Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Master and Commander

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Master.”

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

“Fix it,” I whisper.

“Yes, Master,” you whisper in response.

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

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

“Yes, I am Master. I am.”

“Turn around bad girl.”

“Like this, sir?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A heartfelt slash across the chest revealed the seriousness.

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

Squat! Hands behind your back.”

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

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

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

Pinch your nipples until it hurts then release.”

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

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

Pull me out.”

Hands behind your back.”


I dip myself into your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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View Halloo at the Richmond

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I spoke as she knew I would.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Pleasure of Outrage

We’ve all been in this very situation where the outrage is the very reason why it all suddenly feels “better”. It is when that feeling of helplessness seems to disappear. When we feel that we’ve taken a handle of the situation and made it better. It feels as if control has returned to its rightful place. The feeling of taking it out on someone else… whatever “it” really is.

This past Saturday I worked sixteen hours straight; no breakfast, no lunch, no dinner. Even snacks weren’t remembered. I got off of my station for one thing and, that was to be scolded by my superior on how he feels demeaned by my ideas of improving departmental processes. For an hour I sat there listening to the fragile ego spew garbage about being the boss and how I should learn to treat him as my superior.

Had I been a male, he would have had me by the balls! There was no defense in the face of been threatened with job safety. I had to sit there and swallow a pill handed out by brutal insecurity. I left annoyed about the hours worked and angered by the maltreatment from my boss.

Sometimes I hate it, but others, I absolutely love it. Love that my husband is so damn submissive. Saturday night at about eleven forty two post meridian I couldn’t wait to arrive home and find his obedient bottom half undressed working on his clay statues. I’m not even sure why he’s an artist when all he wants to do is please others rather than display what’s inside of him. I drove fast with nothing but my bosses words resonating through my thoughts as if neon traffic signs spelling out “EF. U. CEE. KAY,” obey me or else!

Our residence is my husbands ex-wife’s penthouse apartment. He got the penthouse and she got to keep her business intact. I love the arrangement because, well, we don’t get to pay rent! I drove right up to the concierge, tossed him the keys and asked him to get my car to where it belonged. It’s good feeling wealthy, even if I am not, makes others sort of… obliged. I left my laptop, purse, high-heels and stockings in my husband’s ex-wife’s car that I so gladly drive everyday.

I got in the elevator, shot up to the last floor where the elevator’s door opens to our apartment. It is the twenty second floor, tall floor-to-ceiling-windows prevent the outside from coming in on all sides of the apartment. It’s a gorgeous apartment she has for us. We are the lowest complex in the area by at least forty floors. A quarter of the floor-length penthouse is an outdoor patio with a beautiful garden that we converted when we removed the pool just to piss off his ex.

There is no other place that my hubby would be at this time except for his studio slapping clay on unsellable statues. When the elevator door opened, I walked in furious still. I yelled out for the stereo to go on and play my “pissed off” playlist — a combination of heavy metal with super fast 1960’s Latin Big Band descargas. I wasn’t even sure if he heard the stereo blare out Black Sabbath but, I didn’t give a hoot if he heard (it usually notifies him I’m going to get mine).

As I expected, he was so deeply concentrated with his work that he didn’t hear the stereo. I rushed into his studio, slapped the statue he’d been working on for over three months to the floor, grasped his short hair and shoved my pelvis into his mouth. “Suck you son of the no good mother. Suck right there.” He was taken somewhat by surprise; maybe at a total surprise as we’ve always talked about what we are going to do before we, more properly, I carry out my aggressive whims.

I didn’t like how his tongue responded. He was pleasuring me as if my vulva wasn’t tasty enough for his fancy artistic mouth. I pulled him by the hair and slapped him right across the face, commanding to get on his knees and shove that face against my lips. He looked at me like a lost teen in front of a naked cheer leading squad. The unresponsiveness pissed me off. The damn fool was acting as if he didn’t know how to suck a good climax out of me. So, I stood him back up, forcefully kissed him then, caught his lower lip with my teeth hard enough to make him whine about the minute pleasurable pain. I pushed and shoved him all the way out to the garden.

It was cold that Saturday night, but the fury in me didn’t care whether the outcome of my outrage was pneumonia or the release of sexual tension.

Right onto the rose bush I pushed him. The poor chap had thorn marks throughout the back — the rush a little blood gives me! The shove against the bush he was used to; it’s happened many-a-times before. All of which I’ve taken rather good care of him. Be it way of a good lay that he’ll always remember or the soothing of his back until it returns to full health.

He was finally getting into the mood: panting, looking at me waiting for orders. “Good boy, my good boy! Wouldn’t your ex like to see you this way.” I placed both my hands on his chest and down go all ten of my nails from his pecs to his well sculpted stomach. I know he loves the pleasure of pain. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t give a nickel either because I’m in acute outrage that needs to explode on someone who won’t fight back. So, I put my palm against his face, called him a bitch then asked him to get naked. He was about to say it was cold but, a swift slap right on the lips hushed him. I got him to all fours and began to massage his anus nicely and well, spitting on it for lubrication. Males don’t really have the ability to self lubricate, at least not like we girls do.

That aroused him! The submissive gal he is became engorged and willing to take my digit right in. “Ah, you enjoy that don’t you little girl. Want me to strap it on and give you a lot of pain?” “Mhmm,” he replied. Nah, I wanted to use my finger as if I was beating my boss about the face with my fist. I reached around to his phallus and jerked him while I pushed hard with my hand in his ass. The poor boy hung his head feeling the joy of my finger and my hand stroking him. He didn’t close his mouth; saliva dripping from his lips; he salivated in my control.

His joy turned to wonderful pain when I squeezed his sack handedly and told him to come suck again. This time he was aggressive, ignoring that I was playing the leading role. He shoved his index in my anus followed by the thumb in my vulva. He stroked his tongue aggressively and intensely. I cursed the lord that gave me desire to love being pleased. I smacked him across the face each time he looked up to look at me. His face was red and might have even displayed a black eye with a bloody nose. That’s the sort of beating the male I married likes to receive.

At that point I had forgotten why I was being violent, just as I had forgotten about whatever insecurities my boss had dished out at me. I was sprawled out in our garden in a cold of a night that I didn’t feel. My ass was grinding against the stones on the floor making me enjoy the discomfort of rocks against skin. Still, I didn’t want to come. All I wanted to do was subdue my emotions by screaming obscenities and watching my submissive partner beg to be controlled.

He crawled about the garden with a hard-on following my pussy around. “Come take this! Crawl faster! See this, this is going up your ass, and hard.”

I walked over to him, turned around and shoved his face right between my butt cheeks. I asked him to stand up and stroke until he came while I watched. I told him to beg for my vulva with each jerk. Yeah. I sat across from him massaging myself until I got bored of watching. He stayed out there until he came. I was no longer interested in what he had to offer. But, he walked in with his bulging boy covered in manly agent of lust. That dripping thing, I’d like to suck it clean.

Hell, even if it didn’t come out as expected, I did get a little pleasure out of the outrage. Look at him. Now, if that were only my boss’ face. The goosebumps feeling the return of control.

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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.