Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


Abreast Of The Situation

Guilty as charged. Ashamedly so. He had never been attracted much to the mammary glands of a the female anatomy — as he commonly referred to them. He was simply unable to see beyond the notion that children used them as meals. There was nothing to them, for him, so there he dwelt in the incapacities of an incomplete lover.

His disinterest focused mainly on them full sized ones. Why the overwhelming size when a mouthful was enough? The sheer volume made him cringe each time a pair came bouncing in his direction. No matter their shape or colour, whether in our out of braziers, they never perked his feelings. The mammary glands were nothing more than obstacles impeding progress. He dealt with them by slobbering best he could, then tossing each one up and over the woman’s shoulder on his way to more alluring locations.

And one day fate saw it fit to have him perched high in the glory of the nightly escapades.

They left the local pub more intoxicated than caring to admit. The smell of the drunken few followed them for blocks into their nineteenth century hotel. They struggled up the seven flights of stairs, every so often stopping to experience each others physiques. He’d sneak his head up her skirt to taste his newfound vice. He swore to have found the most rewarding of mixed rinks: her saturation intermingled to the residue of alcohol in his mouth. He didn’t know whether it was the lust seeping out of her making the drink tastier or the imminent act skewing his already sketchy reason.

They swapped bodily pleasures from floor to floor until fully undressing on their doorstep. He stared at her body as if a lifelong prisoner finally standing at the gates of freedom. He wanted to collect payment for all prior times that went uncharged. She stood against the door like a mirror responding to his desires. “Come take, come get, don’t hold back, it’s all yours to be had,” was her slurred answer.

He hoped that the alcohol had impaired her judgment as much as it had his. He attempted to unlock the door while trying to penetrate her. But, the “No, no, no mister” reception left him hard and wanting.

Once inside they frolicked bits and pieces before heading in different directions. The most dramatic action came when she slid his phallus between the legs and against her crotch to trap him in lustful friction. She told him that she wanted to soak him before enduring the girthy thrusts.

Hell bent drunk they were; the action was interrupted by his urgent need to urinate. He fought the urge valiantly, eventually losing to nature. He asked her not to go anywhere and rushed toward the bathroom. It was difficult to finding the bowl down at the bottom while his penis faced upwards. He didn’t know whether to urinate all about or to continue maneuvering his penis until pointed in the proper direction, but as impaired a judgment as he had, he found his way into the bathtub, turned the shower on and relieved. A half fast soaping and out he stammered back to the bed.

When he returned to the bed, he found her uncovered and passed out. He tapped her face a few times to no response. The night of the honeymoon and this is what awaited him… that’s when it hit him. He saw the volume of her breasts and wondered how he’d managed to marry a woman with a chest he would never use. He took a deep breath, looked down at her supple figure, ran his finger through it, brought the digit back into his mouth and again looked at her breasts.

Shocked that twice he had looked at her chest so he decided to kiss them. Still she was unresponsive. He straddled her about the waist and by all goodness, he found the meaning of “paja cubana’. He grasped her chest, brought them together engulfing his phallus then proceeded to thrust his pelvis back and forth as if inside of her. The sight of her pretty face lying fast asleep ignited the evil in him. He wanted to spew all over her face from that very position for her to awaken covered in him in the morning. He would stop at times to lick, suck, bite, even kiss them; only to return to stroke himself between his breasts.

He was about to climax when she woke up… in her fully drunken state she managed to say “here, let me help you.” She grabbed her breasts brought her chin to her upper chest and opened wide. “Can drunk boy hit the bull’s eye?” said she. “Let me have it, put it here, I want to taste.” He kept slapping his pelvis against her breasts as if banging away a sculpted arse… and a fine one she had.

She enticed him further with indecent remarks that should never leave a lady’s mouth. And at the end, he replied with semen trashing between her breasts, her chin and whatever else he could force out by pressing against the urethra, landed on her face. He smeared himself against the semen on her chest, then had her run her tongue against him for a much needed cleansing. His penis, scrotum and anything else should could mouth got cleaned.

Looking down, much much drunk, eyes squinting and almost shut red, he saw the glory of full breasts as he never had. They created a canvas which he’d stenciled better than he’d had imagined. Her pretty face, big dark bright eyes looking back at him… her mouth moving with residue on it never looked more stunning. She touched it, smiled and asked if he could do the same, except this time, she wanted his lust spread all over her throbbing persona down below. “Come put it down here, push it in until the drunk goes away.”

Leave a comment – Erotica Censorship

So, it finally hit me. WordPress is censoring my posts because they are of adult nature. They do not show up under any tag, regardless of how they are tagged, even Erotica. I’m being advised that i can write “about” Erotica, but not write erotica. That’s what the tag is for. See, I sort of don’t understand it very much. WordPress says it’s because there are underage members who need some protection. Then again, I ask why aren’t weapons a censored topic. You know, those actually kill people. So does alcohol but, hey, teens can read about that, it’s legal. Oh wait, Erotica isn’t illegal. Damn. I’m baffled. Oh, I know. Maybe it’s because I write about rape, bestiality, incest. I knew it! Crap, forget that. Anyone who’s read any of my posts knows I don’t use any sort of lewd language in my posts. Ok, Ok, I might use the world penis time and again, but the other “p” word, you know? the feminine one, yeah, that I don’t use.

I’m sad, disheartened, ashamed to have financially supported wordpress, and ashamed to have ever brought my clientél to WordPress who have also financially supported the company.

I can’t help but wonder if censorship is a trend that will further continue eventually preventing all sorts of freedom of speech.

I’m waiting to be told that wordpress is a private company, hence, their right to censor what they want. I suppose I’ll shut up then, tuck my tail between the legs and find another site that values a diverse population that abides by all legalities of the country they live in. Oh, I wonder if they censor hacking as well. Hm, interesting. We all know they type of problems that can bring about. Imagine if teens got a hold of hacking at, what would the boardmembers day then.

Then again, what better moral police than OMG! I wonder if they are censoring Sudafed? You know, that was taken off the shelves at the drug store then placed behind the counters away from kids.

At this moment I think I have sadly come to the end of my wordpress posts. Maybe tomorrow I’ll change my mind, who knows. 😦

To the readers who’ve come by to say Hello, read, like or not, I dearly thank you. It’s been a wonderful time. Keep up the wonderful work I’ve come to find at wordpress, while it might not be for me, it sure has a lot to offer for others.

Yeah, this one has not tags. I don’t show under wordpress searches any ways.

Leave a comment

Birthday Boy

At three thirty ante meridian and a lonesome night of birthday celebration behind him he wasn’t in much mood but to lay down and rest. Were it not for that hardly-ever-working elevator that was at it again forcing his aching feet to carry him up twenty floors of stairs to his apartment, he would have been sleeping off the cocktails running through his veins long ago. Not one person, even close friends noticed the date enough to call. He was a forgotten man on his very birthday.

By the time he reached the doorstep he was soaked in sweat and, panting like an out of shape middle age man. He opened the door and, not even bothering to turn the lights off, he removed then tossed his clothing in a corner. It was straight to the bathroom to wizz away some of that foreign liquid. The night-light had been left on in the bathroom. It wasn’t him, he recalled. He held his penis on his hand, pointed it to the bowl then looked down to see a note written in permanent maker floating inside.

The delight when he read it. Someone had remembered his birthday. It was a naughty note, both in contents and context. It read, “If you want ‘expletive’, come ‘vulgarity’ it, BIRTHDAY BOY.” What was he to do? He became instantly aroused. He understood it to mean to get his however he wished. It couldn’t possibly mean anything else, otherwise, why would such note be doing floating around inside the toilet bowl. Toilets after all, can’t be considered the cleanest of things. It must mean that she wants it dirty. Despite his day having passed, he was getting a present. The signs of a the drunken-meager-middle-age man were replaced with purpose and vigor. He dashed into the shower stroking his already awakened ego. He thought about nothing except cleansing his body to tackle his present.

He knew exactly where to come unwrap the present. After the shower he walked to the guest-room and felt around in the dark until he found a body sleeping face down in the nude. He wasted little time taking his. He spread her cheeks apart and situated his mouth on her anus. He licked, he bit and he spanked. She was still half asleep but her bottom moved about reacting to the compliments. By the time he touched between her legs she was saturated. His tongue alerted her of the imminent with the aid of the index finger. The cleanly shaved vulva felt tender and smooth to the touch.

A few tongue and finger strokes fully awakened her. She butt-pushed him away from her then, walked away in the dark. He was sort of puzzled, still, he followed. She walked to the balcony overlooking the city and laid face down on the floor where her yoga mat rested. She got comfortable, put her face down and closed her eyes. He was walking behind her stroking himself happy. He saw her on the floor, got on his knees and lifted her face by the hair. “Open and Suck,” said he. She reluctantly opened it, but when she did, it came right in eliciting a gagging reaction. She pulled her face back and said “No, no”.

He maneuvered over to sit between her legs. There he sat spanking, biting, kissing, licking it all in sight. Sometimes she’d reject the spanks but, would give in to his whim when reminded that having written such note didn’t afford her a voice. She was to take it whichever way “Birthday Boy” desired. He traced her lips with his tongue until water drowned the “man in the boat”. He entrapped her clitoris until her body went into a shaking frenzy followed by moans, sighs and pants. She was still enjoying the fruit of his labor when he stopped to again walk over to her face lift, and ask her to suck. “No, no,” she repeatedly said. “I didn’t write the note, did?”, “Did I?” he asked. She shook her head no, and allowed his penis in her mouth. A few strokes touching the back of her throat was all that he wanted. He was only looking for some lubrication before opening the present.

He found himself seated on her thighs, her legs closely held together. He leaned over her to shove it in. He thrusted his whim over and over; each time looking to reach farther in. She tried to reach back to prevent the deepest of thrusts but, he blocked the attempts by crossing her hands behind her back and while holding them with one hand, he grabbed her hair and pulled her up, asking if “Birthday Boy” was doing what she presumed when writing the note and placing it inside the toilet. She didn’t speak. She only moaned.

The friction from the floor against his knees would have stopped him most days yet, the arousing thought that this woman, practically a stranger, had left an alluring note for him to find in the most of peculiar locations kept him interested in taking what he wanted. The idea of climaxing all over her ass entered his mind again and again; just the sight for a well opened present, he thought. So he squeezed her butt and spanked. Loudly and rhetorically questioning why she’d written such note.

She finally spoke but, to tell him to hush down not to awaken neighbors. That wasn’t the response he had in mind. He stood her up, got her up on the living-room couch in all four, and shoved it in holding on to her waist to deliver violent clashes of skin against skin to her rump. She was quick to replace words of concern with exclamations of pleasure, gasps of a body being had. He continued telling her if she was enjoying his unwrapping. If she wanted it harder. That he was going to spill it all over her butt and vulva then bend down and smear it everywhere with his mouth as he sucked her pulsating pleasure to another climax. Take that, take it like a good lady. She had by now given up fighting back and hushing him. She was now enjoying the emotions overcoming her. Just when he was going to climax he withdrew, grabbed it, and jerked it in the direction where he wanted the results to land. She was covered in him. He was panting, still squeezing her butt, gently spanking it, and kissing the low of her back.

… in the morning when she opened the shower curtain to bathe, there was the note; permanent marker having left visible writings against the tub floor. She smiled, then asked him to come see. He still wanted more, still aroused by the note itself. She refused his approach with the invalid excuse that she was sore, that it was only yesterday his birthday. He still thinks about it, still hoping for the year between birthdays to come by a little faster.

Leave a comment

The Brownstone at Park Place

Between tall modern buildings is the unrestored, yet impressive facade of the century old Brownstone Bank. It gives forth the impression that it can speak of what was, what is and what will be long after everything around it has become casualty to progress. It might no longer safeguard the fruit of labor of its patrons, but the demand for its presence at Park Place hasn’t been this great since a large fire down at the basement about half a century ago threatened its very foundation.

The fire burned out of control for over three hours. The Bank was believed to have been totally devastated. They said it wouldn’t recover from such fate but, when it all subsided, the fire and its cleaning, it became obvious that the solid marble walls and floors were unharmed. It withstood what others buildings, especially around it at the time, would have failed to undertake. It wasn’t until decades later that it closed its doors to the last few financiers in the city. The world grew too complex for the bank; too large and too corporate. The Brownstone remained untouched until I purchased it. I wanted it to become solely my home, but after much thought and my eager, restless personality, it also became my place of business.

The intentions were to restore it to past glory. I wanted it to look as it did in the pictures with the wealthy looking fellows with long beards, pocket watches and clean suits. Then, something peeked at my curiosity. That idea of it being just my home was short lived. I shied away from restoring the facade, instead concentrated completely on the inside. That’s where this story begins; just short of ten years ago when I became the proprietor. The new concept was crude, costly, perhaps too progressive and boorish for Park Place; however, that’s who I am. I would try even if I failed, even if I had to relinquish The Brownstone to the city.

As visitors walk in to my “bank”, nothing inside reminds them of it’s past battles. In fact, not one visitor, but I, knows about its forgotten glories. All that my clientèle knows is what happens at night when the tall modern buildings bid farewell to the multitude of pressed suits, and knee-high skirts. That’s when the lights outside dim, the streets all around come to a halt, giving sole attention to what goes inside of these marble walls.

The Brownstone is opened all day long, everyday of the week… on and on. There is only one nightly event. It’s been the very same since opening night. Most protagonist selected for the event are of unfamiliar faces but, our regulars always attend hoping their number is draw as the winner;so I wish to believe. Some purchase, one, two, and too many tickets begging for luck to increase their chances… it’s really never worked. Any one person can purchase as many tickets as wished. Anyone wishing to come inside the building must also pay an entry fee. That’s the crowd that comes here; from housewives to right-wing righteous personalities all in one room hoping to be selected.

Our first few months were slow. Word-of-mouth sort of establishments have their drawbacks. So, I waited for my idea to gain thrust with the public. We don’t sell food, nor drinks, we sell an ambiance. People come here because being around us might allow them to explore more than ever intended; they may even come hoping to leave as the chosen one. Now-a-days there is a day-long caravan of curiosity purchasing entry fares. A limited amount, as law prescribes, is sold. Once the show is sold out, a line begins to form outside. There is but so much space to fill inside the bank. We can fit no more than a thousand people. Even while inside, witnessing the event is not guaranteed. Most days, patrons patrol the floors, speak to employees, ask questions, hope to have an “in” to be selected.

The line that forms outside is lengthy. They wait because every so often, the selected one freaks out, and another protagonist is chosen randomly by me, paying or not. I walk around, see what’s available, then choose. Those who complain about the rules are never again allowed inside. Anyone inebriated, anyone under any sort of influence is escorted out, thereby placed on a blacklist until I feel it’s been long enough a punishment.

Exactly at midnight, lights, large screens all around, music, the catwalk leading into the five-story-high vault, take center stage. The cast is alerted that we are about to commence by the turning on of a single candle placed on the ledge of each outside facing window. The cast makes its way to the basement from where tunnels lead them across the street, up and out to the sidewalk at the front alley facing The Brownstone. In a single line, they walk from across the street, through the main entrance right onto the catwalk. Accompanied by the cheering of the crowd deafening any and all discernible sound, they strut towards the vault chasing the dimming of pink lights on the catwalk.

The cast is a rowdy group. They are unassuming in appearance, but everyone knows that inside those facades there is always a Brownstone. It takes over an hour for all members to traverse from the catwalk into their rightful position inside the vault. Once everyone inside, wire cables are dropped from the ceiling. The strong syncopated rhythms of 70s Latin music is simultaneously increased as each associate is raised into their position: angels raising into the heavens. Smoke is released from vents on the floor to help the glory of angels in the skies. The crowds content flashes throughout the room. Soon, the entire backside of the wall is covered with my dear coworkers.

Then without any warning… hush goes the entire room. Even the walk of a hobbit can be heard through the silence. That’s when I come into the vault. No one talks, no one but I, is allowed to speak. The lights are directed at me in the center of the vault where I find my rightful position. I look up and around to the three sides of five floors of balconies filled with onlookers; they all stare down at me with eager eyes… fearful eyes. The heavy breathing of those in fear can be heard all the way down from the top floor.

“Welcome, everyone. The rules are simple. You may engage in the physical altercation, or you may not. It is your choice as to how to proceed.”


“…is the keyword. Just once it needs to be heard by any of our cast members. You’ll be promptly escorted into the nurturing room, your money refunded, and driven home by my very own driver.”

“Those of you new to The Brownstone at Park Place, do not speak until a number is called out. Tickets matching one of your numbers will be dropped from the ceiling. Large fans from (there, there, there, and there) will go on to beat about each ticket until the very last lands on this marble floor. Once it lands, I’ll walk around, look at up at the balconies, at the floor, and from the side I find most deserving, one of you will be chosen to come down and select a ticket from the floor.”

“You’ll grab the ticket, hand it to me, and I’ll read it aloud. You’ll be allowed to watch the scene from down here next to me. Then, and only then, can the multitude release a roar.”

“Shall we begin?”

The still of the crowd while I walk around looking up and down the floors of standing-room-only balconies is breathtaking. Many, very many faces I don’t know, just as I see the very many I’ve come to meet in the past decade. The first go around is quick, merely looking for people who catch my eye. There is no particular anything I look for. What calls my attention one night, might not the next. There is no rhyme or reason to the process. I simply stay calm and wait for someone to pop out from the crowd.

The second go-around is more detailed. I keep mental notes of the balconies that appear interesting, just as I do of those that are outright disregarded. By the time I’m down to two sections, quite a long time has past.

Tonight is no different, except for the fire sprinklers just installed inside the vault that will mist throughout the event.

… I am at my second and final go-around. Two balconies this night have caught my attention. Both are filled with women, one is a bunch of young girls, while the other seems like some sort group only here because they lost a wager. I point to it, and call out for the woman without makeup and dressed in a sweat-suit to come down. No other reason, really, than to see her sweat-suit soaked. I dislike them to my hearts content; the sweat-suits that is. She may ride home wet in mist.

I expected her to scream but she didn’t, very calm woman. She was grabbed and passed down from balcony to balcony. A small part of the process I normally forget to cover. On the way down she’s lost the bottom of her sweat pants. Those jolly fellows enjoy removing the clothing of everyone who travels down from floor to floor. Had she been on the fifth floor, she would have ended up totally nude by the time she arrived down below.

I welcome her with a smile and warm handshake. I turn her around allowing everyone to get a good look at her lower body covered by very small undergarments, then release her to her duty. She walks about looking up at the crowd that’s pointing here, there, and over there; she doesn’t know what ticket to select. Finally, she stops just shy of exiting the vault where a few tickets landed looking to leave the party.

She picks up a hand full, shuffles them in her hand until just one is left. I walk over to her, walk back to the center of the room, and read: FATMDP7-897. A brutal roar shakes the very columns holding up the ceiling. Everyone screams waiting for the person to find their way to the center vault. Out of the very first floor comes this curvaceous woman — and here today I had hoped for a man. She’s not a little girl, she’s a woman. Not the model type with the skinny legs that wouldn’t hold up the extra weight if carrying another lipstick. No! This is a woman that one wishes to have for oneself with toys, ropes, and slippery creams.

Upon seeing her, I call for a hush of the crowd, the music, and the lights; but the mist, that I cue to start. I ask her if she is sure she wishes to proceed beyond the winning ticket. Instead of replying, she bares her chest and pumps her fists in the air as if ready for some sort of wet t-shirt contest. I raise my hands, introducer her as Toy — there are no names at the Brownstone, ask for any remaining lights to be turned off yet, leave the spotlight directed at the center of the vault, on. With its ever changing colours, it adds just the prettiest of touches to the event.

While I walk away to find my strategically located seating arrangement, along with the semi nude lady who chose the winning ticket, a music compilation with seven tracks of African beats plays increasingly louder; each time a new song mixes in, a female cast member appears at the edge of the circle looking in at the woman. By the final track, seven of my very dearest of employees surround the woman. The crowd roars the building into a vibrating frenzy. The girls stand looking at her, giving each other signals, then at the harmony of new age classical violin…

…the cast rushes her. A physical confrontation ensues. It’s difficult to see many details while bodies attack another. I always wonder what is going on and how Toy is handling it. It takes no more than five minutes to subdue her, and there we have it. Her clothing has been cut to pieces. Her chest, back, face and hair show signs of the lost confrontation. She’s forced to stand up; hands tied behind the back while being held by the hair by the leader of the girls –a tall brunette with intoxicating body art down her right flank. There is but just them two people under the spotlight, the rest of the cast has disappeared from the light.

The sight of blood emerging from nostrils has always aroused me, especially the slow drops falling upon full sized breasts.

After she’s been shoved by the hair to face each cardinal point, the remaining cast members return from the dark fully nude. Each holding various apparatus of enjoyment. They circle the woman, forcibly spanking her ass fleshy red. She doesn’t move, takes it pretty smoothly, in fact. She is then pushed face up against the floor, landing on her hands that are tied behind the back. Her face is that of pain, but nothing comes from her lips. Two girls grab her legs and spread them while the lead cast member comes closer, softly slashing the woman’s genitalia with a reddish party whip. Once her mouth is close enough to the it, the lead cast member, Paz is my name for her, sinks her lips and tongue against her vagina. She tries to fight back by scooting around and trying to close her legs, but it’s far too late for the antics. Her legs are spread wide apart, and tied to handles on the floor.

Another member quickly kneels above Toy’s face, sitting on it. The music doesn’t allow the sound of her commands to carry, but she screams at Toy to open her mouth and taste… and not in that eloquent of articulations. One by one the girls make a human chain. The next associate lays face-up in front of the cast member who is kneeling on the protagonist’s face, and down she goes to taste her while making Toy savor her. A second also kneels over the face of the cast member now laying on her back, puts her vagina on the mouth of the girl on the floor, and so on until the final link to the human chain connects in a consuming circle. Butts on faces, genitalia against mouth, the taste of The Brownstone wouldn’t have it any other way. They give and receive until Paz calls an end to it before Toy enjoys it far too much. One by one they stand up, except for Paz. She stays on all fours, slightly backhand-slapping Toy’s vulva.

The cast begins to take turns grinding our protagonists face, smothering their secrets upon her mouth, each slapping, suckling her breasts, even including Paz in the fun by spanking her bottom red as she whips our lucky winner. Two of them grab Paz, lift her by the legs while a third girl spreads her butt cheeks and licks therein. Paz, the doll, balances on her hands, screaming obscenities at Toy about what will soon happen to her. I’ve had Paz, in more than one way and occasion. I must reveal, she’s a woman that refuses to be tamed.

Because I am the host who can’t deny himself the very few needs of life. I unzip, pull out the joy of my life, then ask the semi nude “ticket girl” sitting next to me to stroke while I watch.

Paz is now showing various apparatuses to the crowd. The loudest of the cheers comes when a strap-on device is raised. The entire cast is to wear one. They look down at the woman, body totally soaked, mostly by the mist steadily falling from the ceiling, but also sweat and the affections from many a secrets recently presented to her.

I slap down hard on the arm of the seat, the girl stroking me startles, pulling her hand away in response. It’s just that the built-in remote inside the arm of my seat requires a heavy slap to function. It stops the music, turns on the lights, lowers a mic, and shuts off the spotlight simultaneously. I place my hand under her chin, bring her close, and slowly lead myself into her mouth for a quick soaking. The mic finally reaches me from the ceiling. I grab it, then ask for Toy to be stood up so that I may walk over to inspect the situation. She looks well. All the good places tender from the continuous attention. I bring the microphone close to her mouth…

…she leans close to it, and with a firm yet indifferent tone, says: “I haven’t given much a thought about what you do me. Whatever it is, make it hard, plenty, and leave me feeling the size of the apparatuses hanging from each of your girls for a week or two. To be debilitated, abused for a while to appease the many ill thoughts that have ran through my mind when I want to be physically devastated yet all I’ve taken are the pecks of status quo. That’s why am I am here. To feel what I haven’t before, even if it leaves me… in the raw.”

Far too eloquent for someone — in my opinion at least, spanked and tied up. Though I enjoyed her indifferent tone that should be attributed to someone who’s been defeated, I understood it more so as a failing sign of my girls. I expected her to plead for less, rather than recite her desires of lust. It was a joy to see her up close and somewhat battered. Her body revealing that she wasn’t the fragile type. Pretty thing! Plentiful wherever one looks; she came here to be had.

The crowd yells unreasonable requests as if in a butcher shop slicing meat on a block. They want her filled everywhere anything fits. They want her passed around the crowd for anyone who deems her not fully satisfied to have. They want to taste between the valley of her glutes… just to verify she’s as tasty as she looks from afar. Some more open personalities scream of things I wouldn’t dare mention. I’m not sure there is much pleasure associated with such requests. However, I don’t know if I’ve passed that limit myself, or here today.

I don’t respond to her. I smile, raise my hand and tap her on the lips saying: “naughty lady, naughty.”

We have quite the crowd tonight. The Russian group occupying their usual balcony attends more nights than not. They are unaware that I know of their lewd acts while the lights are off. Grandma, obviously wealthy, with her shirtless puppets; I’m not sure I want her to ever be drawn. I wave at those I recognize, raise both my hands… the lights go out, the spotlight on, as does the music.

I return to the comfort of my chair, awaited by the delightful semi nude ticket-girl already in disbelief.

Looking at her reaction makes me wonder how many people do come here for the show, as opposed to the decadent comportment of stranger on stranger when the lights are off. It’s of no consequence, I enjoy the thought of bad girls behaving well as much as the next hedonist.

Paz grabs a scented lubricant then strokes the phallus hanging from the strap on; points to Toy with her lips to turn around and bend over. The instructions don’t go very well. Not that they were well crafted, but that no one who hasn’t been previ to the event would know what in the world they meant. This is the good part, though. Shackles are forced on Toys hands and ankles, she’s consequently bent into the fetal position with her arms falling between the knees and her hands touching the ankles.

She’s helped to her knees, gagged, but not with a ball. That would be too nice of Paz. She shoves a small, about four inches or so, device into her mouth. It’s wide enough that Toy has to open her mouth as wide as she can. That elongation enunciated by the wide opening of her jaw says she’ll encounter difficulties telling us to stop. That might be a big deal for her, but not for us. We’ll enjoy her inability to concede defeat. After the device goes in her mouth, her face is brought down against the floor. She looks to the side, her butt up in the air supported by her knees, and her arms between the very knees on the floor.

The girls sing songs of pain and sorrow, of melancholy, all while Toy’s nostrils flare from fear and search of oxygen. She’s soaked in lubricant, even warm wax from the very candles that alerted the team at the start of the show find their way against the tender skin of Toy’s bottom. It’s a colourful mess matched only the agent of suppression spewed by males against the genitals of the opposite sex. The liquid is spread by seven sets of hands. Her butt jerks so and so often. I presume from the tender penetration of digits going beyond the surface of the her skin. One cast member has to place her right foot on Toy’s back pressing firmly to impede her movement upwards. Two other associates press against her thighs preventing any side to side movement. She can escape exactly nowhere; she must now resist digital stimulation with unwilling acceptance.

These girls don’t go easy. There is no easing into the entry, they reach inside commanding she try to push back against the digits. But hand stimuli is not what any of us here expect.

I’ve always wonder how the cast manages to thrust that phallus on the strap-on with such ease — they must practice on each other. Paz was first, and it was a heavenly sight, that of Toy taking it like a lady. She appears to have been in relative pain. Her face moves from side to side, her hands straighten as if spasming; Paz colliding against her butt. A second girl maneuvers her mouth to Toy’s vulva, soothing the shoves she’s withstanding with tongue strokes. My girl reaches behind, is given another phallic device… in it goes, but this time Toy handles it with much ease. The second girl massages Toy’s secret, she inserts and retracts the object with smooth intention.

It takes not long at all. Had Toy not been gagged, it would have been easy to hear the pleasure of climaxing during double penetration. It didn’t end there, they took turns using Toy’s rear. Before the next cast member took a turn, Toy’s ass is massaged with lotion. Her butt cheeks spread apart to let the light show what hides in between. Even the separation of her outer labia throbbed deep in my heart.

I rarely do this. Very rarely. I can remember the times I have. Perhaps four, no more than five. I slapped hard against the arm of my chair. All but the mist stops. I’m wet, so is the semi nude ticket-girl, just as are the bodies of the girls in action. I walk over to the group pleasing Toy and bring the ticket-girl with me. I’ve removed her sweater top, and bra. She stands just in her underwear.

I pass her on to the my ladies. They kiss her, fondle her, hold her, then one from behind and the other from the front penetrate ticket-girl. She screams in painful delight. I, on the other hand, run my hand through the marks on Toy’s bottom. I kiss them, lick her buttocks, tasting the good in this world. The feel of her warmth in my mouth is devastating. I feel like the world has just begun and Toy is here to make me feel alive.

The screams of ticket-girl catch my attention. She screams in tongues. She speaks in a few Romance languages as she does in Arabic. I walk over to watch her pretty face feeling the joy brought about pain and pleasure. Then, ask of her face be brought down to my waist level. I gently place me in her mouth and tell her to speak… if she can. Rhetorical of me. With me inside of her, all she can do is feel the choke against the vocal cords. I pull out, because the desire was to feel the tongue of a multi-lingual speak within me.

I return to Toy, the poor thing, she looks sort of envious. At least so I’d like to think. The order is given to kneel her. I retract the device in her mouth and replace it with my penis. Some of the free girls guide Toy’s face back and forth, pushing it forward, forcing all of me inside of her. Toy coughs and tears from her eyes. I smack her lips with me, once and again. She sticks her tongue out as if wanting to savor more of me. But, I’m here to be shared.

The ticket-girl is knelt next to Toy where she’s commanded to put her hands behind her back and hold each elbow. A girl kneels behind her, grabs ticket-girl by the shoulders and lowers her completely onto the phallus. The same happens to Toy.

I trade mouths from Toy, who has me intoxicated in lust, to the ticket-girl with her mouth of many tongues. Their faces express the difficulty adjusting to anal penetration when women hold them by the shoulders, preventing any escape from the thrusts. I shove from throat to throat until I’m about to ejaculate, just then, I retract and flow onto both girls. Their lips, chin, eyes, nose, even breast are tended to. And to be cleaned, Paz, my trusted joy, walks over to me, and cleans all and any residue left in me. I have always loved how tightly wound her mouth makes me feel.

The remaining girls standing around frolicking with one another, kiss and lick the two kneeling subjects. They are cleaned from my semen, but not before parting photographs are taken of a job well done. Of faces covered in the most alluring of makeups.

It’s easy to forget the ruckus of the crowd during these times… Many of them will still be here in the morning, talking, chatting, doing whatever it is they do when they think I’m not watching. But here at The Brownstone at Park Place… well, I know what happens.