another. My floor, the 48th, came first. The doors didn’t really get a chance to open much before the lady with the long blond hair down to her waist pressed the “close door” button repeatedly. “Be a gentleman and walk us to our quarters, won’t you?”
I didn’t even know I responded because by the time my body managed to find an equilibrium between sanity and drugged induced oblivion I sat naked on the bed looking up at them on the inside ledge of the window butt naked dancing for me.

Their bodies could have been clones of one another other. The type of body that young American women are sold as a must by propaganda. They differed from each other in bodily hair. One was bald down below; the other had a landing strip. Maturity had never looked this delicious. The bag of coke still had some life in it. The one with the long hair down to the small of the back and landing strip stayed up seducing me from a window. The second girl came down, slide her tongue inside the bag — it came out white in residue — then, she kissed me numb.

Covered in sin I grabbed a fistful of hair and directed her towards my cock. She sucked with an experience I had yet to live. The soft, thin and straight hair tickled my lap, a tickle that had me fantasizing about the long hair of the woman still dancing on the inside ledge of the window. Both of us stood up simultaneously and walk in that direction. On the nightstand, an opened Whistle Pig bottle of Rye looked at me. I reached over, grabbed it and brought it with me. I still wonder how it got there. We stopped in front of the window where I looked up straight at the pussy of the beautiful dancer in front of me. Through the break of her inner thighs the city gleamed at me. I took a deep breath, inhaling what residue was left of cocaine on my nose, and thought about all that was to remain behind when I left Vegas.

I dropped my head to realize I was being orally stimulated. Suck and suck, gag and gag, the noises of a stellar performance. On the ledge, legs spread, speaking in her native tongue coupled to “Viva Las Vegas” in that sweet accent, said the second lady. She looked towards the nightlife missing on feeling alive along with us and shook her ass after running one of her digits right split down the middle. She arched her back and I stuck my face right where the warmth of Las Vegas knew I would like. I bit, licked, sucked pussy and ass. Her hair tickled my face fancy, tickled my dick harder. She tasted of lust waiting to come out without care or judgment.

She must still have my paw prints on her butt. What do I know! I don’t even recall but waking up mid day with the two passed out by my crotch with stains of dried cum on their faces. “Not bad,” I thought to myself then, stood up inspected their bodies for quite a long time and, awoke them to say goodbye.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I’m told; but, what am I do to with the moral injury leaving with me? At home it surely doesn’t feel the same as it did coked up, drunk and with my penis being shared by two women.

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A Street’s Distance Away

She’d run the fingers of her right hand slowly down the window staring in his direction. She wanted to reach across the distance between their buildings to nurture him. She had never seen him looked so lonely, so overwhelmingly torn by the departure of a woman. For the past few years she had watched him from the safe distance of her bedroom window as he built a life with another woman. She had become emotionally attached to who she thought him to be, he who she had built in her dreams to be. He seemed not the typical guy. Especially so, in bed, where she watched them copulate time and again.

Those rainy days that he and his mate spent in bed switching from making love to ravages of the flesh, she stared at them in deep sighs of the soul. Tapping her bedroom window with her index finger saying to herself, “you are mine, and don’t even know it. But, why it hurts such that I’ve been here for so long and you haven’t even noticed my presence.”

Even the days when his floor-to-ceiling windows were opened wide and his mate accentuated pleasures of the self out to the world, he didn’t notice her watching them, watching him… even when staring dead straight in her direction. Sometimes she swore to have had a connection with him; to have caught a glimpse of interlocking eyesight. It wasn’t to be. He had little idea there was a world out there other than that with his mate.

These past few months however, he’s mopped around covered in obvious pain. He’s hurt more than at any other time since she began her distant intrusion of his life. Even the words she sent in his direction while leaning her forehead against the window didn’t reach him. Not one made it across the four lane street distance between her and his room. The wind blowing eastward deprived her consoling words from making it across the street. Her intentions washed away to nothing… diluted by the strength of the wind and opaqued by the noise of the city.

He sat awake each night until the early hours of the morning — just before the sun peaked out at the world — when it became time to walk his Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy. He would stand up, open the window, look east, west, but never north, he never looked north in her direction. He simply looked to the left, to the right and straight down as if hoping to see the figure of that woman entering his life again. From the distance, she resented that woman’s departure. She didn’t think it fair that he had to sit and agonize while his ex likely gallivanted the nights away.

One night, he had a terrifyingly difficult time finding peace. The usual spot that had provided him continuous soothing at the edge of his bed failed time and again to help him forget. He walked about the apartment fully clothed as if begging for the acceleration of time until time came to go for a walk. Unable to await the arrival of the sun, he grabbed the leash, the puppy and headed towards the front door. Upon opening the door, a note rested inside an envelope with a lili resting atop it.

His hopes flickered with excitement. For the time it took to smell the flower and open the note, his heart attacked him as if loved had struck his fancy. It wasn’t to be the case, the note read “If anything, I can make you forget. Look out your bedroom window. Not east, not west, not down, but straight ahead.” He was unmoved by the note. He closed the door behind him and walked towards the elevator. He pressed the down button but instead of releasing it, he kept it pressed looking down at the note and flower on his left hand. The elevator reached his floor, opened but, he didn’t go inside. He walked back to his apartment with a quicker glide than he used to get to the elevator. He opened his apartment door, unleashed little Ridge and walked straight to the his bedroom window.

Directly across from his window, on the very same floor in the facing building stood she. She wore a white silk robe down to mid thighs, opened straight down the middle fully exposing her. The burgundy belt hanging from her right shoulder. The slight drizzles did nothing to prevent the silence between them to hush. She looked at him with a warm smile. He at her as if he’d forgotten that not long ago he suffered mercifully. He slowly opened his window and stepped out to the ledge. She didn’t have the same luxury of meeting him at the ledge of her very own window. She could only watch him from behind her locked glass.

He looked at her for near eternity, so it seemed at least; fixated on the embrace of her smile. Even the beauty of her bare chest, stomach and femininity remained ignored. He simply looked at her smile, looked at her eyes, admire her hair curling down to the sides. She was audacious by removing the robe, letting it fall down to the floor informing him that she was his.

He looked up to the sky that had strengthened to a pour. Water running down his face, embracing the he meant to be embraced by her across the street. He removed all of his articles of clothing one by one, tossing them down to whatever whim the wind wished to cause upon them. She laughed, she got close to the window placing both her hands against the glass and driving them down as if touching his chest.

He too, laughed. He screamed out in her direction, elated in the finding, naked on a ledge. Then he stopped, smiled and simply stared at her. Rain covered him drop by drop, soaking his body with the very warmth he had forgotten existed.

She smiled, and with her finger drew a heart out of the condensation building against the window. He hadn’t a reaction. He simply watched… feeling the end of agony come to be.