Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Echoes from the Pulpit

Every Sunday morning prior to service I, Father Amaro, must prepare the altar to receive the congregation. Sometimes the ritual is more involved than others, nevertheless it’s as serious a task as it is enjoyable. Because of theoretical differences with the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the details of my ritual have remained a secret between me and the cooperating Sisters’ of our Lady Of Francis Convent.

The ritual began shortly after accepting vows to enter the priesthood. It was an idea that entered my mind during the six-month decon appointment, which was just the time required to plan every detail. While my dream had always been the priesthood, the vow of chastity was much of stumbling stone. Still, I knew that the righteous time to make my peace with God would arrive one way or another. And, this ritual was my mends with the High Lord.

During seminary study sexual interactions were discouraged in preference of friendships; I listened very little. My hypothesis was that if I were to spoil my demons prior to leading my own congregation, I had to bask in the hidden treasures of many-a-woman trousers. I undertook all sides of knowledge by not limiting myself to catechism, but it also engulfing in philandering. If my hypothesis was to be proven a fact, experimentation needed undertaking.

The seminary cemented my desire to become a priest. I finally accepted my fate. I took the vows of chastity relinquishing perdition. At least so I thought until the backsides pressed against the habits of a few of the Sisters of our Lady of Francis Convent’s proved fatal. All I saw from that point forward was the movement of glutes against fabric. I wondered what hid beneath Jehovah forbidden fruits. Nothing more went or came through my mind, only to follow Eve’s path to eat the fruit.

Engaging a few sisters wasn’t a difficult endeavor; of course much of the work was done for me through hearsay. “Seclusion” does a funny thing to a person; I represented as much deliverance to the sisters as they did to me. I would ask for a precise nun to aid in the ritual depending on how I felt Sunday mornings… depending on the sermon, on how I felt after breakfast. Wake up time was at 4AM those days. I’d go for a light jog around the village where many parishioners thought me a holy man chasing away the devil. After the run it was shower time where most of the sermon was conceived, as was the ritual to take place at the chancel. Directly because of the ritual, the nuns and I became responsible for the upkeep of the chancel to ensure “proper” construction.

Church Bell TowerBreakfast was nothing more than a cup of tea and soda crackers to have on the go. I’d have it up on the bell tower watching sunrise over the hills. A coveted sight it was to watch the morning rays peek through the convent windows. It would reveal undressing bodies, some more appealing than others, nevertheless, it was epiphany to me. I learned what windows to watch every sunrise throughout the year. Some windows I skipped, others I tried to look inside even when the sun wouldn’t allow it. Once the sun was completely uncovered, I’d watch the nuns walk from the convent towards church. Those aware of the ritual walked behind on the line, looking up at the bell-tower in excitement of whom I was to choose, I selfishly hoped.

Sister MayToday’s ritual is to be carried out with the help of Sister May. She is around my age; I’m a young priest as is a testament of my hormonal mishaps. The nuns prepare for mass in the yard. They pray for about an hour, then ready to welcome parishioners. That’s when the ritual takes place; somewhere between 9:30AM and and 10:30AM. I’ll be waiting at the altar for Sister May to walk in from the rectory. There is nothing under my robe, just as there isn’t under her habit. The chancel is covered in palm leaves, purple candles surround the space where we’ll consummate this holy reunion.

As I watch her walk towards me, I pace around, praying, chanting, flickering holy water around the altar, ignorant of scruples… as this very moment needs no interference from higher morals. She walks towards me undressing, leaving whatever clothing she’s wearing down the aisle. I meet her down at the low step of the chancel, disrobe showing her that our very own mass is about to start. We kneel, look up at Jesus the Christ on the cross, and pray. I stand up, walk up two steps and turn around facing Sister May. She leans forward, grabs my scrota from the bottom with her left hand, and with the right she directs it inside her mouth. She’s become versed with time. She’s made me see angels floating about the nave many a times.

I recall the first time I climaxed in her mouth. She nearly regurgitated on the altar. Oh, what a pretty sight… it was to realize that at her age innocence still resided.

Her saliva lubricates me throughly, preparing me for a world of Catholic consumption. She meets the head with her lips fitting it like a handcrafted fedora. Swiveling her head around to ensure that each part of the head gets to feel the warmth inside her mouth. She massages the scrota while jerking the shaft. Before ceasing the adventure she pushes me in completely, releases him causing it to quickly return to upright position and slap against my lower abdomen. She leans lower and puts the scrota on her mouth, a feeling I never realized I enjoyed prior to meeting her.

Sunlight Through Church WindowSatisfied with the preparation, she walks up to the last step of the chancel, hinges at the waist until both her hands are flat against the floor, and says “Oh, Holy Father, I have sinned. What is my penance?” I look back at the rear windows, the light crafts a hue reminiscence of the descending good upon the earth. I return my stare towards her to admire the gates of heaven. I look, think of Adam, and too taste the forbidden fruit. I trace it with my tongue as if about to call out the Song of Songs. I had always attributed heat to hell, but knowing that his very second I’m about to meet paradise, and it is not only warm but moist, has made me rethink both inferno and paradise. My tongue is covered in her scent.. luring desires I knew not I had.

I walk up the steps to meet her, piercing her just once to appease the deities inside of me. I pull out, grab her by the hair, stand her straight, and lead her towards the palm-tree-leaves bed I’ve made. I lay her face down on the bed of leaves, spread her legs far apart enough where is possible to place both my legs between them. I leave her there, grab one of the purple candles and… I let wax drip down on her glutes. I love the watch their reaction when the hot wax splashes against the skin. The first few times we carried out rituals I only splashed it against her butt, but now I use it to inform her of what part of her body will serve penance. Today, it will be the first time that I will cover the center of her buttocks with wax. We devout Catholics have come to enjoy repenting with a little pain.

I believe any well worth commitment should be carried out with some pain for both parties. It’s more difficult to hand down the punishment of the Lord without proper lubrication in the area, but it’s well worth it despite it. My lips don’t neglect that this woman laying face down with her legs spread apart needs to feel the joy of the lord, just as she will some discomfort. My lips run the length of her inner thighs, up to her crotch where I exercise the recipes of the heavens. I don’t allow her to climax, only desire for her to feel the lure of good throbbing in her.

Not soon enough do my lips undertake an upwards search to remove candle wax from the area it came to rest. I find it, struggle to remove it with my lips and tongue, so I employ the help of my hands. I bite her cheeks, squeeze hard, even slap them both leaving behind reminders of my presence. Sister May talks of the trinity, of the need to ask God to forgive the indiscretions gone unpaid until now. There isn’t a need to be forceful initially; first my tongue pierces her, massaging the idea that something greater was coming. Then my index finger circles around the orifice, pressing in but never penetrating. Her butt sways, her legs tense expecting that I will push in, but I don’t.

The man of God I am, I wait for the signal that she is ready. I kiss, bite, run my tongue alongside my index finger until her signal cues me to resume. I lay on top of her, grab my engorged self with my right hand and trace him up and down her vagina, soaking the head enough to aid in the task of abusing a less moisturized body part. I push her legs wider apart, lean over to her left ear and ask if she is ready to receive forgiveness. Clenching some palm tree leaves, she takes a breath and replies, “Yes, Father Amaro.”

I ask that she grab and position me. She frees her left hand from the leaves… reaches behind her to grab me. Her full hand holds my shaft, positioning me upon the supple area. I feel it against my head and push in. She attempts a disruption of a full penetration by pushing against my pelvis with her hand. I grab the arm, and direct her hand to her butt cheek, grab the second hand and place it on the other butt cheek. I instruct her to pull to the sides to give me a view of where I am to thrust with as much mercy as Christ was demonstrated when crucified.

I withdraw, stand back and watch her glutes spread to the sides pointing to the entrance I am to have. I lean on her again, but this time I don’t need her aid. I push in merciless! The entrance is difficult on me; though, I imagine not as much as it is to her. I haven’t the time to be delicate, this is the ritual to take place today. She must be strong for the work of a greater need. I thrust in hard, feeling skin to skin burn for a split moment. I thrust and thrust, she tells me it is painful. I ask her to tell me how much it hurts. She can only manage to repeatedly say “Oh, Father forgive me, forgive, myself I give to you.”

Church NaveI’m thrusting so recklessly that the sound of my pelvis hitting her backside echos through the sanctuary. Her praying voice following each echo to every nook. She tells me it hurts, but that she never thought there could be pleasure associated with it. I ask her to be hush; that I want to feel as I climax inside of her. I lose control, lean my torso against her back and bite her left shoulder enough to leave bite marks without drawing blood. I can’t take it much longer. I pull her up to hands and knees by her pelvis; I squat down and watch as I take her ass to my whim.

She goes between cries, prayers, and moans. By this point she no longer tries to hold me back. Now her head is moving about with her mouth opened. She tells me she can not take it any more. I grab her hair, pull her head slightly back to watch as her mouth opens and her deep dark eyes stare back at me, and I ejaculate. I grab both her butt cheeks, squeeze very hard, slap her the hardest I ever had then, meticulously move in and out ensuring to leave all I can inside of her.

I pull out, watch as some of me drips out of her. It falls all the way to the palm tree leaves. I get up, walk around turning the purple candles off. Sister May on the floor still breathes heavily. All the candles are off. I begin to pray, the Sister joins me. I stand over her, grab the base of my semi-erect being and squeeze up the urethra pushing out remnants of my lust. They fall on the low of her back. She smiles, and asks, “Is it going to hurt for much longer?” “I don’t know Sister, please notify me when the pain ceases”, I reply.

We clean the chancel of any sings of our encounter while still naked. I grab my handy receptacle, light frankincense and walk about the church cleansing it from ill spirits that might have come to watch along with the angles. Finally the bells sound announcing that we are 15 minutes from service. By now we are dressed, Sister May walks to the front doors, opens them, and stands outside waiting for her parochial duties to commence.

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Club House

I became the custodial “parent” of my best friends small fortune some three years ago. I, as a third party guardian served to the best interest of his children. So claimed the judge when I was asked to appear in court. I didn’t understand a word during the proceedings, but even the shock wasn’t lasting enough to obfuscate the last words my freedom heard. “You have the means to provide as no relative can, as are you here on these legal documents requested to do so were anything to occur to the parents. If so you agree.” I looked at the kids’ relatives, took a moment of silence for my friend’s passing, said my goodbyes to liberty, took a deep breath and my recollection from that moment is limited to walking out of court holding hands with the little people.

After gaining composure from the initial shock, I have been consumed with providing values to hopefully make my late friend proud of his children. It was a dramatic change in lifestyle, that of providing celibacy to myself, and everything of sound thought to the little ones. It was costly at every corner, not that I would prefer it any other way; I still believe this is where I was meant to be: a mate-less parent to my lovely children.

I automatically dissolved the nightly escapades that controlled my being. Done because I believe that a steady presence of a father figure, even when void of a mother, builds a solid foundation to create wonderful human beings. Lullabies replaced drinking nights. Even all of my transient relationships ceased to be memories. They became dark spaces occupying the once radiant neurons of my brain. My ego suffered, sometimes I even wonder if I gave up too much, but seeing the happy faces tells me my life couldn’t be more precious.

I hadn’t been apart from them not once in the last three years. They were all and everything to me. They came to represent my day, night and time in between company. It’s understandable that I would have difficulty dropping them off at daycare that first day. I still believe that it was more difficult for me than it was for them to say goodbye for a half a day. They cried in terror, looking back at me wondering why I was abandoning them at the hands of strangers. Not only did I leave in tears, but so stayed for the duration of the day. Each day for the next two weeks my teary eyes were quite the spectacle at daycare. However, being the emasculated fellow came with a great surprise; the mom’s at daycare found it rather charming. They believed I was a male in touch with my feelings… someone worthwhile.

The spectacles ceased after a while of sad morning drop offs. And with it came an invitation to a meal by one of the mothers. At the time I didn’t realize it was a date, after all, I hadn’t had any adult female interaction in the past three years that would afford me the ability to identify such interests. I wouldn’t even conceive a woman asking me on a date, I just couldn’t see beyond diapers and late night runs to the E.R. I began to believe that testosterone levels not only dropped for biological fathers, but also for surrogate fathers. I felt that I would never pick up on feminine cues ever again. I saw the invitation, not as a date, but as a chance to trade parenting ideas, to trade frustrations.

We came to an accord about time and location while walking to her car. I, naturally, reached to open the door to her vehicle. Not because of chivalry, but that I had become conditioned to opening the door for the little ones whose tiny bodies prevented them from many-a-things. That seemed to impress her… a gentleman who is in touch with his emotions. I didn’t think of myself as man any longer, but as a father with no other interest but ensure the children made it through the day in one piece. We briefly chatted before she departed. I told her some about me, specifically my re-entrance into the workforce, how much easier being at work had become after the daily routine with the children, and oddly, how I didn’t miss having a woman around. She told me about her ex, about her low paying gig, about being a recent single mother and the difficulties making it through each day.

We had agreed to meet on a Friday night at 7PM; incredibly close to bedtime for my comfort. I wondered if I would make it through dinner without falling asleep. At this point I still didn’t think of our encounter as a date. To me it was two adults trading parentings stories. I had already a story to share for the evening, something I knew she’d understand: for the very first time since gaining custody of the little ones, I hired a babysitter; one of the kid’s daycare takers. I left in horror; but, not before strategically placing a few cameras around the house to keep an eye in the action during my absence. My handy mobile device showed me anything I wanted to see by simply visiting a website. A win, win situation despite shedding tears from leaving them at home with someone else but me.

I arrived early to venue, some twenty minutes ahead of schedule. I sat at the bar, browsed the upper shelf filled with American spirits, and requested from the bartender a bourbon with a solid punch that is not found in many places. He grabbed the book of available spirits, pointed me to what he thought would be a good starting drink, then poured this gorgeous amber-in-colour-bourbon into a three finger tumbler. No ice, straight up. I chugged it remembering the days long gone where a 70% proof was just a warm up. This time that wasn’t the case, I coughed it up immediately. My throat burned reminding me that I wasn’t that single male of years back, rather the crying gentleman that drinks soy milk with the kids before bedtime.

Woman in Simple Black Dress fixing her shoeShe was certainly overdressed, so was everyone else at the venue. I don’t even recollect ever having attire to fit this night; I know I did have them at one point, but after so long, goodness knows where in my brain their memory might be. She wore not such a simple black dress. She was actually a delight to see. I waved the bartender over and asked him to fill me up. He looked me dead in the eye and said he didn’t really feel like cleaning up my dribble from the bar-top. I responded that the dribble this time around wasn’t going to be caused by bourbon, but by the female spirit I was about to have. He looked in the same direction I was looking, then turned to me to share raised eyebrows while watching her sitting on a bar-stool fixing her shoe. The bartender grabbed me one of them “hazmat” bottles of antique collection barrel-proof, hit me with a sniffer for it (only because the lady might find it more appealing) then filled the sniffer one third, and took a shoot for himself. We toasted to my success, then I proceeded to slowly drink that-one-third-filled sniffer at 74% proof all while looking at her.

It was as if her appearance summoned vintage me. I grabbed the bottle for keeps, asked the bartender for a “sophisticated” apple-tiny, and headed in her direction. She was delighted to see me. I greeted her with a double cheek kiss, then offered her the apple-tiny. She smiled, telling me that it had been a rather while since she’d had one of them. I concurred, as that bottle of spirit in my hand was the very first drink in too long for me as well. We stayed at the bar talking for some two hours. By now it was 9 O’Clock, a full hour beyond my bed time yet, I felt no signs of bedtime.

She thought it was rather masculine of me to be holding a bottle of bourbon in my hand while checking up on my kids. We both continuously checked our mobiles for video updates. I could have thought it a bit more irresponsible of me, but I went with her version. It reminded her of cowboy movies where the protagonist pulls the cork with his teeth, proceeds to drink from the bottle, then cleans his lips with the sleeve of the shirt. Had she met me three years ago, she would have seen that very scene. I was pompous enough to only drink from my very own bottle, even if I didn’t finish it. I wanted one to put my lips against and savor it knowing no one ever had, and would never after me. I thought I was macho, a show off, someone who took the world lightly. Maybe it was because of the liquor that all seemed more “appealing”; she had had two and a half apple-tinies, and I was working on about half a bottle.

Red & White Stripped Bikini BottomsShe stood from the bar-stool, asked me to get her a salad of my liking, and an appetizer for myself. I didn’t want a full meal. She was heading to the ladies’ room to freshen up, and wanted to get started eating before it became too late. When she returned she lifted the bottle of bourbon, placed a pair of American Flag bikini bottom on top of the bar-top, then placed the bottle down on it. She looked at and said: “I lost something in the restroom, care to help me find it?” Three years of drought had residual effect on me, I looked down at the bikini bottom grabbed it and told her I had found it. She was as tipsy as I because she laughed at my lack of compulsion, then asked for a shot of my spirit straight from the bottle. I handed over the bottle only to watch that cowgirl slowly sip my bourbon. Some of it spilled out of the side of her mouth, down the cheek, coming to a rest half way her neck.

I leaned over passed her to grab the apple-tiny. I flicked it with my hand, cracking the glass as it fell on the bar-top spilling the contents. “This girl doesn’t need to be pretentious”, I said. I surely hadn’t enough liquor, so I leaned over again and took small bites of the bourbon resting on her neck. Again she asked if I cared to find what she’d lost in the ladies’ room. This time, though, I caught on. I agreed to help her find the missing article she sought. The bartender watched as we walked towards the restroom, I waved at him, asking him to keep an eye on our liquor. He screamed back that he would also keep the pretty red and white stripe bikini bottom. She looked back, blew a kiss in his direction and said to be nice. I didn’t, I told him he was the new proprietor of that part of the business.

She pulled me into the restroom where two ladies, and the bathroom concierge spoke about spirits to taste. We greeted them and walked straight into one of the stalls. These weren’t the type of bathrooms as in any normal bar, not that it would have made any difference; these were bathrooms for the presumptuous crowd. Those who complain about water not being warm enough upon touch, complain about the temperature of the bathroom, complain about the colour of the tiles… She sat me on the stall, then sat on my lap to kiss me. She didn’t just kiss me, she attacked me. I had lipstick throughout my neck and face. I was covered in an off-red colour, and even a drop of blood dripping from my lower lip that was drawn out by one of her bites. I reached for my lip, touched it, looked down at my hand where the sight of the drop of blood transformed me into a starving man.

I lift her dress up to just below chest level to see her exposed navel. I have a weakness for them. The mere sight is a prelude to good times. The entire event unfolds just by looking at the navel. I can almost hear her voice asking for more, enticing me to thrust with reckless whim. In the elapse of no time at all I am presented with the events that I will soon carry out, proving that life can never be bound by time and space.

She kisses me while struggling to unbuckle my slacks, soon giving up and asking that I unbuckle myself. I obliged, then quickly felt the grasp of her hand on my engorged self. She strokes it violently, first with one hand, then with both. She stares down at me, still stroking and apologizing for her aggression. “I welcome it, be violent”, I told her. “I’ve missed the touch of a woman for too long, now that she’s here I want to be left tired and panting.”

The women in the bathroom haven’t left; they can still be heard talking about an appropriate response to having us in there consummating lust. One of them is enjoy it. She wants to stay through it all. The other two assert we should be stopped, that someone should knock on the stall door to interrupt the activities before anyone else walks in. They aren’t hush about it either; I believe in an attempt to lure a self stoppage. But, stopping is optional. An option that this far along, with her dress above the waist, and both her hands stroking me… stopping I will not.

By now my vision forged by her belly button is manifesting as expected. She edges forward, stands up over me without releasing me, and thumps down right onto me. Her hand directed me head first inside of her, giving me no time to adjust to the feeling of warmth. Had I been standing my knees would have buckled… I would not have remained standing. Instead of maneuvering her hips about me in a grinding motion, she bounced on me, almost fully releasing me with each upwards movement of her body. Had it not been for the grasp of her index and thumb fingers tightly around me down at the base, I would have slipped out of her to feel the cold air against my saturated penis.

The distinct sound of colliding flesh was muffled by my slacks. I hated it! I enjoy the melody created during adult encounters. Love it so dearly that I flexed my thighs sending me upright whilst still inside of her. I walked towards the closed stall door and put her back against it. I pushed hard with my pelvis, holding her by her buttocks, pulling them towards the sides to create an ever greater surface in which to slam against. My slacks succumbed to the pull of gravity and fell around my ankles. The women were now rowdier; louder than they had been. One of them released small screams each time I thrusted into my partner sending the colliding sound of wooden door against metal frame running through the bathroom.

My crotch was now saturated by her natural lubrication, giving me a sense of ecstasy. It felt as if some sort hallucinogenic topical cream that intensified the most insignificant of qualia. I could see her head resting against the door, he mouth opening, closing, biting her lower lip, gasping from the pleasure… her lips covered in running lipstick overly stimulating me. They weren’t to leaving this scene without being felt. I released her, pulled her dress over her breasts and engulfed her right nipple with my lips. I suckled, sucked, bit and touched them. The perkiest most evenly formed women figure I had encountered. I wished to be in a horizontal position to then sit over her, and watch as my penis drove between them, up towards her mouth.

I leaned back creating an open space between us, stared her up and down, then intently watched her index finger, the very same that not long ago held my girth in place, run through her mouth whilst looking down at me, again alluding to a continuation of our encounter. I placed both my hands on her shoulders and very slowly lowered her. She went down a squatted position, and though I can’t prove for certainty why one of the women left the restroom, I am willing to guess that it was because my partner’s rear was exposed below the stall door. It was apparent that my penis was being handled with little care inside her mouth.

I didn’t want her there for long, just long enough to feel how well I molded in her mouth. To see me disappear in her mouth while she looked up at me. She held me by my buttocks, squeezing them, driving her nails downwards to my hamstrings. She must have liked the feeling of flesh under her nails because as she drove her hands south bound I pushed forward with my pelvis all the way until feeling her nose and forehead against my stomach. That feeling of going beyond the mouth and into the throat caused me to withdraw, pull her up by her dress, turn her around, lean her over the corner of the door where one of her hands was against the right side of the stall, and the other against the door, perked her pelvis backwards, and pushed her feet apart with my right foot.

The two women remaining in the restroom knew all too well what was happening, one of them banged endlessly on the door… we continued undeterred. The sound of flesh being smacked against flesh, the feeling of saturation covering me, covering her just couldn’t be denied. I wanted to continue listening to the sound of colliding bodies, but I just couldn’t, I had to slow down, and maneuver my pelvis about as if looking for a way to reach deeper inside of her. The knocking on the door preventing nothing but their ability to hear my partner asking me to smack her cheeks.

I smacked the right side, smacked and smacked it again… pulled out, dropped to a knee, licked her secret trying to swallow anything and everything therein I found. My mouth watered from the sensation of her supple nature against my tongue. I wanted to be suffocated by her scent. Wanted it to remained imprinted on my lips to never ever forget her. I was desperate to be inside of her, to feel her muscles shape around me squeezing me, grasping me asking me to finish inside of her.

She looked back at me, swayed her hips, and by holy lord, when I looked at her in full bloom, moist, slightly opened from my actions… the three years in company of my children ran through my mind. All I could hear was “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, come inside, come inside. It’s Mickey’s Clubhouse, won’t you come inside.” At my most vulnerable moment, when it was about time to climax, all I heard was the effect of three years without adult interaction. I stood there admiring her for sometime, but instead of agreeing with the song, I stood close to her and self indulged until releasing my deepest desires over her backside. I Turned her around, placed her left leg over my shoulder until I felt her body tense, her mouth telling me she would spams if I continued. I stood up, we kissed. I pulled her dress down to her belly button, grabbed paper and cleansed me from her backside. Did it really to see her again, see how the separation between her butt-cheeks opened at the bottom to display her full persona… now reddish in colour, tender to the touch.

We walked out of the bathroom together, I still adjusting her dress as she walked. The two remaining women didn’t say anything. What could they have said that would have really changed much of anything? Our drinks still waiting for us, bartender clapping as if he’d had witnessed the encounter.

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Sunset Room

These many years of physical attraction between us in the office and it is now that I conceive the courage to act on my feelings. I sat across from her, staring intently at the movement of her lips as she articulated what was going to become of my last day in the company. She spent the most time on my compensation package as if I cared about the two weeks of wages for each working year; at my hourly pay I’d have enough for lunch for the next two days.

I welcomed every ticking second of the period she spent talking. It afforded the time to carry out my plan. I sought to go medieval on her. I wanted to appease the bubbling desires demanded by my id. I no longer felt unconscious energy operating on my urges, it was a blatant conscious feeling by now. Each enunciation formed through her lips bubbled more “id-pulses” in me. Taunting me that If I waited much longer she’d be forever gone from my life.

She stopped the monologue to ask if I had any questions. That if I didn’t, she’d ask for my immediate supervisor to come into the office. I shook my head rejecting the offer. She picked up the telephone, dialed my supervisor’s extension, and my heart sunk. I was more coherent about my thoughts than I was about her question. I meant to prolong her monologue but instead shortened our last interaction to where it might be impossible to sooth my boiling id.

She must have seen my physical reaction because she canceled the call and small talked for another while. She appeared concerned about me. Gave me a few articles and websites about depression, and the like, along with a hot-line number if I ever felt like talking to someone. We spoke of my time with the company, of those things I enjoyed as well as disliked. When we touched upon the topic of people I would miss, about those I would contact, the hairs in my spine stood up shooting waves of shivers through my body.

Business Woman Walking AwayThe blinds were closed; I gather for the purpose of hiding the tears of the “Sun-Setted” from the public at large. It took a minute of silence before she stood up from the desk to open the blinds; talking about how sunlight can help deter sadness. As she pulled down on the chain that controls the blind height, I jumped out of my chair pressed my body against her back, and attempted to lift her skirt. She stepped away from me, turned around and slapped me. I pushed again towards her to only encounter multiple slaps with both hands right across my face. I didn’t care that she was slapping me, I moved forward, closed in on her, threw my right hand in front of her raised left arm about to slap me, and pulled her towards me. We caught one another right on the mouth. I tried to kiss her, she looked to the side… a few times until finally giving up the fight.

Both of her hands grabbed my face, she looked at me, took a deep breath and asked, “why now? Why here in the office after all these years?” I didn’t answer. Instead I leaned her against the exposed glass of the recently opened window, and lifted her skirt to reveal the unobstructed view of a progressive woman stating that underneath the business attire and, behind the prudent demeanor lived a world of cravings. She wore nothing that prevented me from seeing her feminine affection. She wasn’t pileous to any extent. It was evident that she needn’t to worry about “manicures”. Instead, the natural shaped of the cumulative nearly-same-length-hair-strands traveled down and diagonally from very low in her abdomen until meeting at the cusp. The pattern reminded me of an upside down Christmas tree with my star waiting to be grasped at the very top. Even Santa Claus had never been this kind towards me.

It was a surprised to realize that she disguised her natural aroma with fabricated fragrance. I had always imagined her scent made specifically to attract me. I found myself crafting escapades of lips in harmony hoping she would promptly yield her true persona. I traced her lips with my tongue, biting her lower lip, inhaling her breath, palming her face from her left cheek to the back of her neck, my left arm pressing about her inner thighs slightly touching the back of my hand against her delight. I enticed her neck, earlobes, even biting her chin… dipped down to run my lips through her clavicles.

During the interactions of our tongues, she managed to tell me that she feared being at work, being caught by her boss… that her nerves would prevent her from enjoying me as much as she should. That she was struggling to impede appropriate conscious behavior. I was already in the Sunset room, so I cared little for either of our inhibitions. I dropped to a knee, pushed her legs aside, reached between the legs with both my hands grabbing each one of her cheeks with each one of my hands and pressed her forward onto my mouth.

She cursed the all too popularized four letter word, bowed down and with both hands grasped a full set of hair. Not only did she grasp, but she pulled me away detaching my tongue from its rightful place just to look at me, to look at herself readily reacting beyond her expectations. She pulled me into her again, holding my hair in a painful grasp while maneuvering her pelvis to the exact locations she wanted appeased. She came down close to my ear, instructing what was expected. She disclosed the speed, direction, strength and locations which she wanted to be pleasured.

My hands were instructed for one to trace the buttocks down the center and press against the orifice there found, the other was asked to trace a path from the back down to the front and pierce inside. The tongue and lips were to wrestle appetite out of her with each clitoral stroke. Whenever the finesse of my tongue faltered she’d shove my face harder against her crotch. A few times cutting breathing passages quite successfully.

I ignored the rule to have both my hands participating independently in nearby areas and pulled my rand hand up towards her to feel her mouth engulf my index finger. She whispered moans that could have triggered premature ejaculation, but I held strong, thought that I had to use my working hand to devour both the front and the back. My thumb enjoyed her warmth, the moisture that had saturated her crotch and my indexed pressed firmly in the rear.

Her thighs got a hold of my face, both my neck and jaw found the restriction disagreeably intoxicating. I didn’t care that for a period of about 30 seconds my jaw bone was forced skewed as it was never intended to be, nor that air couldn’t find a free pathway to my lungs, just as I didn’t care about the contorted state my neck was held. She pulled my hair sending cries of scalped cowboys through the Sunset room. Have you ever heard a woman talk through her climax? I never had until I heard her expressing the precise moment she climax. How she wanted me to continue on the very spot, taking the very same uninterrupted action. My mouth was pressed tightly against her, then she slightly released… Her scent rushed through my nostrils down my throat and into my lungs. I’d been taken to the garden of dreams where each petal of every flower smelled like divine intervention.

She had willingly chosen to hide the lure of her lust behind fabricated fragrances… leaving it to the lucky few, today me, to discover.

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Christian Coitus

I consider myself a boring man, maybe boring isn’t the appropriate adjective, never the less, I have never been identified as a memorable partner. Many events in my past are to blame, at least that’s what I tell myself to make up for a lack of creativity. My entire adult life I’ve engaged in what I call “Christian Coitus”. I call it so because it has always been very sanitized, never deviating from much of anything. I’ve even considered lust a sin. I do not, I repeat, I do not engage in intimacy when in lust. I wait, and when it’s time to display love or to procreate, the old missionary position hails in rescue.

I have been doing that for the better part of 30 years. Never thought I’d get tired or bored, then this thing called internet came to be, and with it came a world of thoughts and ideas I had never considered. In these parts of the up-country traditions and thoughts prevail for millennia. I commenced reading late at night so that my sweetheart didn’t notice my new found interests. Every night for a long time I experimented with the ideas, and by experiment I mean attacking reason with bible passages to prevent me from seeing myself wrapped under varying circumstances.

I saw many-a things that sucked me in but, just as many I stumbled upon which I couldn’t heart to watch. It seemed like it all had an “ism”, “dothism”, “dothatism” was everywhere. I must be part of “Christian-ism” I thought to myself. The type of “ism” that isn’t found in all the other “isms”. I felt cheated! Ignorant of a world to which I was probably meant to be part. I wasn’t given a chance because of my geolocation; darn difficulty getting cable lines carrying 21st century thoughts into the mountain side.

Of the many demonic ideas, one innocent enough stayed with me. It is a simple step for a simple mind, I thought to myself. I feared that my sweetheart would reject the idea of sharing ungodly ventures. Yet, I had to ask. I had to find means to introduce her to the idea. I became so desperate to inform her that I even considered bible passages to support the thirst of slightly modifying “Christian Coitus”.

I was a changed man, a new man, a lustful man. But, would I go through with it? Would I be able to break the routine that had kept me safe all this time? The format that proved successful for all seven children of mine? The formula crafted by God himself. I’m positive when I say that immaculate conception was in the form of missionary. If it were proper enough to conceive Jesus the Christ, then why wasn’t it sufficient enough for the rest of the world, and now me?

One night I purposely kept the living room light on. It caused my honey to wake in the middle of the night. She looked around and I wasn’t in bed beside her. I was outside, in the balcony entrenched in wifi commodities. I heard her steps, though she still thinks I never did, otherwise I would have quickly changed to a more appropriate image. I did it on purpose! It was an indirect way to tell her I had been thinking about modifying my, our behaviour during intimacy.

At first it wasn’t easy. It mostly made her feel incomplete. She refused to agree that our life, or intimate life was confined by commodity, confined to religious dogma. It was days before her sadness lessened to where we could openly speak about it. I wish I knew the exact words I spoke to trigger a change of mind, but I don’t. I wish I also was the kind of man that speaks and the woman barks in compliance. I’m not that man. I sit, ponder, engage in dialog interested in a common ground. This time, however, it might have just been her who changed her mind. I was out driving cattle across the state following the green pasture for a few weeks. Upon my return, there were a few changed things. Most notably, there was one of them apparatus that takes digital photos. And, her undergarments surly shrunk in my absence; it must have been caused by the new dryer we got not a month back.

That night with my handy internet device, I went out to the balcony, watched the lightning bugs frolic, and read more in depth about intimate photography. I wanted to know when, and where, the angles which suited us best. Yes, I am ignorant. I don’t hide it, but this here thing gives me anything I search for.

It took us a few good months to become used to using the camera as well as looking at one another in provocative copulation. We hadn’t yet done, nor tried the one “ism” that had me ignoring the call of the good lord. No doubt it was soon to come, I could feel it. With each interaction we grew bolder, filled with decadence. Until one day it happened. As good would have it, we found one another in the all too familiar missionary position. This time, though, it wasn’t vaginal intercourse, no good sir, no.

I penetrated her where in my adult life I had never done so. It was also her first time. Her augmented secretion caused by the freshly discovered “isms” eased the entry. It didn’t work as I read in article upon article. We didn’t need aid to lubricate. She was lubrication enough. I slipped in. She looked at me and wondered how such ease came to be. I didn’t push all the way in, I moved back and forth at a moderate thrust and speed. She knew me so well that when I was about to climax, she pushed me off of her and readied for the “ism” that had me seeking rejection from Heaven’s gate.

The lips I had kissed for the better part of my life now wrapped tightly on to me. She wasn’t versed, but that made it all the more glorious because I knew that next to those virgin lips my residues of pleasure would come to rest. She slobbered more than she sucked. Her teeth scratching the head raw, a few times squeezing the sack too hard. Even the pain made it all seem surreal. I loved every second.

I picked up the camera while fighting back the release of millions of possible offspring. I held the camera in one hand — already having been set to “sport” mode for rapid image capture — and began to jerk myself close to her face. I salivated, my heart palpitated, I must have taken close to 20 gigabytes of “ism” that day. All of her face covered in me. Her lips dripping the substance, her left eye closed because of the long reach of my need. Even her nose captured essence. But it was nothing compared to watching the pictures of us with me in her mouth, semen on her face, and my object of affection being swiped clean with each stroke of her tongue, each insertion into her mouth. Index Finger in Her Mouth

The globs all over her face. I can not release them from memory. I can not stop looking at her in the pictures, looking at us. The one where the sticky substance is falling from her chin while the my head is covered in goo touching her tongue, with her big-bright-open-eyes staring back at me is my favorite. I haven’t told her so, but I have self-gratified to it various times.

I just don’t see how “Christian Coitus” will ever be the same.

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Persian Tea Room

For years I frequented the Persian Tea Room during lunch breaks from work. I’d visit it twice, sometimes thrice weekly. They had the most delightful tea anywhere in the area, coupled to a middle eastern cuisine left me wondering why I did not visit the venue all week long. Typical to this region, the waiters were all men. The serious and direct type. It was all business to them; never making small chat, not even to someone as myself who frequented the restaurant for such prolonged period of time; even the host was an unengaging fellow.

Then one day the place became overrun by estrogen: two waitresses and the host, all female. Part of their attire was a hijab, which left me rather impressed. I had never figured that covering of the hair painted such alluring sight. The look of deep meaningful eyes staring back in my direction excited me more than any of the naked women I had ever seen staring back at me. To improve the matters, the females were more pleasant and far more amicable.

The division between the male and the female staff members was palpable; the tension, well, I ignored as the women’s beauty was far more engaging than the shunning they appeared to be receiving from the men. Females cared for a section of the dining hall, while the males cared for the other. It was soon enough that I noticed the sitting pattern, so I waited for the precise moment to enter the restaurant which led to being sat at the same table time and again. It would have been easier to ask but, somehow I felt uncomfortable doing so. I’m not a shy man to any extent, which leaves me believing that I’m respecting enough of cultural differences that I would be troubled to let “chance” take its course.

Woman wearing a hijabIt was always a joy coming in. The decor was pleasing from the monotones “modern” look of just about it all in the area. A sure welcome sight to feel the vibrancy of the restaurant with it’s middle eastern background music and aromatic spices emerging from the kitchen. The hostess ensured to greet me in a joyous tone each visit. It was as if she was delighted to see me. She would also come by my table, pull a chair and small chat. I never even had to wait, always ensured to have the very same table. A dramatic difference from the follow who used to show me to my table in times past.

It wasn’t just the hostess who became friendly with me. It was also one of the two new waitresses who cared for the table in which I sat. Number 12, that was the table in which I sat. It also happens to be my favorite number. She and I developed more than a waitress-client relationship. I would say we became good acquaintances. She stayed longer than required at my table, conversing about life in general. She’d tell me about her life, and I about mine… about the joy that it was for everyday to come spend an hour of my life in her presence.

The appearance of her olive skin coupled to an incredibly spotless white-teeth-smile resonated in her colourful eyes. Looking into her eyes gave no reason to wander elsewhere. It was her who I went to meet every visit. All the vitalizing characteristics of the restaurant were opaqued by her eyes. I tried valiantly not to signal that my desires followed her as she moved from table to table.

Episodes of debauchery replaced line items on the menu. I read them intently wondering which of them I was to be had every time I visited. Sometimes I’d read for nearly the entire hour, at which time I had to rush for a small dessert and few cups of tea. Still, I would leave satisfied that I had spoken to her, that I had shared dreams of consuming her while in her presence. It somehow made it all feel more real: her being in the room while I dreamt of having her. I made it an art, that of looking at her figure as she moved from position to position adjusting herself to clear tables.

I don’t recall the exact date where it all changed. It was sometime after management changed. The male staff was replaced with different men but; the ladies were kept. The feeling in the air, too, changed. The women were more progressive in mannerism, less restrained I would say. My waitress began to take my order from a closer position, sometimes she would join the hostess at my table to welcome me. I learned most of everything I did about her roughly one year before the incident that broke our relationship.

The attraction between the two of us wasn’t a secret to us. Even when the connection elevated to a more adult-natured one, it was no secret that our insinuations indicated more than restaurant-geared interactions. She flirted, oh and she flirted well with her eyes. It was the type of action that seemed void to American women. She made me feel alive, aroused, seduced with the variation of looks and stares she projected. A master she was at revealing her desires through the eyes.

When it happened, there was no prelude nor omen forewarning me. I came in, but not as usual. I had given up the mockery to be sat on the same table a few weeks back. I was greeted as usual, both the hostess and the waitress walked me to the table, all of us briefly chatted while standing, but instead of leaving to bring me the normal cup of tea with cubed sugar, the waitress remained behind, looked around, and handed me a piece of paper.

She disappeared for a few minutes, bringing with her my normal dish, and sides when reappearing. I picked through the side dishes, looked about the dining area and walked off in direction of the kitchen. As I drew closer to the kitchen, a light powered on to the right of the its entrance. It was the kitchen storage room. A beaded curtain was the only protection keeping the contents inside visible from the outside. I push aside the curtain, leaned in, look to the left… between the meat freezer and the spices’ rack stood a woman whose mind had been certainly westernized.

Woman wearing a hijabShe still wore the hijab, but her dress was being sustained by her left hand covering her crotch, most of it on the floor around her ankles. I’m no authority on muslim wear, but I don’t think she wore a Burquaa or Ridaa, this was more like a Sari. Still, whatever the dress was it looked just as good on her as it did in its many colours on the floor, and over her feet.

The olive of her skin felt haunting in the lightly lit room. I admired her beauty for long moments until she opened her grasp, and the dress gave way to her groomed, but not totally void of hair, nor manicured to form any specific shape essence. It was just shaped enough where it expressed more intimate knowledge of sexual awareness than I had believed. There was no need to speak, everything I needed to know was revealed by her stare into my eyes. It told me that her world of boundaries laid to the other side of the beaded entryway.

My intentions were to directly indulge in her groomed self, but instead her eyes drew me face to face. We kissed softly, very softly for longer than I had ever cared to kiss anyone. That day I only used my lips on her mouth, kissing as if losing my breath to her. I didn’t need to close my eyes because the world around me blacked out. It was the darkest dark I had ever witnessed. During the kissing she unbuckled my slacks, dropped them to the floor, and pulled me outside my underpants. She didn’t play, she didn’t try any sort of foreign technique on me. She simply reached up with her pelvis, swallowing me ever so slowly.

Fire rushed through my veins raising my body temperature to the point where perspiration responded. I knew then that this was an event sent by a higher calling. I didn’t want to respond in any other stance than the one where our lips locked to each other’s and our pelvis slightly swayed onto one another. That was the lunch time I learned to feel the climax of a woman who revealed no expressions of pleasure from the fear of being exposed during such an intimate moment. I felt the her warmth completely overtake me inside of her. It was as if she had spoken to me, greeting me to a world in which I was the alien. The kissing stopped, so did the movement of the hips. She looked me in the eyes, again, said nothing because she didn’t need to speak.

She grabbed my face, kissed my lips softly, stared into my eyes one last time… Woman wearing a hijab

When I returned to for my normal lunch two days after, she was gone. Not to return for another 30 days. I found out she married during that absence. Now I sit and small talk seldom with her. She sits me down, keeps her distance; only the times I leave her eyes speak to me. Sometimes they apologize, others they thank me.

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Telephonic Response

I’ve performed difficult acts with a detached expression, felt various emotions under a stoic look yet, I have never been confronted with such difficulties as I did searching for a proper response to the participants of my weekly conference call that Tuesday morning. I assure you that I’ve been much closer to earning an Oscar at many other occasions than I was during this one. I fear not a consideration was even mentioned.

I woke up late for the call. I suspect because of a long night at the office. I stumbled out of bed bumping into the closet door, and banging my toe against the bathroom’s door frame. I toss water on my face, brush my teeth, speak a bit to myself to ensure I do not sound asleep, look down… and thank all goodness that I am at home not at the office. Like all healthy biologically functioning males, every night for a period of a few hours, God verifies that his tool of procreation is in working order.

Yes, I do sleep in the nude; being home alone affords me that comfort. I can wake up half asleep, be in full duty without anyone noticing that I’m more than ready for physical interactions. It takes a good ten to twenty minutes for the biological testing phase to return to a less obvious state. Much shorter if I wake up with a need to urinate, but today, I must be dehydrated because I have no urge to do so.

Instead of sitting down on the couch, I grabbed my work mobile and lean against the bar top dividing the kitchen from the living room. I have this oddity that if I’m clothes-less, engorged and on the phone, I end up stroking myself to pass the time while conversing. Knowing that I would eventually do that if I sat down, I decided to stay up and lean against the bar top. I dial in, wait for the tone to announce my late arrival, then greet everyone on the call.

My superiors are all present, as well as the head of two of our three large partners. We are going to be talking serious financial risks, and I am the knowledge behind the operation. I’m not all that late to the call thanks to my boss who is known for his southern hospitality. He talks for chunks of time about the least of caring topics. Now that I’m on, we are ready to talk risks. We take turns explaining the goals, expectations, and risks.

Yellow Undies, Luckily DayI had long ago forgotten that I awakened amidst anatomical testing of my body. I was tunneled into one thought: how to get those big clients to become bigger in order to spend more on us, on me. Suddenly the lights in the living-room power on. I think of ghosts controlling the remote controls, turn around in fright expecting to see a floating globule, but instead I see my neighbor in her undergarments… the yellow “Luckly Day” bottom disconnects my attention from financial risks, and quarterly expectations. I forgot that I found her inebriated the night before, and because she had no personal belongings on her, including her apartment keys, I brought her to my couch and allowed her to spend the night until she recovered, remembering where to find her keys.

With a soft and gentle tone she whispers for me not to be alarmed. That she will not be of bother to me while I’m on the phone. I look for something to cover up, but it’s too late. I’ve responded to her physique both mentally and physically. I’m mentally incapable of continuing the conference call, and I’m physically unable to muster strength to keep myself from another anatomical test. This time, however, I would hate for it to be just a test.

She draws close, I turn around giving her my back, figuring that at least she will not see my masculinity void of embarrassment thinking of her. She goes right into the kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, drinks from it and looks at me with a deviant stare. In the meantime, I am paying undividedly no attention to those on the phone. My attention has solely been tuned to the yellow panties.

She walks around the other kitchen exit leading me to believe that she’s on her way to the bathroom. I quickly look around, look down at my partner and can’t figure out where to hide. She wasn’t going to the bathroom though, she came behind me… her touch froze me. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak,I didn’t even breathe… I did, however, heard the voice of my boss asking me to answer the posted questions. I took a deep breath, it was more like half of an ill breath as only a quarter of my lungs answered the calling.

Her hands traced from my shoulders, down my back, up again to my shoulders, my neck, down the flanks. One hand caressed my buttocks, but the other, the other moved forward touching my hip bone, then tracing it down to my friend who had long ago been expecting her. I kept as much attention on the conference call as anyone on my position would. Intermittently losing my bearing when she would kiss my back, or stroke me. She stroke slowly, very slowly… telling me that she enjoyed how my physique felt on her hands, how the different parts felt as she moved up and down. That she wondered how different it would feel in her mouth, against her lips than on her hand.

The hand remaining on my rear was a daring one. She ran it up and down, squeezed, lightly smacked, even went down the middle reaching the front and caressing the confinement of my testicles. I apologized to those on the phone, expressed that I had had a slight distraction and needed the questions to be repeated. One of my bosses summarized the questions. I tried to respond best I could.

I lost my voice a few times, concentration to the call more than a few. Her interruptions of my work, while ill timed, were perfectly received. Her stroke had grown stronger, faster. I looked down to see the manicured long nails, and strong fingers working on me. I liked how she squeezed me tightly as if seeking to pop it like a balloon. Best yet, I liked that she dug her nails into me while whispering if I liked her behaviour.

I continued to answer the questions incoherently, articulating much of nothing, accompanied with a lot of deep breaths. My bosses weren’t very much please. I just didn’t have my full wits that morning. They were more a tune to the lips that approached me with a sweet voice that spoke of much needed lubrication. Telling me that saliva was much the needed substance. I went into her mouth, my mind closed to the call. I could only feel her lips tracing about the head.

The sounds she made making sure she salivated me throughly lured me in more than the prospects of becoming a wealthy individual as I would have had I answered those questions properly. I came back to the call under a heavy burdensome breathing. I tried to save what I could, but her inability to let me concentrate was deteriorating. By now she was back kissing my back, her right hand across my hip… down to me; tugging and pulling with serious intent. She spoke the whole time, my voice quivered on the phone; she asked if I liked her yellow panties, I mistakenly moaned on the call; she told me that I would climax on my hands, I raised my voice as if on the park; she said not to worry that she would lick it clean, I dropped the phone.

I went on to moan, curse, and bang my hand against the counter-top. I even apologized to those on the call. I know for a fact that they heard me climax because I was too loud, and they were still on the phone when my bearings were returned to my wit, and her mouth had completed cleansing her work. I’m still attempting to feel bad about not getting the clients to wager more money on me.

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Hell Week Haze

I didn’t walk my parents’ preferred path in High School. I moved to three different schools by sophomore year of High School; four all together during the four year tenure. I’d like to think that I increasingly improved at misbehaving where it became difficult to get caught, and as a response, expelled from School. And, I would be dishonest to acknowledge that I haven’t been so in this, my first year of College.

I have an issue though. I’m unequivocally lured by public romantic encounters. Not just any romantic encounter, because of romantic, there is nothing; but, of being seen handled with little to no respect in public. Kids my age don’t know how to disrespect, they think it’s being rough and tossing me around; fools! Not that I know what it is, either, but think it can’t be what I’ve been having. All that I know is that physical encounters didn’t feel the same after I stopped being caught and expelled from Schools.

It’s that taboo, the forbidden action of being seen, being caught in public that attracts me; especially so living in one of the Bible Belt States. For heaven sakes, this is the least of the worries of sinners around here: me, enjoying the body I was given while others watch. I do enjoy the casual closet “quick-fix”, but in public… lengthy and perturbing enough where I can be caught to rise hell. Now, that makes my skeleton shake.

B.A.S.E ShieldAll semester I was hounded by the B.A.S.E sorority gals to join them. Maybe it was because of my home state that they chased so fervently. By my second semester I was a ticking time bomb. I wanted to imprint my needs on campus yet, found no way around it but to use the sisters of Delta Psi Epsilon as my guinea pigs. I thought it well, I thought it thoroughly, I didn’t leave anything out, not the very least of details.

What I didn’t know was how I would react. Was I going to be afraid? Was it such a long time since being exposed in public that my thoughts had changed? What if I couldn’t go through with it? Who would save me, then? I had to recruit someone for moral support, just don’t know who. Perhaps my roommate, the too easily swayed and impressionable girl.

During the entire pledge process, or as these young and prodish young adults refer to it “new member education”, I behaved as any proper Bible Belt young female would. I did as told, followed rather impeccably the commands dished out to the rushees. I might have had a chance of making it through, had I not been deterred by the pleasures of the flesh, by the fetishes that control my thoughts.

Hell Week was about to start, and my plans couldn’t have been more favorable. Instead of being pledged as others sororities during Hell Week, each one of us rushees were to “haze” ourselves. We were to choose for ourselves what it was to happen as a final test that would merit entrance into the sisterhood. I felt almost part of a convent, really. If not for my little dark secret of enjoying the flesh, I would fit right in.

The night was chosen, of when we would carry out our “haze” to the sorority: a Thursday night. It series of events were to commence at 10PM, and last no more than 20 minutes each. We would be informed of the outcome of our “haze” at the end of the night when the last pledgee presented revealed her test. Out of 9 new members, I was randomly selected to present fifth. That meant that at around 11:20PM I would already need to have had set up my plan, be carrying it out for them to judge.

It took me the entire pledge period to smooth-over… gain my roommate’s confidence, and vow of her help. She was to reach out for help if things did get out of control. I gave her my cell phone, pre dialed campus police, and instructed her of the duties. She was to dial campus police if I ever, at any point, screamed out “man in the hole”. I didn’t want to fully disclose all of the details. I mentioned that I wanted it to be a surprise, at least fully. I only revealed that it would be of a sexual nature. She was also presented with more responsibilities, besides the calling for help. Her being a virgin seemed to have been beneficial because she jumped to the rescue, expressing desire to watch if she could, too. I didn’t mind, she would add to my desire of being seeing in public.

Lonesome Light PostAt 11 PM my roommate at I left the dormitory. She brought a video recorder on my request. We got to the lone light post out by the quad at around 11:10 PM. The light was on rich and bright. I wore only a stolen jersey I had taken from one of the sisters with new letters on the back reading: B.A.S.E. I had my roommate handcuff me face forward around the light post. I told her to hide by the trees, start recording and watch with close attention. My heart was racing, my knees almost shaking… not of fear, no not that… of finally carrying it through.

When I heard the all too common pledge song, I called out to the boys to come out from hiding. Four of them all together. Four Guys and a GirlOne of them pulled my jersey up to reveal that I was wearing nothing else. Three of them stood around with their pants down using their hands to keep themselves entertained. The one was to rub lubricant all over me, except where the sun don’t shine because that was forbidden. He could touch if he wanted, lick if so wished, but his member was by no means taking that part of me; neither was anyone else’s.

He started first. I would count how many thrusts he was to have, then ask the other student to take his turn, and so on. The one geeky student forgot to bring protection, so I refused to let him touch me, well, maybe just a little. I allowed him to pleasure himself and released on my face. I spoke extremely lewd to him. In his eyes I could see that he had never been spoken in such a way. I wanted him to release when the girls got closer, but he didn’t last long. He finished within a few strokes. But still, at least some of it did reach my face.

The other three guys alternated turns thrusting inside of me. One of them so harshly that my right shoulder hit the light post numerous times. I wondered if the residues of the geeky student on my face would last the collisions from the other three students. I liked it hard, and fast. I didn’t want a seductive thrust speaking of good times while in love. I wanted to be shoved in hinting pain.

I had finally realized my fantasy popularized by the term “train ride”. It had haunted me for years. Whether I would have the will to do it, the prowess to carry it through. It wasn’t that the young men were good, but that I was out in public with the light of the post shining down on me, my roomy recording, and the sisters who had stopped singing by now, screaming, looking down that one of her sisters was being given a “haze” by four men. They ran down pushing the guys off of me, fighting them. The poor idiots tried to tell them that it was all my plan, but the few of them didn’t have a voice against some 30 angry young women.

It wasn’t really a violent scene, the fellows were pretty composed. Standing in a line, each time I asked of one to move off from me to give the other a turn. The manly moans and cursing directing me to bend over, spread wide and hold steady was all my doing. I give specific instructions in how to be treated. They missed a few, but hey, they didn’t get to finish me off either. The female screams heard by my sisters were the pleasurable kind. The kind that had me saturated on the walk to place from bliss. I really didn’t need the lubricant, but having his hands spreading it all over my rear excited me. The cool breeze gave me tingles as it traveled around all of my saturated parts.

The campus police arrived, freed me, cleaned me up; but, not before I got a little taste of the salty residue from my face. If I knew what fear tasted like, that’s must have been it. What that geeky guy left in my face… made me feel, oh, so brave. They took the four kids to the campus police office.

I dropped the charges on the four fellows; charges that I hadn’t plan for. I almost got away with the public fetish until I heard the four kids would be expelled from college. Too bad I opened up my mouth because five people were expelled in total. The four of them for going through with the plan, and me for masterminding the plan.

Yet, I don’t take it back. The feeling of different shapes and sizes, one after to other pushing strongly with residue from another man on my face, all while in public still thrills me. The different voices telling me what to do and how to do it; in conjunction asking if the little dirty girl enjoyed what was happening. And, I do also know that a few of the girls, those Christian ladies in the sorority enjoyed it. We got to speak of fantasies, and while that wasn’t one of them, for any of them, a few of them did enjoy the thought of many guys and one girl. Had they known better, maybe they would have watched for a bit and interrupted after they finished.