In Your Pants

Takers

2008-04-25T16:37:00.000-07:00

We couldn't tie her to us, so we held hands with her, me and him. We decided to keep the blindfold on, the whole night looking like we were leading her to a birthday cake. She spent a lot of time, at first, grinning like we were. Martin was on some fantasy that I was a little jealous of her attentions and when he touched her, he grinned too, and snapped back like I had ordered him to or something. It was like that whenever he got a chance, when he thought I wasn't looking, he'd slide his fingers up and down her back and reach, his hand already cupped, toward her front. She'd perk up then, like the kitten that she was, begging to be petted, her back arched and her neck all out. Martin's face would light up like a morning glory and then he'd look at me and pull away. I'd take her hand to me when I felt the urge, on my nipple or my lips or my cock, my fingers pressed into the undersides of hers so she couldn't bend them, couldn't do anything but feel me, well, couldn't have any ideas of her own.

We propped her right up on the hood of my car in the parking lot of the town library and waited until it closed, when the men would trickle out of it, their eyes all full of paper and dust, and we asked, one by one, if anyone wanted to see her. Most said no, or didn't say anything, people don't see what they don't believe, but it was one man, whose head bent over his PDA like his neck was broken, a skinny kid with long, stringy blonde hair, who didn't even look to see if her hands were tied or not. He simply saw the situation and said "Yes." Martin lifted her shirt above her breasts, just the edges of his nails across the skin of her chest and she breathed like she was making to faint. She spread her legs apart on the hood of the car to keep from falling over. The kid, who was somewhere between seventeen and twenty-seven years old or some such, held quiet for a few seconds, his PDA at eye-level and rising to the side of his head. Martin got another look in his eye and turned toward her, stuck his tongue out and licked one of her nipples. The kid sprung a pole in his pants so quick he could've used it as a kick-stand. Martin's full of evil. It's why I asked him along.

Another one came around our way and I asked him to go ahead and have a look. This one was about our age, with a belly and a wedding band. His eyes went a little dark and he held his hand out, his eyes breaking for a nod of my approval, and raised her skirt just a little bit, leaving his fingers on her knee just a little too long. I kissed the back of her head and waited for him to leave. He kind of rocked there for a little while, his mind full of ideas and mixing them good, and he walked away quiet and business-like, to his car, which he sat in for a good while before driving off. I pulled her shirt down and nudged her off the car. She landed with her feet wide apart, slipping in the gravel before catching herself. Martin's hand went up under her skirt, though her legs snapped shut in a reflex. I could tell by the way that his face changed that she was wet. I wanted him to appreciate this, his short visit to the world of women who are actually turned on in his presence. He touched his belt briefly and took her hand again. The parking lot was drained of takers and we needed to move on.

We got surprising few looks at the grocery store. I suppose that late at night on a Tuesday you got the third-tier shift. The stocker-boys just kept to their canned peas as a woman, liquid with sex, was pulled past them by two determined men. We found no harassment in the wide-open spaces of the produce section, the fish shop and the butcher, their sections titled in wide, comfortable, italicized script, below, hard block letters to announce their absence. I walked us over to a roll of plastic bags and removed one, snapping it open as if to announce our presence. To who, I'm not sure.

I took one of those peppers, the ones that are just a little hot that curve on the end like a tongue, and told Abby to get herself off with it. We kicked her legs apart and let go of her hands. She backed into the edge of a large pile of potatoes and dipped the edge of the pepper into her pussy, then moved it forward and toyed real fast at her clit, which stood out under those fluorescents like a worm in the lettuce. She shook at her elbows and let out just a tiny moan before I stopped her. I put the pepper in the plastic bag, twisted the end tight and split her ass cheeks. She didn't know where I was going with it until it was popped in, sucked up into her and swallowed whole. She clutched a potato and went real red. Martin seemed real delighted with this and laughed like he'd found a way to suck his own asshole. Pure stinking evil, our Martin.

I took a bottle of water on the way out and explained that I'd eaten a pepper and wanted to pay for that too. Martin walked right behind me with Abby all blindfolded and her nipples up under her dress like peas fresh out of the pod, but it was the fact that I'd eaten a pepper that made this teenage girl with no part in her hair give me a dirty look.

"What kind of pepper?" she asked.

"Those short, red, curvy ones that look like backwards raindrops," I said. I figured this kind of talk would charm her a little, but she just rang it up, one Fresno pepper, large.

In the parking lot, I took her by her new tail and pulled her, and therefore, Martin too, across the street to a park. Just out of the blue of a floodlight down by some trees was a water fountain. Martin and I lifted her up by the insides of her thighs and sat her down on it, her pussy right up to the guard behind the spout. She took a little steadying, but settled finally before I pressed my thumb on the button and the water sprung up. It was cold. I could feel it where the leaks dribbled down my hand, but Abby's mouth wasn't tense like that because it was hurting her. She trembled and chattered just like she did sometimes when I fucked her, and sometimes when I walked in on her fucking herself. Martin, who'd surely never seen this kind of behavior before in a woman, wrapped his arms around her from behind and watched, a look of concern on his face. Well, it only looked like concern. It was probably just the concentrated curiosity of a baboon looking at its first soccer ball. I took her face by the cheek and watched her, her face stinging me with its beauty, all scrunched up like she was about to cry. Or sneeze. When her mouth drew open I let go of the button and watched her fall back into panting. I hit it again, punched little squirts on her like licks, each one making her back jolt, before I let the stream go and watched her come, good and hard and even groaning. Martin was fascinated. He clutched her like she was having a dangerous fit.

I pulled the pepper out by the tail, took it out of the bag and fed it to her, still up on the fountain, rubbing the seeds on her lips where I knew they'd burn. She bit and licked her lips after she was finished. They swelled up at the top of the ridge and she pouted. It was what she did best.

I was sorely tempted to declare that now would be the best time for Martin to stick his dick in her mouth, when it was all still full of pepper heat and would probably teach him some sort of lesson about people and how he is with them, but I'm just not that mean. Besides, Abby didn't know it was Martin that I took along with us, and his bitching and moaning would just plain give him away. Instead, I raised her skirt again and split her pussy lips, cold under my fingers, and let him get a good look at her. She swayed, but I pulled the collar of her shirt in my fist to hold her up. Martin stared at her and laughed quietly to himself, probably comparing what flesh God had put on his bones and how it compared to hers, all pink and smooth and elastic.

She said she was thirsty. I opened the bottle of water and held it to her mouth, tilting it just a little too high so most of it came out the sides. It went down her shirt and started to show in her sides, sticking the fabric to her.

Back in the Jeep and onto a two-lane highway, headed west and south, I told Martin to get in the tiny back seat with her and fuck her now, all out in the wind, her hair flapping in her face, her ass and her pussy exposed to everything and everybody. He jumped right back there and stripped her naked, handing me her clothes so I could put them in the storage compartment between the seats. He bent her over the seat and pulled his pants down just enough, put a condom on and pressed his knees forward between hers. From there it was just the back of Abby's thighs and Martin's ass in the rearview mirror, but for me, I was looking at the other cars timing the moment when they all realized what was going on, the short swerve and catch of their steering. I'd never had so much fun. An SUV came up close behind us and appeared to be in no hurry to pass, though I was going just five over the speed limit. I caught what looked like a male profile in the driver's seat and puffed myself up with pride.

When Martin finished and sat back down on the seat, I had a good look at Abby's pussy, all swollen and open right there in the rear view, flashes of wet reflecting in the headlights of oncoming traffic. That was it. I pulled the jeep over, put my flashers on and climbed right back there. I took her blindfold off, picked her up and hung her over the rollbar, facing the front, her feet resting on either of the front seats. Her pussy hung over the car like the missing overhead light. I pressed my face into it, smelled her sweet and salt and stuck my hand in my pants, cars whizzing past, crickets singing, the world mine, and rose on the thrill of it, Abby's big night out and mine.

The Knot and the Pull

2008-04-11T20:52:00.000-07:00

I can feel Austin from the other side of Owen, as if he's got some crazy knot attached to my chest and Owen is capstanned between us, a spinning, accommodating bisexual cog, cock in the wheel. Austin feels like those mornings when your heart is being squeezed high in under your breastbone and you're not sure whether it's good or bad yet, not awake enough yet, or maybe you haven't made up your mind. Austin takes Owen's hand to my breast and it's unsteady, unsure, and I'm not sure which one of them is making it so. My body is expanding and contracting, the whole thing, under the gravity of the hand, and when it touches, the circuit between the three of us closes and it's a shock, but still, an undecided one.

Neither Owen nor Austin has said a word and I'm just talking to keep up a stream of background noise, or maybe I'm just drunk. Owen is waiting for me to kiss him, because, as the girl, it is my responsibility to do so. Austin leaves Owen's hand for a moment and picks up his drink. The ice is still big and solid inside of it and makes for a rocky noise rather than a tinkle. It's sweating all the same, the translucent fog on the glass forming drips under his fingertips and falling, leaving a trail of clear behind that bends as he lifts it. I take the glass from him before he puts it down and hold it to Owen's lips. He takes a sip, Austin's drips and mine sliding to the end of the glass, rolling as I hold it and diving onto his shirt. I've got the angle wrong and some of the drink slips from the edge of the glass and out over the side of Owen's mouth. I lean forward without moving the glass and drink some too, before lowering it, feeling for the edge of the table with my thumb and pushing it away. I leave my mouth there and swallow the last of my sip, a great gulp that was waiting, dammed, on Owen's face. I cover it with my mouth and suckle it off of him. He freezes while I do this. It's only when my bottom lip slips between his that I feel his shoulders relax, the heel of his hand press into my nipple, feel his exhales on the side of my nose.

Owen's body is warm and dry and feels different, the way people always do when you touch them the first time, a different distribution of weight and skin and heat. Austin, whose body I could identify in a dark lineup at the bottom of the Arctic, starts to breathe in the way I understand, and yet he's different too, as if he's had a haircut or shaved his beard or I haven't seen him in years. He's different with this capstan between us, a cute boy on my couch with the reflection of a desk lamp twisting in his eye. He's got his arms around Owen as if he's behind him on a motorcycle. He turns and accommodates him, shifts his weight around on the couch, then loosens, falls back and watches for awhile, the tips of three fingers into the center of the balance of Owen's back.

My shirt is curled in the grip of one of their fists and is pulled up, my breasts bouncing and the nipples cresting in the sudden cold. They leave the shirt in my armpits and Owen leans in again, the wool of his sweater catching and tickling my skin. Coldish and dry, as it always is with a new person, not the sweater that Austin has ever worn. Austin reaches around Owen's body and Owen makes room for it, arches back a little. Austin presses into my left breast above the nipple and curves it up to Owen's mouth. Owen's lips curl open and leave my mouth. He backs up enough for me to focus on him, see his face change at the offering before he looks up at my face again. He sits up more now, backing up a little and bending down, holding my eyes to him as long as he can as if he's bowing, and, his nose nudging Austin's thumb, presses lips to my nipple, containing the circuit again.

I'm aware that I'm frowning, that the worried frown of sex is on my face as I watch Owen, and Austin looks at me with the same worry, an exchange of looks as primal as one of smiles and yawns. Austin releases his thumb and rides down Owen's front, flips under the sweater and makes work of Owen's belt. He pulls it open and turns his hand to unlatch it, I can feel it on my stomach, and leaves the cold metal of the buckle against my belly. He's taking his time, counting on Owen's distraction to feel his entire body, commit it to muscle memory and smell. He slides Owen's jeans down and presses his cheek to his exposed ass. in the dimple at the side, the concave to Austin's convex.

Sweetness and comfort bubble into my panties, the slip of the lips apparent when my thighs twist to stay at Owen's mouth. I reach down my own front and twist the waist down, under my ass, over one knee and out of one leg. Owen wears a large, flat ring. I turn his hand down to me and rub it against me. My legs shake and the pants slide down more until they fall at my ankle, an unrecognizable lump at my heel, and then kicked out. I hadn't meant to kick them. I just had to kick. My eyes close and my mouth opens, with twitches in the corners. Austin sees this as an invitation and stands, drops his pants and socks his cock in his hand, turns my face and rubs my teeth with it. I taste it when my lips roll down, salty and smooth Austin, even here, even now, just slightly different with Owen in the room.

Austin teases my mouth, makes me leap for him, suck him down past the barrier of my teeth and lose him again. I feel his jolts and know he's cranking himself up, the tight and loose of his skin above the bulge and throttle of the meat of it. An inhale blurts in the back of my throat and I stop Owen's ring, wait for my body to settle, blink under it, saved and restoring my threshold. Austin's fingers go into my hair, tight toward the scalp and he holds my head in place. He presses index and forefinger over my bottom teeth and slides his cock in over them like rails, They too are dry and a little salty. I rest my tongue on them and press up in between, skate across his large vein. His vowels go from As to Os and he fucks only for as long as he can, practicing this tough-love brinksmanship with my tongue and cheeks.

I feel the strange arrangement of Owen's back against my ankle and against the couch. He's been watching, stroking the tip of his cock against the shin of my other leg across his lap. Austin bends over his lips and sucks in the bottom one, slips it out and sucks it lightly in again. My pussy is split, open, dripping, in the air between my thighs, locked into Owen's torso for friction. Owen's got the kind of eyes that turn down on the ends when he smiles or pants. They turn down now, his mouth agape and steaming the space in front of it. Austin pulls my right leg off of Owen's lap and pulls it, his hand cradling the thigh, to the side and down. My pussy now holds wide in front of them, steaming the air surely, like Owen's mouth. Austin removes both of Owen's arms from his front and presses them into the back of the couch. I take the one by me and hold it. Austin drops to his knees, his cock bouncing and turns his head, swallows the entire length of Owen in one swoop, the sword in the sheath. Owen trembles and catches it, holds and savors. Austin waits a beat and begins to bob.

I've never seen Austin do this, though he's confessed to having done it in the past. It's been one of those things that even as I need to think about it, my fingers trapping my clit and slipping their rails across it under the sheets, I haven't been able to. Watching it now, my boyfriend's head impaled on this man, the skin see-sawing between his lips, I can't think about anything else. If I tried to speak now, it would be like reading a word jumble phonetically. Austin too leaves his strokes to mere suggestions on himself, squeezing in between to keep himself blocked. Owen's head lolls on the couch. His lips move as if he's talking, but he's not, at least not to us. If he believes in God, I believe he's talking to Him. I steal Owen's hand from off of the back of the couch and carefully maneuver it to my pussy. I roll it, fold it and push it inside, up to his thumb. My clit stretches across the top like the bow in the twine holding the whole thing together. With caution, I touch it with my thumb.

Owen's beginning to thrust up, just little tenses in his thighs and ass at Austin's downstroke. Austin holds onto it and rides him like an Englishman rides a horse, matches it and dances along. I'm on my own rocks, trembling like I'm rolling in gravel. Owen's stomach tenses and his head straightens on his neck, puffing, puffing, puffing. I stand up and straddle his face, losing his hand for only a moment. His tongue curls out just in time and I claw at the wall behind the couch, coming, losing my footing, regaining it, coming hard and groaning against his face. I feel Austin pull at me again, open Owen up, his arms wrapping around my knees and ripping them into the crooks of his arms. Austin, I feel in vibrations on my buzzing, hypersensitive clit, light, then a pfft, then a higher hum, Austin.

Austin's hand comes up and hooks his thumb inside of my pussy, curls his fingers into the front of my pelvis and pulls me down until my face is even with Owen's. Owen kisses me absently, my funk on his lips. Austin's cock breaks in and he fucks the space in the kiss, fucks the burn and the electricity between them, holding our heads together. The pull becomes enormous and he stops, then slides slowly, little centimeters back and forth at a time until the taste and the slip-squish texture of his come fills our mouths, coats our teeth and settles under our tongues. Owen falls onto me like this exhausted and sweaty now, not dry, Austin behind him, seated, but slumped sideways onto Owen's back. And neither of them seem different anymore. They are familiar now and warm.

The Invisible Man Part 4

2008-04-07T18:04:00.000-07:00

It's one of those nights that would make for a sweltering day, the lights on the softball field haloed and the air murky. Here on the aluminum bleachers, though, the air moves around Elise on its way to wherever air is headed for, separates around her form and shoves together again at the other end. The players are friends of Morris's. The game would normally take on a barely contained sentimentality for her, imagining him there at shortstop, still alive and waiting for the hit that never seemed to come his way, but tonight she can't concentrate on it, feels for disturbances in the wind around her, imagines that the conversation she'd had that day was with a real person, and indulges in a little self-pity, that the two people that she has the strongest relationships with are equally dubious in existence.

The shortstop scoops a slow-roller, bouncing softly across the turf. Elise should be happy for him. She decides to take a walk instead, and slides across the banded aluminum, looks over the drop and takes it. She walks to the sidewalk, the bump-bump of her feet on the grass taken up by a scratchy tap-tap of concrete. The loud clink of the ball hitting a fence hitting a fencepost rises behind her, some yells and claps from the stands, the ghost of Morris running the bases and showing her the injuries to his finger joints later at home.

"Elise," she hears, and though the voice is not Morris, it strikes her just as hard. She walks a few paces with her eyes closed. "Elise," it says again.

She looked around, but knew it was him, Damen. She was out of sight of the field, the houses grey and quiet. She answered him.

"Yes. I thought you would leave me alone tonight."

"How could I? Where would I go?"

"Where would you go? Where do you go? Anywhere! Sneak into a movie or a theme park or go watch some celebrity or something or...."

"I've done all that."

"Or catch a plane somewhere. Paris or um Thailand or something."

There is silence. She regrets the plane suggestion. She walks for a few more steps, then stops. "Which celebrities have you spied on?"

"Their lives are expensive but boring."

"What did you see, though?"

"Um. Well, Tom Cruise is gay. Ewan McGregor cheats on his wife, or did at least once, but so do most of them. Gwyneth Paltrow wears men's tightie-whities and The President jerks off to strictly Asian bondage and peeing videos."

"God, really?" Elise says, forgetting to speak without facial expressions, she grimaces.

"You asked."

"What else?"

"Elise. I don't care about anyone anymore but you."

"This is too weird. You're too weird."

"You let me kiss you."

She feels his breath, close and fast. "I don't know you," she says.

She feels lips on her again, the heat and the moisture in the air wrapped up in a solid package on her mouth. It sucks her air out too. Her belly drops, becomes heavy, but he holds her. He releases her, but doesn't leave.

"And you've... you've been all over the world?"

"Yep. War zones and everything."

"Have you been to space?"

"No."

He kisses her again, heat rising in sweat between them.

"No space?" she says, genuinely surprised.

"I want to touch you."

She's lifted and hovers down a paved path through the park. Though her feet dangle a few inches off the ground, it's not them that makes the swash and catch on the ground. She sways her arms as if walking, but giggles to herself, waves her legs too. She's placed on a short hill for dirt bikes and feels knees press between hers. They separate them and rest under her open thighs. A mysterious rise appears under her shirt and tickles up her ribs, then another. She watches her shirt rise and fall above her bra. She sees her breasts bend into a slight cone shape followed by small double dents in the skin above the material. When they move, she feels that they were kisses, the moisture evaporating. She is frozen in place, fascinated and now, inexplicably, as if this is what she'd been waiting for her whole life, pot-boiling turned on.

"Damen?"

"Yes," she hears right at her ear, though the space in front of her appears to be unoccupied.

"Do whatever you want, just don't stop okay?"

She hears him exhale with a bit of a whine. He speeds up. Her jeans are unzipped, a hand down the back of her thigh. Crickets open up around her, scratch their legs against each other. The houses beyond remain grey. His hand skirts her pussy and she bucks. His knees are removed and her jeans slide down her legs, her sandals popping off. She watches and feels moans gather in her breathing. She sees her pussy lips spread and her clit expose itself. It's bent, pushed down, popped sideways. She laughs, deep and loud. She realizes she's been laughing. She hasn't laughed in forever. She feels something warmer, softer, and watches her clit flatten. He's licking her. Her neck stretches over the dirt mound. Her hands grope in the nothing in front of her until they feel hair, the top of his head. Waves rise in her hearing. A noise breaks out of her throat and her stomach clenches, whipping forward and back. The stars blur above for a while, then return to silent twinkling. It's ridiculous. All of life is imaginary and strange.

She leans forward when she feels his knees return, and watches her pussy spread open, the bottom rim tight, feels him enter her. Her arms reach out and she feels him bending over her, his back in the crooks of her elbows. And this is the strangest thing of all. To be pressed into the ground and made love to by nothing, or just something, someone, who doesn't look like anything. And that's okay for her now, because it was never meant to be normal, any of it, anyway.

The Invisible Man Part 3

2008-04-01T17:02:00.000-07:00

Part three and another without sex! Just one part left, I swear.

Elise knows he's there. It feels like when she was a kid, when she was sure that the adults were watching her all the time, even when they weren't in the room with her. She was sure that they had a camera on her and they in another room, checking up. She feels critiqued and discussed, but comfortable, shielded. She feels him.

The road curves in a ring around the houses in her subdivision. She reaches the point in the arc where the new homes are just starting to seed. They're only clearings now with whips of tape attached to stakes in the ground. Beyond these, the real woods, and a path through them. Most of the residents want the path blocked somehow, strung with a few whips of tape on stakes to close it off, but Elise likes to run there. She told everyone she moved to suburbia for the trees after all.

He follows her.

If Elise looks straight ahead, she won't see the plastic bags stuck in the branches above her, the piles of ashes on burnt spots in clearings, the empty soda cans with the hole poked into the center. She runs, half-squinting for the blur it gives her and listens to the bump-bump of her soles on the packed dirt, trying to listen for his. She's been working out what to do about him when she has the guts, but that would mean she'd have to really acknowledge him, and that would make her insane.

She hears a clomp that's not hers, an excuse, and stops. There is nothing more, just the sound of construction in the distance and the rush of a car or two. The word in her rises and slips out like a shiver.

"Hello?" It sounds like a shiver too.

A squirrel runs in front of her, and she lets out a little laugh. Crazy. She runs again.

She runs past the mysterious PVC piping, the large fallen tree, over the gigantic root that crosses the path about halfway out. She hears the sound of a foot on wood and stops again.

This is out of her mouth before it's thought about, like a reflex that doesn't take any advice but what the spinal column gives it. "I know you're there! You've been there for months! Who are you?"

She's mortified of teenagers, falling out from behind trees with laughter. But she's already done it.

"Who are you? You don't scare me. Just tell me who you are."

She's panting from the run. Each sentence is a chore. She decides to conserve them.

"I know. You're there."

Sweat is attracting mosquitoes and little black flies. She shakes her head and runs again, forward for a few paces, then quickly switches and runs back. She runs into what feels like flesh, but looks like nothing.

"Jesus Christ!" she yells and leaps back a few feet.

A voice comes up in front of her, panting too.

"Damen."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Damen."

"Damen who? Who the fuck are you?"

"My name. Is Damen and I'm. Sorry to scare you."

"Where? Where are you?"

"I'm... look I'm here. I swear I'm here."

"Here? WHERE?"

Elise is screaming now and she knows it. Not screaming is impossible. Damen isn't answering any questions.

"I... I look like nothing," said the voice.

"What?"

"I'm invisible."

"Damen. The invisible guy."

"Yes."

"Uh-huh."

Damen stares at her, concentrates, as if he could concentrate enough for her to see him. She's getting scared though, her eyes picking at the trees and up the path, so he talks again.

"Listen, I'm just going to touch you, so you know, okay?"

"Where are you touching me?"

She is scared. She can admit it now. The entire sentence came out in one word.

"Just your shoulder."

"Leftorright?"

"Just your right shoulder."

Elise can see, well, hear, that he's scared too. It doesn't help. She breathes deeper and holds more, waiting, and then, the fold of her t-shirt and the feel of fingers and a palm, warm, gentle. He doesn't take it away. She breathes, exhales slowly and thoroughly. She doesn't really want him to let go. He does. Something changes in her too, more than the reassurance that she's not crazy, but knowing that she really wasn't alone, all those times she thought she might not be.

"Why haven't you talked to me?" she asks.

"How could I talk to you?"

"You were there when Morris died."

"Yes."

"And when I got my job."

"Yeah."

"And you've been in my car with me."

"Yep."

"And watched me... seen me naked."

"Then too."

"Why?"

He's quiet again, and she's almost angry. This, the most obvious of questions, you'd think he'd have an answer to.

"Why?" she asks again.

"Why am I here or why am I invisible?"

"Both."

"I don't know why I'm invisible. I just am."

"Why are you here?"

"You're my entire life."

"Oh."

"Don't make me leave you. Don't make me leave you because I stepped on a tree root."

She hadn't, strangely, even thought of him leaving. It seems now that she absolutely should, but she needs him too. She realizes that her eyes have been trained on a patch of nothing in front of her, that she hasn't been looking at the trees or noticing the little black flies on her skin. She's been looking at him, not at anything else. She blinks, but she's still looking at him.

"I'm going out tonight," she says. "I'm going to think about it. I'm too freaked out to think right now, alright? I just need to be around people and think."

She walks around where she knows he is and heads back, her feet a slower and lighter bump-bump, and she's so sure that she's lost him that she begins to tear up.

An arm comes around her and pulls her back, strong, so much that her heels dangle over the ground. She feels lips, then a full mouth on her, fingers in her hair and hears his broken breathing. Time passes somewhere and he breaks it, pulls away from her mouth. He's breathing heavier. She feels him shaking too.

"Oh my God," she says.

"I've wanted to do that for so-"

"I'm going out tonight. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay? I promise."

She walks up the path, listening for his footsteps behind her. She doesn't hear them. When she's out of his sight, her feet pick up and she runs, the woods blurring, unable to see a thing.

The Missing Sex Scene: The Invisible Man-Part Two

2008-03-28T19:48:00.000-07:00

Damen was no stranger to women, and yet he couldn't be anything but. He could know each of them at any moment, be with them wherever they were and watch, cowardly, from a few feet away. He'd followed them home with their boyfriends, watched them fuck or fight, made rules and found exceptions, and for years, found his soul engorged with their bodies. He'd had every fetish in the world, could indulge each in turn, and did, from the dungeons to the high class whore who sucked toes like nipples, seen them in action and melted along with their suitors, before passing onto the next. There was, of course, just the small matter of never having touched a woman himself, and this became his last, deepest need, the one so impossible, the unachievable that everyone else seemed to have.

And Elise, naked, her skin pink from the hot water, breasts floating, put her arms out on the side of the tub and closed her eyes. Damen's hand hovered over the water and he mimed dipping in, pushing through the liquid and finding her firm flesh beyond. He held, and held, and, disgusted with himself, pulled away, walked out of Elise's bathroom, tiptoed down the stairs and slowly, quietly, opened and closed a door to the outside.

He hitched a ride to the city, in the back seat of a cheaper car with soft, quiet seats (nylon and fire-resistant cotton), driven by a twenty-two-year-old college student on spring break. She talked on her phone the whole way down and Damen cringed, finally blotted her out with a song he'd made up years before, hummed it in his head until the car stopped at a light in a promising neighborhood and he scampered out. He waited a few moments outside of an expensive club and saw a woman exit. Her pupils were wide and a little bewildered. Heat pounded over him and he followed her, right behind her, smelled her and tasted her when he opened his mouth. Up her back stairs, she climbed slowly and very deliberately, Damen following, then into her apartment, the smell of old, dirty dishes and an ill-tended cat. In her kitchen, he reached under her arm and cupped her breast. She started a little, asked who he was in a slurred and accented English, clutched at his arm, but couldn't see it.

"Relax," Damen said. "You're dreaming."

She swung around violently and looked for him. He ran his hands over her skin and she watched it bend for him.

"What the?" she said. "What's going on?"

"You're dreaming," he said again.

Her stoned eyes, crushed with the pressure of whatever it was she'd taken, ran as fast as they could around the room, and she gave up. He didn't think he would stop anyway. He reached between a woman's thighs for the first time and found heat and softness. She took her pants off, now taking in longer, shallower breaths and he fell to his knees in front of her, reached out and touched, dove into folds only to find more, slid around her wet flesh with his fingers, fascinated, impatient, then fascinated again. He leaned forward and pushed his face in close, his nose slipping into the wet and smelled her, a woman, up close for the first time. He was overpowered then, and helpless, his entire body drugged like hers. He took her arms and bent her, pressed her palms into the floor, kicked her knees down to the tiles (treated vinyl), lay across her back and pressed his cock deep, pulsing, tight in its skin within her.

"Who are you?" the woman said.

He didn't answer. He was thrusting deep, grunting, worried, peaked and then, before he could help it, he came, burst, wailing on her floor. He waited, his eyes boggled in his head, and stood up, walked out of the woman's door and watched, half expecting his hand to show on the doorknob (brass), as it was twisted in his palm. It didn't. He walked back to the main road and listened to people talking, trying to decide whose car would take him back to Elise, to his quiet corner, satelliting her alone.

The Missing Sex Scene: The Invisible Man-Part One

2008-03-27T15:34:00.000-07:00

This has nothing to do with the H. G. Wells novel, the Ralph Ellison novel, or any movies or anything else. I think of the Invisible Man as just a character that we all own, like the Boogeyman or the Sasquatch. Here, he's in love and lust. I'm going in short parts for this one. This is part one. Just love in this one, sadly. Part two tomorrow. Part three Saturday.

Damen followed Elise through her garage door to her house, snuck around behind her without touching anything but her ridiculously large purse and backed into an empty space between the floor lamp (bronze antique) and the couch (overstuffed ultrasuede). He didn't cast a shadow. Elise looked around before proceeding to a hook that she kept her keys on, checking herself in a mirror that didn't reflect his gaze. Elise always looked around like this. Damen figured she'd had a cat or cockroaches at one time or another. There was nothing now.

Damen didn't like to think of himself as invisible, though this was clearly what he was. He didn't want to think of himself as a ghost of something that once existed because he didn't believe in ghosts, and had been only like this for as long as he could remember. A pointless, Cartesian argument had made a home in his mind since he was younger, and he'd given up on it lately. He existed. That much he was sure of, though he, in his own words, looked exactly like nothing. It was easier to think like this, he looked like nothing, than to enter into that confusion again, try to figure out why, what he was good for, or if he was meant for anything, well, higher. There was only Elise now, this woman headed, as she headed every night, for a long bath, and his transparent heart, whose only proof of existence he had was that he could feel it with her, expanding into the transparent pressure of his transparent chest.

Elise put her purse down in the dining room, on one of her chairs (traditional wood) and walked, as she did each night, to the master bathroom up the stairs and two doors down. Her purse (quilted leather) was filled, Damen knew, with the usual things of a woman her age, the Blackberry and the bulging wallet and Wet Naps, but also a small plush rabbit, which had been soft at one time, but now had stringy fur and large, worn holes. He'd held it one night while she slept. This thing all substance and no soul. His negation.

The white noise of the running water crept down the stairs. She would close the door as she took the bath, though there was no one to keep out but him. He swung his weight around the banister and quietly, slowly, ascended the stairs. In his fantasies of her, of which Damen had so many, she always said, "Run to me!"

Sugasm: Matin', Fornicatin', Salivatin'

2008-03-27T03:54:00.000-07:00

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #125? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath

“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”

Just passing through

“I twitched under her stare.”

Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon

“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

WP/PHP Guru?

Editor’s Choice

More Traveling…

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

The Face - The Fall Of Eliot Spitzer

Let me clarify something…

On being a slut.

Regulating Prostitution and its various business models

Would You Pose Without Clothes?

Sex Humor

Lusty Leprechauns

BDSM & Fetish

Black Panties (a story)

Earning myself a spanking

A fun weekned

Goodness Gracious

HNT - Hidden Nipple Thursday

Riding the Wave

The Spiritual Significance of Spanking

Submissive?

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Blog Anniversary Contest Winners

Call for submissions: Theory and Practice

Dana DeArmond Stripped Of Her Name During Slave Training With Julie Night

Euphoric Tendencies - a review

Gianna Lynn Endures Water And Suffocation Bondage Underwater On Waterbondage.com

Get a Personal Shopper for Your Genitals

My First Review on Adult DVD Talk!

Pushers

San Francisco Fetish Ball 2008 Photos and Review

Erotic Writing and Experiences

A black shemale sucked my cock in Amsterdam

Captivating the college girl part one

Clandestine

Close Your Eyes

In His Pants

Leopard print: you just can’t beat it

Northern lights and sleepless nights

Wet Vagoo

You’re my pornstar (part 3)

Sex Advice

How Women Can Learn to Have an Orgasm with Intercourse

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio

Dahlia Grey by Andrew Blake

Exotic Jewel

Half-Nekkid in the Shower

Her Intentions Fall to the Floor

How do you like my cock?

Pornsaint Kimberly Kane

Spring Garden

In His Pants

2008-03-16T08:17:00.000-07:00

Cameron was in Syd's room again, studying his posters and letting his fingers dip and swish in Syd's laundry. Two tickets to the Bloc Party show, stapled right into his lathe and plaster. Cam had watched him do it, still sweaty and hoarse from the show, and wiping his nose with his sleeve, Syd climbing his single bed and bouncing before he threw his weight on the stapler, legs apart, shins bulging through his jeans. They exhaled together when he threw himself off the wall and the bed in one push, and Cam, finding nothing to add and pulling his t-shirt down in the front begged off for the night. He hid in his room and listened to Syd on his laptop, straight porn as always, and tried as best he could to hear the swick swick noise. He never could, but imagined it as clear as if it were at his lips in the dark.

And Syd was at work, stocking shelves in a coop grocery store. He never told anyone that he eats Slim Jims all day. They'd never guess. He's got the body of a pure grass juice drinker. Cam felt his fingers catch on the elastic strip of a blue-grey pair of boxed briefs, and he told himself to stop, before he reminded himself that he wouldn't think that anymore. He felt the letters of the designer pass his fingerprints and pulled at them, plucked them out of the pile of laundry. They came to his nose in a loose bundle, and he smelled Syd's cock for the first time. What was left of it, anyway, resonating in this shell that once touched him.

Cam was painfully erect, swollen and frustrated in the middle of the room, though he was unencumbered by clothes, his skin seemed to press into him oppressively. He dropped the underwear from his nose to his cock and rubbed the material against it. His face flushed with fantasy and friction, the soft cotton across his skin, the force of his hand behind it. As if Syd were there, dry humping him, struggling for his own satisfaction in his own cage.

Cam switched underwear to bare hand on his cock, back and forth, the underpants too subtle, his cock too familiar, his body riding the sensations like a skier on moguls. He almost dropped them several times, his other hand going limp in the concentrated ecstasy, then had to break out of it to grip. He finally dropped one end to his knees and stepped into them, pulled them up. He was embraced at last, surrounded by Syd, tight and affectionate. Cam's hand, shaking more, entered the underwear and stroked slowly. His other hand wandered the stretch of cotton, pulling at the leg to feel the tightness across his balls, at the waistband to pinch the tip of his cock.

"Syd," he said, "fuck you. Fuck you, Syd."

He held some of the material across the edges of his fingers and began to stroke faster, his knees apart, faster, faster. Syd. Do it. His other hand leaned back and found the edge of Syd's desk, the laptop shut on top of it. He almost knocked over his bottle of lube. He rolled it into his hand and clutched tight. He thought of Syd there, the swick swick sound, imagined his lips. The whole room smelled of sex, then. Cam twisted the cotton around the tip of his cock and came into the wad, into his roommate's underwear, and they were his and him, belonged to Cam. When Syd wore them in the future, Cam would be in them, with him.

Sugasm-Providing that Twang in Your Naughties

2008-03-11T16:32:00.000-07:00

So I'm at work and I shouldn't, but I go on over to the Sugasm because I've got to and there I am right there on the top line and I go "Creak!" and I don't explain it to anyone but I just kind of grin a lot and think, "Hey, you all think I'm just some boring cubicle dweller, but I'm really a pervert and I've got the link to prove it!" And I think things like, the certified pervert now reaches for a pen, and, the certified pervert now staples documents together, and, you see, even though she's a pervert, she can also name folders really boring things with only single entendres all day, but she really is a pervert, as proven by this here link.

Thank you, fellow perverts. May we win over the world together.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #123? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Sex and love; anger and appeasement

“And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely.”

The Tetrised Luggage

“Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat.”

You never know who we are

“People tend to have an idea of who can/does talk about sex.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)

The Media vs. Pornography

Editor’s Choice

Red Assed Mouthsoaping for His Lies

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

BDSM & Fetish

The Best $1.50 I Ever Spent

A Big Hole in Her Crotch

If only he was naughty more often…

“Is it Any Wonder?”

More Cock Worship

Pavlovian Training of a Submissive Phone Sex Slut

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Blog Anniversary Contest

Braces and Medical Fetish Movies From Beauty And Braces

Getting to the Bottom of DickHats.com

Plastic Bag Suffocation And Forced Orgasms On Hogtied

Shot at Home’s 100% Authentic, Homemade, Amateur Video

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Audacia Ray Returns!

Defending the sex-positve element of Feminist Carnival #53

Nora Roberts Doesn’t Write Porn!

Robot Love

Some thoughts as I navigate through the waters of non-monogamy

Sperm Donor

Sex Work

Thoughts On Dominating; My Dos & Don’ts

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Amber’s Wedding Day Confession (Continued)

The best leopard print lingerie ever

Found Out

Fucking girlfriend’s brother

HNT - Caught pt 2

‘Ho, me?

Hot Screeching Excerpt - Things That Go Hump In The Night

How to perfectly ruin your panties

Masturbatory Thoughts

Mental Infidelities - The Voyeur

My New York Indiscretion: Part Two

Night Swimming

The Week In Sex: Wednesday Night

You Shouldn’t Rub The Lamp…

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio

Apple HNT

Catalina loves Rollo

Erotic Photoshoot

Faye Valentine in tight blue sweater

The first blowjob porn film I ever made

Hottie Jordan

The Tetrised Luggage

2008-03-04T16:39:00.000-08:00

The ground is all little atoms of lights in vast voids. Traveling at five hundred miles an hour, you would think they would shoot past as if we were on the ground. But they don't. You just see more of them up here, sliding past like the minute hand on a clock. I can feel the spark between him and me. It doesn't pass anymore than the towns do, but seems to gather in the space between us, in the sticky skin touching on the armrest.

My tray table is open, a book open on top of it. The first paragraph is something about seventeenth century slang. I've read it three times, but find that my eyes only slip over the words. I'm thinking about him, what I'd say if he said something.

A note folded in thirds lands on the book. "What are you wearing under those clothes?"

Our flight was delayed. We sat in a bar of a town we'd never been to, and now still wouldn't be able to say we had. The conversation turned quickly, and we ignored our blushes, becoming each other's anthropology projects and confessors.

"It's been forever. My last girlfriend held out on me and I've just been too depressed to get back in there."

"How long?" I asked him.

"Two years."

He laughed and so did I, but it was forced. I was supposed to buck him up, tell him it's only a matter of time, that he was good-looking enough. Should be fighting them off.

"How many times do you jerk off a day?"

"Three. I'll blow a hole through my next condom, I know it."

I smile at the note, begin to look for a pen, but just as I lean forward, one drops into the fold of the book. I write, "The usual. Skin, tits and naughty triangle. You?"

"What about you?" he continued, stirring his drink. Every seat in the bar was filled, the spaces between them with tall, black suitcases all Tetrised together.

"It's um...," it had been a year, "a few months, I guess."

He looked me over, a quick size-up in a slow blink, his straw folded over the lip of his glass. He held his breath for just a second and inhaled before looking away.

"I'm thinking about you," the note reads. "It shows."

My blush is overwhelming and beams from my forehead to my neck, pure boil. No matter what I write back, he knows. He takes the note back before I can respond, writes more and replaces it on my book. "Can I touch you?"

The whine of the plane measures a few seconds, the towns replacing one another underneath us. I can hear myself breathe, feel the air nozzle above my face flit my bangs against my face. I pick up the pen and begin to write. I only get to the Y before his knuckles are brushing the inside of my knee. I don't flinch, but inside, my body jolts. Heat pours up my skin, mixing with the blush on my face.

Our thighs are touching and I can feel him inch forward in his seat. I lean forward to check the seats opposite. One empty, two asleep. His lips flip and pinch my earlobe. My heart thuds against my breastbone. I want to feel him, the reason he had to inch forward in his seat. I check again across the aisle and move his hand up. I hear him now, a bang of an exhale. And my body, sensing the force of someone's else's hand, blacks out the periphery and hooks itself onto him.

I shut the lights off over us and look for a moment out of the window. The moon, in the shape of a spinach pie, is blinding and quiet. Our lights flash back at it, like the wing is frantically waving hello. His fingers press into me. I reach across and lay my palm on his abdomen. He reaches up and lowers his tray, then raises the armrest between us. I follow down under the plastic board and find him, a frustrated, caged erection in a tight pair of jeans. I pick apart the button between my ring finger and pinkie and unzip him against the flat of my hand, the zipper teeth pointed into my skin. He jolts and scoots up more.

My body falls into its tense concentration, his hand going above my skirt before it falls again under the material. Its fingers slip and lose themselves in me. I think I must be imagining that he's there. But he must be. I'm shaking.

My hand wraps around his cock and straightens him out so that it rests against the bottom of his tray. He's breathing quickly through his nose, alternately shallow and deep. I look at his face for a moment and find him open-mouthed, watching my chest pump. His fingers snake against me, twist and flutter. My toes bend in my socks, crush into the legs of the seat in front of me.

We work each other for a few minutes, our bodies flying along with the plane, the force of gravity against our weights changing here and there, the blood confused and shifting. My neck bends and grinds into my seatback. My mouth opens and I force back everything but a single gasping inhale. Time stops for a while, unmeasured by towns or clocks or the hiss of the airplane.

His arm pulls around my neck and when he comes, he only says, "I miss you," and pumps shots against the bottom of the tray. In my ecstasy, the continuing high of the orgasm, I know immediately what he means.

"I miss you too."

We sleep, a man and a woman alone in the crowded plane, our heads bent into each other, our hands across our empty laps.

Fold over the corner and put it under your mattress. It's the Sugasm!

2008-02-28T03:42:00.000-08:00

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #121? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

The Ache of Desire Unsatisfied

“J groaned in my ear, and I nearly pulled down his zipper then and there.”

Unexpected

“Tingles of electricity were set coursing up and down that side of my body.”

Part(y)ing shots

“I placed both my hands on the tiled wall in front of me, clammy and cold, holding myself up.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The “Best way to make him felt hot”

Editor’s Choice

Who Is A Sex Worker?

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

BDSM & Fetish

The administration of pain

Calm

Cock Blogging

Cuckold

Expect the unexpected

Happy hunting

I got quoted in Bitchy Jones!

A Lying Husband’s Spanking and Mouthsoaping

So Hard It Hurts

Vegas Squeeze Toy

Sex Poetry

Lick

The Sweetest Fruit: An Ode to Cunninglingus

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Navigating the Shoals of Infidelity

Silent Sex

Statute of limitations for rape

Tales from the Floor: Pure Njoy-ment

What is fasionable today?

Why Christianity hates sex (possibly)

WWYD: Presidents Day Edition

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio

Action Girls’ Latest Erotic Photo Galleries

The Beauty Of Nature

Hot Wax at LSM with Madeline

Mizuki Horii

Nikki Nefarious Has Taken, And Modeled, The Hottest Photograph Ever (Altered Aperture)

Redhead Submissive Tied Up In Box (Fetish, shibari, catalinaloves.com)

Suzie Carina - Hotel Room

Vivid.com: Briana Banks, Monique Alexander, Nadia Styles & Sunny Leone

Sex Work

Catalina loves Couples (D/s)

Sex Advice

How to Bend Over Your Boyfriend and Make Him Like It

The Ultimate Sex Position?

Erotic Writing and Experiences

After the gaurd 2

Blue Air

The Cam Lover screwed a hot black escort in London - Part 2

Catalina loves Great Cookies

Eternal Kiss…An Erotic Paranormal Tale

The magic dinner party

Excerpt - The Party Crasher

The Naughty Dentist - Part One

Phantom Stirrings

The therapy session

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews

Blog Contest Teaser

Harmony Rose Dominates Glory Hole Perv And Fucks Him With Strap-On (Bondage, Femdom, Captivemale.com)

Blue Air

2008-02-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

Patrick and I had been eyeing the smoke machines all night. It was a large stage, but it seemed like they might have been just a little overkill. Most of them sat idle all night, just one or two giving out controlled blasts during the more atmospheric songs of each band. They hissed, and a few seconds later, like the lightest water, smoke would flood out onto the stage. It would be kicked around until it stubbornly blended with the air, giving definition to the stage lights.

We hung around stage right, finding ourselves restless back at the ropes, done with poker and the other roadies. It was crowded here too, but we found a space with a limited view behind an upstage scrim, free of techs, producers, hangers-on and bands. Just us, a row of smoke machines and the languid drummer of Reel and Rout, his efficient, complicated but slow percussion work hypnotizing the crowd. It was their third song, had gone on at least five minutes already, but showed no signs of revving up or halting. It just traveled, back and forth across the stage, like the smoke, until it blended with the air.

Then they all went off, eight smoke machines let out a long blast, like the coming of a dust storm, you didn’t know how thick it was until you were in it. Eight horizontal mushroom clouds flew out, engulfing the drummer, flowing down the stage. We lost sight of the ground, then the air above it, then anything at all. Patrick put his hand on my shoulder so we knew which way was up. I heard two more hissing bursts and the world disappeared into blue-grey, highlighted only occasionally by the purple, red or green beam of a Fresnel. We’d be in the cloud for a while, the plastic, dry smell of the smoke, the disorientation and the song getting louder under it, all of it mixing with the air.

“This is really weird,” I said to Patrick, but the words were sucked into the music and never heard from again. I felt him pull my shoulder and just made out his features as he pulled me toward him, my face down to him, the smoke dissipating and escaping between our mouths. I felt his breath and then his lips, the sweet tickle of his mouth on mine, then the muscles behind it, moving in my mouth. The music and the smoke blended into this sex, and it was all just his body moving into me. All part of the same conspiracy. We twisted into each other, the warmth of his skin under his shirt and his smell, the taste of salt on him and meat and lemon sour.

I opened my eyes and saw a halo of light around him, reflected off of him into the cloud, you could just make out his fuzzy body glowing in the lights. He opened his too and smiled at me, before his lashes flopped down again and he pulled me tighter, a strong bundle of a man in my arms, his back muscles in my fingers and his slow, delicious dance over my lips. His tongue swept back and forth around my mouth now, vibrating its tastebuds across my teeth and against my own. His breaths throbbed in my mouth, each one a call down, down into him. And I fell as I was asked to.

My arms swirled around his back and finally one dropped, per the suggestion of his back muscle, to the gentle rise of his ass, and I pushed his pelvis into me, as if I knew that the music would swirl up just then. It was there, the steel in his pants against my groin and we rubbed into each other, this suddenly all that mattered, a few pointless cries escaping my throat. His hand came up the side of my face into my hair and he pulled my head sideways, pushing deeper into my mouth. When would the smoke begin to clear? When would we have to stop? When would that drumbeat, the light cymbal crash in 7/4 time simplify itself and end the song?

The machines blasted again, the blur of the world reinforced. A blue light descended on his face and I saw beads of sweat forming, reflecting like opals across his face and in his hair. He looked around and saw that there was nothing to see, took me down to the floor by the shirt, sitting up, our legs intertwined. We pulled each other close again and knelt up partway, our cocks into each other’s hips, grinding, his mouth on my neck. A bite and a nibble and the fog entered my head. It brought sting and heat and a low humming sound. The music, all blending into itself and passing through my body as one wave.

Patrick’s arm came down between us, his tongue staying in my mouth as he backed up a little. There were some sharp movements and pants and his hand, holding me tight on the back of the neck. He pulled his body back all together and shoved my head down, just enough time to get my mouth open before he guided his cock into my mouth and shuddered. He continued to hold my neck, the music building again only to fall into chaos, he fucked my mouth, my fingers dug into the folds behind his knees. Another hiss and another blast, the oily blue dust filled the space between us again and all I could see was his cock. All I could feel was the strain of my jaw and his hand sternly holding me in place. The taste of musty precome and the smell of dirt. My right hand slipped out and he took it, placed it onto the floor.

He began pacing himself, each movement into my throat a little smoother, though he punctuated it at the end, a fierce shiver and twitch. The song continued forever, rising and breaking, rising and breaking. I took his hips up to me and sped him up. We fought each other for a while, my hands on his pelvis, his hand on my neck, and he gave in. I deep-throated him tightly and he fell apart a little. I left him that way for a second and redoubled on him. His back went to the ground, his body pulled up into an arch culminating at my lips.

There were timpani then, and the voice of the singer returned in the distance. I held Patrick up by the ass and he quaked, his body at a halt under me, though it held the slightest vibration. I took his hand and his fingers wrapped under themselves. He came, the choking, numbing shots in my mouth. I drained him slowly, not letting up until he took my face by the cheeks and forced me off of him. I picked him up by the shoulders and kept him in place on his knees. I stood up, unzipped my pants, spit in my hand and opened his mouth with my thumb. I let the tip of my cock rub his lips as I jerked myself off. He tried to get on it, but I held him back. He let his tongue dart out and my head drew back. “Aw fuck!” I yelled, though it was gone as soon as I let it out. “Goddammit, OH!” I let go of his shoulder and could just make out through the cloud my come squirting onto his tongue, under his teeth, blue in the light. I knelt down myself, my hand on his face, our noses together, the smoke dissipating just as I got my pants zipped up. We sat next to each other, cross legged behind the scrim, leaning our shoulders together as the song crashed into entropy, and ended randomly, just as the drummer appeared back through the air.

Angel and Cicely

2008-02-09T14:26:00.000-08:00

It's possible that you've noticed that I'm not writing as much. I've got a lot of excuses, but the main one is that I'm pregnant. This site and all of you have been on my mind just as much, if not more. I'm very excited to be pregnant, but some of you will know what all of this stuff does to your head. The details are pretty revolting, and I'll leave them off the keyboard. I've considered taking a break, but in the end, I just don't want to. Please be patient with me, and I'll be back to full speed as soon as I can.

For those who are curious, I'm due in late May or early June. Love from me and my big belly. Now, onto the smut.

The bristles of the brush fan and curve, spreading Coca-Cola red across Angel's toenail. Her arm stretches lengthwise against the skin of her thigh, her knee up in her chin. She's glad she lives alone, finally, her father married off to a sweet enough legal secretary down in Connecticut. Her apartment is small, just one large main room, one large closet, a tiny bathroom and a kitchen against one wall. To her left, about two blocks away, snow is falling into the tracks that she and Cicely had made, her pink rubber boots slipping chevrons into the white. Angel smiles and finishes her big toe. Her hand is shaking a little, but she keeps the brush steady with her forearm pressed against her shin.

When Angel closes her eyes, she sees Cicely every time, her black hair in a spiky but poised boy-haircut, her chin like a weight in a wide sling, her eyes bending over her lips, dark blue with a darker blue ring at the edges of the iris. Cicely smiles at her when Angel closes her eyes, her face just above hers, pressing her hand down on the frisbee in the snow. She smells the ice now, wet but dry. Angel had fallen, her sneakers soaked through and slippery. Cicely had grabbed her arm to stop her, but fell too, tripped on Angel's legs on the way down, and landed between them.

Angel had one thought when Cicely fell between her thighs, a tongue she must have in there, and what she'd done with it with girls.

Angel blushes and pecks a few more brushes against her little toes, aware, faintly, of a swelling between her legs, more aware of the ATM receipt on the coffee table on her left, the phone number on it, and her cell phone next to that. It's very early in the morning. She's not supposed to call Cicely for hours, to awkwardly make some sort of date with her, or try to figure out if it is one. She's pacing herself with her toes. They take time, their busy work distracting enough to keep her from scooping up the phone, punching the tiny keys with her left thumb and asking Cicely if she wants to come over for breakfast. Angel's heart pumps at the thought of Cicely in here, her physical body sitting on the sofa at Angel's back, while Angel licks this nail polish onto her toes, her naked pussy out here in the air and light.

Shh, she thinks, and moves onto the other foot.

Cicely lies awake in her three-bedroom apartment half a mile down the road. She's been dissecting everything that Angel said to her the day before, trying to remember what was promised, how the phone numbers were exchanged and what the reason was. Her roommate, Vince, snores soothingly from his room, her other roommate, Jacob, already on the phone with his girlfriend. She can hear him talk in vibrations in the walls, so close to real words, but without consonants, like the adults in Peanuts cartoons. Cicely's hand lays between her thighs absently, a comforting press in every once in a while, Angel's face under her in the snow, pink lips and blonde hair against the white. She's never liked blondes before, thinks of them cliché and stupid. She makes the executive decision not to change her mind on this just yet. Angel will chicken out, she knows it, the minute Cicely puts her hand on her cheek. Why is it always up to her to make the first move? Her mind drifts for a moment to the social politics of straight girls, before she fishes it out of that green pond and puts her eyes back on the prize, imagines Angel's breasts cupped in her hands, warm and light and sensitive.

God, it's early. Cicely stares at her cell phone and imagines what it's like when it rings, so she can prepare herself for it. The phone seems to swell in anticipation of it, the rounded plastic like a fresh bar of soap, ready to clatter on her dresser, if cell phones would only do that, unexpectedly loud.

Cicely decides to get breakfast. She needs to be out on the street, in the real world, where the phone is simply the thing that her mom calls. She throws a sweater over her shoulders, no need to wear a bra, then dark blue jeans and her boots.

The slush is frozen, the thick, flattened ice sheets much easier to walk on this morning. Angel can keep her head up, imagine Cicely's fingers on the nape of her neck, basic contact. Her hair stands up as if it's happening.

The diner looks bright against the grey sky and streets, as if it's nighttime. Inside, the waitress seats her next to a table with a girl with spiky boy-hair. The girl turns. Angel drops her newspaper and picks it right back up again. She sits down across from Cicely and they stare at each other, their fingers fondling the silverware.

"Did you order?" Angel asks finally.

"No."

"Let's go."

Angel leaves a couple of dollars on the table, looking at Angel the whole time, and they escape together, out into the snow and the sidewalk, parking meters and cars coated with white. When they're out of the sightlines of the diner windows, Angel presses Cicely into a lamp post, turns her head and kisses her. Cicely's lips are soft, without the sharp points of a man's stubble or the aggression behind them. Cicely's hand touches Angel's neck, not to grab her or manipulate her, but just to feel the instant high of her skin on her fingertips, the fine blonde hair between them. Angel wants to tell her about thinking about her this morning, about sitting on her dusty floor naked, about her failed relationships, her first period, her love of office supplies, her father and his new wife, but she simply opens her lips and presses them into Cicely, and swells inside, all this information passing just now between them in this energy, and the sweat on their upper lips.

"You want this?" Cicely says. Angel says she does and almost claps her hand over her mouth afterward. She's been feeling that swollen spread in her jeans, the seams of her underwear at once becoming oppressive and meaningless. She sees a ponytailed woman with two kids approaching on the sidewalk and pulls her hands away. Cicely looks hurt, sliding into pissed off, and Angel says, "Come home with me."

Cicely kisses her again anyway, though she noticed the woman and the children too. She toys with each of Angel's lips individually and sighs. A girl sigh. Angel notices the difference. Her underwear passes from oppressive to an offense. She pulls Angel's waist around a building, presses her into the lacquered brick and wraps herself around her. Cicely sighs some more, little gasps and coos. Angel's mind turns to hands and buttons, the satin of Cicely's skin, the mystery of her panties. Her eyes have been closed, so she hasn't noticed that Cicely has stopped and has been looking at her face, and cupping her cheek, wondering that she hasn't run away.

Cicely takes Angel's left wrist in her hand and kisses the inside of it, the heat of the blood below the skin, and puts it under her sweater, both of them blushing. Angel's hand touches thumb to nipple first, and flinches, but exhales her last giggle. She presses her forearm flat inside so that she can be closer and presses in. She holds her breast between thumb and forefinger and weighs it. This is it, she thinks, this is what all those boys have wanted.

"Come home with me," Angel says again, this time less of a beg and more of a mantra.

"Yes," Cicely says.

Angel's hand slides to Cicely's upper thigh and pulls her as she turns back to the sidewalk. It's awkward and Cicely slips away. Angel regains once more and again and finally picks her up behind her, throws her on her back and carries her laughing toward her apartment. Cicely's lips bury themselves in Angel's neck. It's only half a block anyway.

In Angel's apartment, her keys missing their hook, Cicely steps shyly into the messy living room. Angel takes a moment in the hallway and looks at her, imagines what she'd only really begun to imagine the day before, what Cicely's thighs looks like, how they'd feel shaking against the sides of her head. She approaches her and holds her hand out to her back, close, but not touching. She doesn't know what to do, but won't admit it. She mimics Cicely's curves with her hand and finally settles on the edge of her sweater, falling over her sides. She takes both ends and lifts, Cicely just lifting her arms, letting her do it. Her back is stunning, a French curve from shoulders to ass. A crevice in the middle, for what? Angel runs her hands along it, turning them as she goes, the fingertips at the point of the shoulderblade, the heel of her hand over the dip beyond them, the back of her hands nestling at the crook.

Cicely bends slightly to take off her jeans. She slides them down, steps out of them and returns to a full stand. Now there is everything before Angel, the curve of the back completed by the suspension of her ass, the fat at the inside of her thighs, the line from the back of the thigh to the back of the knee. Angel wraps her arms around her, this breathing living sculpture in her tiny apartment. Snow starts to fall outside, fat, cottonball flakes that take forever to fall.

"I'm glad I'm here," Cicely says.

Angel's right hand drops down Cicely's skin and slips into her pussy. Cicely gasps, but doesn't flinch. Cicely is wet, and this flatters Angel to pieces. Her other hand takes her breast. She simply holds it. Cicely smells like warm bread and butter. Angel rubs, her fingertips wrinkling in the moisture. Cicely simply shivers and bucks, her ass bending into Angel's front.

Angel is bowled over by the power, the sensual suffering and peace she is causing. She has lost herself completely in the mix, become Cicely, and breaks and shivers with her, the way she tears up watching others cry. The snowfall hypnotizes her too, brings her deeper, pulls her away. When Cicely comes, her stomach muscles and legs convulsing, Angel moans with her too, and holds until she's sure that she, Angel, is done.

"Stay," she says to Cicely, almost biting into her shoulder. Cicely nods and walks over to the window, looks out into the snow and the wind, smiles and throws it open.

Feedback

2008-01-30T19:04:00.001-08:00

There was the camera at the top of the screen, centered and patient, a green light next to it. I could look at it askance, but not straight on. I couldn't face the strangers, even if I wanted to. Below were three simple boxes on a white background. One: What I looked like. Two: What they looked like, because precious few were ready to turn on their cameras. There were 442 people watching at first, a faceless and incomprehensible number. Were they enough to fill the seats in a small theater? A large restaurant? How many people work in my company? How many work under me? When I watched, I didn't turn my camera on either, though I'd imagined they could see me, or just the parts of me I wanted them to see. A finger and a clit.

Finally, there was the third box, the one I wanted to see the most, though I knew that if we were successful, no one would be able to type. This one was a stream of thoughts, stupid and flattering, or childish and painful. I would imagine that they wouldn't be able to agree, that some would demand that I play with my tits while other would ask me to press up on my arms.

It turns out that people are used to a leader, and let one person do the talking for them, a man named dirtyhands. It was a leader's name, I gave them that.

dirtyhands

massage her tits

And Ryan's hands, thick and callused, came around my sides and kneaded my nipples. I watched our backward reflection on the screen and waited for the next order. My skin looked alien in the picture, spotless and blurry, the navel barely discernable, the large, dark nipples not much more than shadows between Ryan's fingers. I tried to pull one of his hands down between my legs, but he wouldn't budge. This wasn't about me. I went myself, so distracted that I hadn't noticed how wet I'd become, how sensitive and shaken. Ryan's hands seemed to dwarf me, as if we were in a fisheye. I leaned back so they could see me rub.

3497 users online
489 users watching

dirtyhands

show her your cock

Ryan came around me so that he was facing the camera. He took the hand in my crotch and wrapped it around his cock. I twisted it, showed it to be flexible as girl hands are, thin, fragile and helpless. My fingers were still wet and I slid up and down lightly, an innocent entering a strange cave, touching the unfamiliar. Ryan said, because our microphone was on too, "Do you like that?"

dirtyhands

tell her to suck it

"No faces," Ryan said.

dirtyhands

have her face you

I wasn't allowed to see their profiles, didn't think that I'd want to, but I began to wonder who dirtyhands was. No matter.

I backed up, straddled the laptop and bent over. Ryan's cock slid into my mouth easily, and I twisted and pulled, licked and tightened my lips around him. Saliva dripped out of the corners and onto the sheets. He smelled the same, felt the same. The sheets were our sheets.

Ryan said, "He wants you to touch yourself. Split yourself good first. Let them see you."

I did as they said, though it was too much rocket fuel. While my hands had been away, my pussy had turned to hard rubber in melted ice cream. I stuck my fingers inside instead.

Ryan said, "He likes it."

I could feel my muscles crush my fingers, suck them in. Ryan pulled out of my mouth.

"Talk to him," Ryan said.

"I want you in my pussy. Stick it in me."

"Turn around," Ryan said.

"No."

"Just keep your face up," he said, holding me by the chin.

I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want this liquid pouring out of my pussy. I didn't want to want to come.

"No."

He pushed my knees back on the sheets and placed the laptop in front of my knees. "They can't see your face."

I reached out for the camera, wanted to put my thumb over the lens.

"Do it," Ryan said, putting my fingers back between my legs and rubbing them. I closed my eyes. I'd seen the number. 578. I heard Ryan breathe. He was out of the camera range.

Miles of people were watching me, some just watching, some just starting to play. Some were couples. Some were women. I saw them come, felt their eyes on me, little fiber optic lines through the lens of my camera.

"Are they fucking you?" Ryan said.

I said nothing. Tingles were turning to heat in me.

"Are they fucking you?"

"Yes."

I opened my eyes and faced them. Only five had their cameras on. dirtyhands lay limp. I'd only just noticed.

"What?"

Ryan bent me over the laptop and pushed his thumbs inside me. I came, not there, not in my body, watching myself come like the camera watched me. I writhed and bucked and yelled.

"Goodnight, all," Ryan said, and quit the browser. dirtyhands had logged off.

Tell

2008-01-18T17:43:00.000-08:00

There's a fat spider in the corner of the ceiling, a highway robber between the vent and the yellow light. I'm afraid of spiders, terrified of watching them move, the way they seem to glide without legs, zooming then creeping. Between dicks I've watched this thing, at least two inches long, and begged it to keep still. I can't climb up on the toilet seat to kill it, even if I could pull together those kind of guts. I can't put my face over the stalls. I'd get the crap beaten out of me, if I wasn't arrested. I hold this guy, a shorter one, but veiny, trimmed, the young ones are, in my thick glove, hand hidden inside, and hold him steady in my mouth, forever bargaining with the spider. I'm so distracted that I don't notice him coming, miss the sounds and the trembling ankles. I'm ready to ask for one more from the spider, but it could be hours. My fingers stroke, but the spider has made me go dry. I wait for the man to leave, then total silence, then head for my car in the lot.

"I just can't watch that stuff," Debra said. "It's just... blech." She chased two shaved pieces of red cabbage in her salad to a different part of the plastic bowl. All over the room, women in sensible sweaters and huge hair pointed at each other with their forks or finger foods, movement on top of the cropped beige carpet and the beige wallpaper, flat in the fluorescent. Men sat back in their chairs, knees apart, like fathers at PTA meetings.

Casey blinked at me, then turned to Debra. "What, two men kissing? Big deal," she said. "I'm a fag hag," she said proudly, but blushed, and rearranged herself in the chair.

"I read somewhere that fag hags are all lesbians," Debra said. Casey didn't look at her, but put her sandwich down and left her mouth open in case she came up with the gumption to respond. They were waiting for me to say something. I peeled my orange and stacked the strips on top of each other, even little triangles rocking back and forth.

My eyes close and I'm back on my knees in the men's bathroom, one cock or the other slipping through my lips. The man comes again and again, losing everything to his dream. My legs are bent against the floor on the futon couch, the shades closed, the pads of my fingers kneading me.

"What's your name?" the guy asks. I can see his hands buttoning his jeans. I dodge in case he looks. "Dude, what's your name?"

My back arches on the futon and my eyes go crossed and blank. Waaa uh. Uh. UH.

George grips my hand and takes a deep sip of his bottled water. It's a hazy night, people's sweat seeming to cause the halos on the streetlights. Sticky men pass us and size George up. He ignores them. I wonder if I've ever sucked any of these guys off or if George is right, I've only sucked straight men with a fantasy. "Hhhhuuuuhhh!" George says, as if he's just noticed the First Lady making out with a girl. "We've gotta go to Deliveries in Rear tonight!"

"No!" I say, and I mean it.

"Yes! Come on." He takes me tightly by the hand and pulls me up the sidewalk. His hands are smallish, not painfully large to hold like my other ex-boyfriends' or thin and poky like my older sister's. They fit.

The bouncer exhales pointedly when I hand him my ID, shakes the flashlight over it and hands it back to me quickly. He looks deep into the club as if he has a secret tell for the entire staff, like a baseball coach, a noserub and neck twitch indicating "fucking girl in here."

I was sick of swimming and decided to jump from one end of the pool to the other just to keep moving. My toes touched the bottom on the deep end, my face well under and I leapt up and forward, emerging into the cold air, and crunched down again. A boy wouldn't get out of my way and I was forced to tread for awhile. I didn't know him, and the way he smiled at me made me nervous.

"What?" I said.

"You're a boy," he said.

"I'm not! I'm a girl!" I said and swum around him.

I jumped again a few more times, splashing gloriously from the water with each one. The boy was there again. I looked for friends, neighbors, but remembered I'd come alone.

"Don't lie. You're a boy."

"I'm a girl!"

I dove and jumped a few more times, a little too fast. Water bubbled in my loose terrycloth suit and pulled it down too much. He ruined my thing, this boy. He was there again. I tried to swim around him, but he blocked me.

"You're a boy!" he said.

George takes me straight to the back of the club, his one eye lazy from drinking. "You order," he says, and socks a twenty in my hand.

I can't look around. The bar is dark but for sharp beams of light that you only see if you're looking straight at them. I see blurs of men in small groups, the special shine of skin. Others cruise, watching the groups with their backs against load-bearing poles. I want to be a spider, to watch them as anything but a woman, but I'm conspicuous here as Queen Victoria. I decide that going to the bar will keep my eyes busy.

"I'm a girl! God!" I said to the boy. He smiled at me as if I were falling for some sort of bait. "What do you want?" I asked.

The bartender is slim and short with a faux-hawk. He clashes with the leather-men.

"What will this lesbian be ordering this evening?" he asks, repulsed.

"This girl wants two Ketel and cranberries."

"Does the lesbian want a twist?"

The boy almost lost himself in victory. "Prove to me you're a girl," he said.

"No! Go away!" I looked at the lifeguard, but he was busy watching older girls directly under him. They were talking to him and he smiled, holding the whistle in his mouth absentmindedly.

"The girl doesn't, no."

"Good!" the bartender says, and slaps the drinks down on the service mat so that much of the liquid splashes out. He looks at me up and down and rolls his eyes. "That'll be sixteen-fifty for the lesbian."

I would have waved my arms for the lifeguard, but I didn't want to raise them. This boy was waiting to touch me. "Hey!" I yelled instead. "Heeeeey!" He blew his whistle, amazingly. The voiceover came on the loudspeaker.

"Adult swim," it said. "Ten minute rest period."

"Here's twenty dollars for the asshole."

"Thanks, lesbian."

"Anytime, asshole."

I swam as fast as I could to the edge of the pool, pulled myself out, and ran for the girls' locker room.

George had been sitting beside me, but saw none of this. I examine the glasses for cloudy floaties, but find none. I give one to him.

George and I went to separate colleges after graduation and didn't see each other until Thanksgiving. He picked me up in his car but didn't kiss me.

"I've held out for you," I said.

"I know," he said.

"So you're gay?" I said.

"Yeah," he said.

"And I'm an idiot," I said.

"If there were a girl...," he said.

"That you would have sex with it would be me, right?" I said.

"But you're a girl," he said.

"Do you love me?" I said.

"Of course," he said.

"Screw me anyway," I said.

"No," he said.

"Then you can go," I said.

The music, if the rumpy-bumpy beat could be called that, goes loud and then off. George hands me his empty and I put it behind me on the bar.

"It's time," says a voiceover, "for adult swim. You've got ten minutes."

The bare lightbulbs go out and George shoves me forward into what must be the crowd. I try to turn around but find the bare chests of men, their fingers in my hair, a dick in jeans at my ass. Before the one can reach around, I drop too hard to my knees and bury my head in his bulge. He pulls locks of my hair between his fingers and unzips. The music grows louder.

George let me kiss him in the car. The two of our faces were wet with tears. I slid my hand up his thighs and found his cock. It was limp, but I'd gotten it going before. Keep your eyes closed, I whispered. I'm a boy. This is my first time with another boy. He lifted his hips so I could lower his jeans. I'm careful to keep my voicebox out of my speech. I'm scared, but I want to touch you.

The man's cock is thin and long. It goes hard right away and I suck to the music. I can feel him trembling and go faster. His fingers pull through my hair tighter and tighter. My pussy swells, needs this. Three minutes pass, four, five. "Yes," he says, "that's a good boy."

I'd been ready for almost a year, ready to lose my virginity to George, would close my eyes in movies and will him to fuck me later. I'd imagined him staring me in the eyes, blinking slowly as he pumped, declaring his love before he came. He lay inert in the car seat as I straddled him, one of my legs forward into the backseat the other twisted and shaking in the well. I'll let you fuck me, I whisper. I'm so scared, but I'll let you do it. I held his cock between my fingers, found the wet spot that I'd tested with hot dogs and Barbie dolls, and put him inside me. It didn't hurt. I thought it would hurt.

Another set of hands moves up and down my shoulders. The man in my mouth's knees shiver. The hands dip down and pull at my ass in my jeans. I want them to slide under me. I want them to press into me. A little bit of friction is all I need. They roll up my hips for a moment, then cross to the front.

It wasn't what I thought it would be, but I grasped the back of George's seat and concentrated. I've got a huge erection, but I don't want you to touch it. I just want to give you this. He was sweating, his shoulders tense and his stomach cranking with his breaths. You feel so good inside me.

The man in my mouth is coming. He holds my head in place and dives into my throat. The taste is there, the swim of salt and lemon and savory. I forget about the arms around me until I notice that one is at my breast and the other is feeling the front of my neck.

George's mouth opened and he grunted just a little, an mmmm-guh, then quickly got a pained look on his face.

"Am I done?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too," he said.

"You don't have to speak to me again," I said.

His eyes opened and he looked at me, considering it.

He's checking for an Adam's apple. The hands are thin and the arms are too. I stand up quickly, but he's got me in a hold.

"It's little bitch cunts like you that fuck us all up," he says in my ear.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

The voice of a girl on the floor gets the lights turned on. A bouncer heads toward us from the back. The man lets me go and heads for the exit. I push him. He turns around and grabs my face, runs me back to the bar. I punch him. I've never thrown a punch before and don't even know if I've made contact. I punch again and keep on punching. His face. His chest. He looks furious with me and dodges some of them, trying to catch my arms. My knuckles are bloody and sore. My cheeks sting. He pushes his fingertips into them. The bouncer is a few feet away. I twist my face out of the guy's hands and head for the exit. My cel phone begins to ring. People look at me and someone behind me. Must be the bouncer.

The air is fresh now and I climb into a cab. The phone call was George. The stings were tears in wounds.

The cab takes me to my car and I drive for two hours to the edge of the suburbs. A different forest preserve. Another hour passes before I have my first visitor. He approaches slowly. I watch and close my eyes. His hand touches my cheek through the hole instead. I stare at the hair on his knuckles.

"You got a little beat up there," he says. "What's your name?"

On Time

2008-01-13T17:39:00.000-08:00

I'm late. I'm not so late that I can give it up, sacrifice my job, potential, good standing, but I'm late enough to put it in serious jeopardy. Late again. Four years on time and then I met him. When he's not stealing my time and body, he's stealing my thoughts and ambition, and I give them to him gladly, like flicking away a winning lottery ticket. Every minute with him is better than all that. I've got to be at work on time today, even though I can feel him back in bed, pulling me to him like a stray hair to staticky wool.

I keep my back to Nicolas, who lies in bed with a thin sheet covering him, his skin creating a shadow through it. I can't look at him and he knows why. I pick out my last pair of work pants without a come stain on them. The button on the inside is missing, but they'll hold up. The others lie in a pile in front of the dresser, waxy stain remover reflecting light on them. My mind is arguing again, that I can stay, that they won't fire me, that I deserve just a few more minutes. I show it the clock, 9:50 and I'm supposed to be there at 11:00, and let this argument go on unheeded. I'm here, Nicolas doesn't need to say, but radiates instead from a few feet behind me. I search for my belt, or rather, let my arms do it while my mind fends off this man in my bed.

Belt, I think, then tuck shirt in, find socks, put on shoes, they're under the table in the dining room, and then get the hell out of here.

Hand on my back, I trip on flat floor. Pants undone and thumb and forefinger on the zipper. I inhale deeply, looking for conviction under all this.

"I've got to go."

"You can stay for a little bit. Take a cab."

I can take a cab! Nicolas is a genius!

I don't have cash for a cab.

The hands enter my pants, just as warm as me, but exotic, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly, though it's from another puzzle. My hand grips the door jamb to keep steady. I've done the math. Getting money and then a cab will take just as long as taking the train. I could take him with me! Wrap him around me in the back seat, nourish myself before I face the day without him.

Falling in love is madness. He's not a teddy bear, for fuck's sake.

I turn to the dresser, ready to reach for the socks as soon as the belt is on, but my pants have dropped. Nicolas is on the floor, fingers hooked into my underwear and dropping that too. My cock enters his mouth, my eyes roll back and my hands struggle for a hold on the dresser. If he's fast enough, if I'm fast enough, I can have this and my job.

No, I'm late already!

"No."

But I haven't moved. He has, wrapped my knees in his arms and started to work me. I shake my head violently and hold his chin. "No." With regret like I'm about to jump into a volcano, I slide out of his mouth and look down on him. "I'm really late."

I get the socks and pull my pants and underwear back up. Running now, I make it into a chair at the dining room table. Sock on foot, other sock on other foot. Erection not going down, but will be hidden by coat. Shoe. Shoe. Hands slide down my arms, pull them back. My neck is kissed. My cock presses into my belt buckle and aches there.

"Call in," he says.

"I called in last week."

"You're still sick."

"I really have got to be there today."

"You've got to be here today."

"Shh."

I stand up, feet in shoes, and walk toward the door. He grabs my belt and pulls me back to him. My eyes close and his hands run down my chest, down my thigh, up and over my ass. I'm swaying, but he holds me. He turns to my front, presses his ear to my chest. He's listening to my heart beat. It's for him. He knows that.

"Nicolas, no. I've got to go." I'm whining now, haven't heard that voice since I was fifteen. I hold his head and kiss the top of it, pull away from him with the almost audible rip of velcro. If I leave now, I'll be five minutes late at best. My coat is in the closet. I put it on, make a break for the back door.

"Kiss me goodbye, at least," he says, his lips chapped from our week together. We fall together, and my heart drops into my stomach. The word "no" floats somewhere. Somewhere else.

My belt is undone again. My pants are undone again. They make a figure eight at my ankles. My shirt is twisted in his hand. My cock is in his mouth. I'm home.

He pulls, sucks, lifts me. My mind twists into my body and my knees fall into his chest. A clock ticks with his mouth, in one thousand, out two thousand. My head presses into the wall hard. In. Out.

"Nicolas. I don't want to leave you ever."

Time evaporates. I've been here for hours. I've been here for ten seconds. He holds me up, cupping my ass in his hands. My feet slide and catch on the floor. He pulls off of me.

"What!" I crack out.

"You can go."

I press my cock down and shove it into his mouth, hold him by the ears, fuck his head. I'm coming bigger these days with him. I'm losing whole parts of myself in him. When the drop comes before the orgasm now, it's somewhere underneath the floorboards.

And it is. My arms rip at the air, and I call for gods that I don't even believe in. I empty into him, another piece of myself in him. He pulls it clean from my body, absorbs every drop.

"You hate your job anyway, right?" he says, his mouth pressing into my thigh.

I don't hate anything but leaving.

The Views

2008-01-07T18:47:00.000-08:00

The buildings, though they didn't seem to be tall enough, blinked for very low and confused-flying aircraft. She'd meant to do it in the car, waiting for the sun to go down, showing herself off to drivers in taller vehicles. He liked her to do that. He wanted men to want her, projected himself into their shoes, out at a restaurant with a peek at her pussy across the room, wanderers in a public park finding them fucking against a tree. It would make his night to be one of them, a lucky stumbler-upon in the middle of a dreary day, suddenly struck by sex, a favor of a glance or a stare. He'd lifted her skirt in the car, but she didn't care for it in the daylight, and forced her book down to her panties.

And now he slept, the television and the sheets of a hotel room like Mickey Finns to him. She looked out onto this miniature city, the one skyscraper, put up by some local enterprise to justify a skyline, and squinted the curtains shut across it. A butter knife, the handle pleasingly round and bent at the tip, the cheap hotel hand and body lotion, enough for her. She took a long look back at him, his face slack and neck bent against the pillows, and sat on the edge of the bed. The lotion popped a few air bubbles, but produced a liquidy cream full of too much alcohol. She maneuvered it to her clit on careful fingers, losing some of it on the outer lips, but enough to start. It was cold. The alcohol evaporated and took her heat with it, but then it seemed to burn, and she held herself open. She glanced at him again and leaned back, flat on the bed, pulling the butter knife from under her shoulderblade. She swiped across her clit a few times with it, cold too like the lotion, and plunged the handle inside of her, the bent part pointing up, the blade dull enough to grip tightly when it came to that.

The pads of her fingers slipped and flickered. Her back began to tense. Sugar entered her veins and she breathed faster and deeper, though she was just as quiet. The world around her lost importance and she fell away, her body walking her on all fours through its jungle.

The sound of nylon cord zipping through a pulley startled her, followed by the scrape of small metal wheels in a track. She swore inside and dropped her hands to her sides out of habit, one taking the lotion under her back. The butter knife fell to the carpet. His lips were above hers, but they would not touch. He held her hands down to the bed.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, and his lips pulled the way they sometimes did, the half smile that showed just the tips of his teeth and rounded his eyes, "but I'm curious."

She'd been two-thirds of the way there and buzzed under it. She wanted to beg him to let her finish, but she kept silent. Please, she thought anyway, don't drag this out, finish it or go away. He knew this, of course, and breathed on her neck for a moment before continuing. Her hairs raised everywhere.

"What were you thinking about?" he said.

She said nothing. He continued to hold her still.

"How many men?" he asked.

Nothing.

"How many women?"

His mouth didn't touch her, but scaled and dropped along her body.

"Were you in diapers?"

She was meant to scoff and deny, but she managed a frown of disbelief instead.

"You were in diapers!"

"What? No!"

"Now we're getting somewhere." He kissed the inside of her thigh. She had to stop herself from slapping them shut. She froze and waited, but he stopped. "Tell me more. Tell me about the baseball team and the locker room."

"Please just touch me."

"Not until you tell me."

"I was on a table...."

He kissed her ear, "In a meat packing plant?"

"No," she said. She tried to push her thighs together for the friction, but he clamped them open with his own.

"Go on," he said, and licked the very tip of her nipple. "Was I there at the table?"

"Yes."

He moved into the space between her thighs. His cock made contact with her through her sleeping shorts.

"And what was I doing?"

"You were watching."

He thrust against her hard. It wasn't enough.

She continued. "I'd been plugged," she said. He ran his fingers along her skin, skirting her pussy. "Oh, please touch me."

"Plugged?"

"Food," she said. His head cocked. "Cucumbers, carrots, sauces. Don't make me tell you anymore."

"Go on." His fingers held her open and he pressed into her clit. He straddled her thigh and humped it slowly.

"A man was eating it off of me."

He began to stroke her and she clenched frozen again. Her whole body throbbed. He moved slowly, though, teasing her.

"And I was watching."

"The man, mmm, the man fucked me with the cucumber as he bit things off of my skin. He... he.... Oh God."

"He what?"

Her eyes had been closed but she was curious. She glanced at him and found him stroking himself with his other hand.

"He was getting me off with two baby carrots."

He laughed.

"Shut up!"

"Come on," he said, and turned her legs to the window. "I just wanted to know what you think about. This is what I think about."

The whole city lay before her and she closed her eyes again, despite herself, thinking of the baby carrots and the man.

His breaths got shorter, darker. He shivered and fell into her shoulders, stroking her. She felt his come cool slowly on her breasts. Her knees rose up and with a howl, new pleasure scooped out of her, he slowly made her come, shaking the bed, her whoops bending down to the streets.

"There," he said, and kissed her. She crawled up under the covers and listened the return of the metal wheels and the nylon through the pulleys.

On the Chair

2007-12-30T07:13:00.000-08:00

The smell of you, the citrus salt of your body as I come to focus, and know that now I can, now I can touch you, and I make sense. The sharp blue of your eyes as they blur, still blue in the blur, hints now instead of jabs, blurring because you're too close to see. Don't need to see you when you're this close, I guess. Just bodies and savory now. The heat of you in the magnet, over the barrier, into the wet. And there I need every part of you to flatten out and surround me, untouched parts bitter and indignant. Pull your hips closer, your arms tighter, your shins bent into my thighs.

The feel of the string in your sweatpants, the worm loosened and the soft cotton lowered over your ass. You say you want to wear dresses more, that being around these girls makes you feel like a lesbian, sitting on a chair with your legs apart, knots in your hair untangled in your fingers, but then I wouldn't have this loose softness to contrast your skin, and find your skin better, and feel it make contact with that on my thighs. It's soft before it's sticky, a glue between us, natural as the one in my mind.

I enter you awkward and bent, a pop of straightening inside. There. Your hands on my shoulders. There. Home. What do we do when we're not doing this? What's out there that's so fucking important? I don't even want to move, don't want to arch, don't want to feel myself leave you ever again.

You've put a picture of us on your radiator, to mingle with your oldest friends and your dead relatives. I balked when I saw it, ready to comment on it, but it's true that you've put my old friends and dead relatives in your shadow. My shoulders fell and I got a shot of that drug in my diaphragm. I can see it now, pressed into this chair by the weight of you. It opens like origami in my chest.

I didn't notice that you've started to move on me, your teeth in my shoulder, slippery and sharp. Sex jumps in me like a dog invited for a walk. In and you groan tight around me, out and you take it away. Fuck me. My neck bends back over the back of the chair, and I inhale quick, oxygen to red the blood. It pumps around me, curling my toes and shuddering the back of my shins against the crosspieces between the chair legs. The ball rolls uphill, spiky and suction-cupped. Fuck me.

My hands hold you to me by the backs of the neck and hips. I'm drawing my drug out of you, the wine of sex and mourning. It's meeting, its parts jigsawing together between us and the ball jumps the ramp, suicides off the other side of the hill. My eyes fill with stars and air and we meet, our bodies flattened and surrounding each other. No parts of us left untouched.

Midwinter Lights Holiday of Your Choice Present-Twelve Missing Sex Scenes

2007-12-21T17:58:00.000-08:00

My So-Called Life-

You know how sometimes life is like a chocolate shake? You want to drink the shake right away and you suck real hard on the straw but it hurts so much. So you've gotta wait until it's warmer and wetter and it doesn't hurt so bad, you know? But then you've got this perfect time to drink the shake, when it's not too cold that it won't go through the straw and not so warm it's disgusting and starts seeping through the wax in the paper cup. So you try to get there and it's really hard. This is me, waiting for Jordan Catalano in the hallway. Because like, every day in the boiler room, when I press him into the railing above the furnaces and unzip his pants, I've got to plan just the right time to spit.

Your Lego Brand Toys-

"Bjarke, take me on the train to the police station! There, perhaps we will find an Astronaut or a Knight to make love to in a fabulous tres og ni!"

"I will, Søren, after I finish this game of football and drive the ambulance in circles. To get me in the mood first, take off your trousers."

"As you wish. Ahhhh! AAAAAHHHHH! Oh my God! The HORROR! The HORROR!"

On the Road-

Dean made me an egg sandwich. I told him it tasted like shit. He hit me. I beat him up. Then he let me fuck him in Cleveland.

The Talking Cats Video-

Left hand cat: Im in ur krotch, razin ur temperchur.
Right hand cat: Iz glad iz u.
Left hand cat: M'kay.
Right hand cat: U takes unother life wiz ur wilz!
Left hand cat: M'kay. M'kay.
Right hand cat: I can haz orgazm?
Left hand cat: M'kaaaay.
Right hand cat: Iz dun.
Left hand cat: I likes ur earwax.
Right hand cat: Ew.

The Democratic Debates-

Sen. Obama: I think the European Union as a whole has been a long-standing ally of ours, and through NATO we've been able to make some significant progress. Afghanistan, in particular, is an area where we should be focusing. NATO has made real contributions there.

Gov. Richardson: Take me.

Your shampoo bottle-

Lather, oh God, lather, yeah. Oh shit. Okay. Repeat. Oh just repeat. Repeat repeat REPEAT OH OH OH. Follow with Pantene Pro-V conditioner.

Wargames-

"Joshua seduced me."

The Wizard of Oz-

The Tin Man: Oh, Dorothy, this heart is telling me that I (twang sound of tin uncrumpling) love you.

Dorothy: Did I tell you which body part I asked The Wizard for?

Slaughterhouse Five-

Listen:

Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time, and gotten his come stuck all over Bernard O'Hare.

Mystery Science Theatre 3000-

TV's Frank (on the screen): There's no need to tell Joel, Servo. This is just between you, me Dr. Forrester and our... needs.

Servo (also on the screen): Joel will never find out?

Dr. Forrester (also also on the screen): No. Now, just let Frank do what he needs to do with you.

Servo (screen): Okay, mmm, that feels... tingly.

Dr. Forrester (at home in the lab): Um, Frank? Why is A Night at the Crypt in this envelope? What are we showing Joel right now?

Joel: Worst movie ever.

The Mac ads-

PC walked in to find Mac on his iPod, his eyes closed, sitting at his laptop, but bobbing his head to something and hissing out a few jumbled lyrics, his head turning for dramatic effect. PC walked over to him, took the headphone out of his left ear and placed it in his own. It was All I Want is You by U2. Mac pushed his forefinger in his ear and slid the chord between his middle and ring finger until he found it against PC’s cheek. He stood up and swung around dramatically, lipsynching the words with his hand over his heart. PC giggled and started doing the same. Mac pressed into his own chest, mouthing “Yooooooo-ooooou,” kissed his fingers and turned them toward PC. PC kissed his own and pressed them into Mac’s palm. Mac clasped his hand, stretched it out and pushed their chests together. They danced out the rest of the song. Linux watched, a huge grin on his face, from the couch. The two of them swirled before him, breathing out the lyrics with the sound of their soles swishing against the floor.

Later, they shared hard drives. As Mac wasn't running Windows, no viruses were exchanged.

Your Monopoly pieces-

Dog: That's not a condom, Cannon, that's Thimble.

The Lily Pin and the Train to Denver

2007-12-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

Mrs. Kingston must have been the tallest woman that Mrs. Bee had ever seen. Mrs. Bee never thought about her own height. She had come to a halt at fourteen, when Miss Everly, standing with her heels firmly on the tiles, pronounced no deviation from the previous year. Her mark was carved just a little deeper, and left there, at a mysterious fraction somewhat between 5' and 5' 1". Mrs. Kingston, Mrs. Bee estimated, was at least as tall as Mrs. Bee's husband, but the final judgment would have to come when she could compare them.

"I'm six foot one inch tall," Mrs. Kingston declared, squaring her shoulders against any possible rumor. Mrs. Bee was meant to be affronted by this accusation of curiosity, but she found very quickly that she didn't have it in her.

"Ah," she found herself saying, nodding a little, as her mother might if told a terrible secret. "I'm happy that you eased my mind so quickly. I don't often notice the height of others." Mrs. Kingston smiled after a flirtation with incredulousness, and asked Mrs. Bee if she would join her for coffee in the lounge car.

"How long have you been married?" Mrs. Bee asked, arranging one heel behind the other and accidentally kicking the front one out. Mrs. Kingston, with the opposite problem, rotated her knees outside of the table.

"Two years," Mrs. Kingston said, and took a sip of her coffee. She'd burnt the roof of her mouth each time she had one. She hid this particular scorching behind a small grimace that Mrs. Bee interpreted as marriage criticism.

"Any children?" Mrs. Bee asked, more out of habit than interest.

"No," Mrs. Kingston answered quickly, and bounced her spoon on the edge of the saucer until it settled, hooked onto the lip.

"No luck?" said Mrs. Bee. The word "luck" rose and fell in one syllable, a statement or question, depending on what Mrs. Kingston wanted. Mrs. Bee was good at conversation, often found herself the repository of many secrets and asked the right questions in just the right ways to receive them. She'd lost interest in people's secrets recently, found them all banal and depressing, but her conversation went that way regardless. It was the only way that she knew to talk.

"Not quite," said Mrs. Kingston.

The tee sound at the end of Mrs. Kingston's "quite" hung in the air, moved on the momentum of the rest of the train. Mrs. Bee waited for it to disappear, then saw the two days ahead of her, her husband in one euphemistically named car or another, the landscape, some of interest, most not, chugging past, and Mrs. Bee herself, stirring another cup of coffee, wondering when it would be appropriate to request a brandy instead. She decided, and made her approach.

"How do you mean?" she asked, and looked at Mrs. Kingston's face for the first time. Mrs. Kingston, she found, was a handsome woman, not pretty, but distinguished, high in the cheekbone if dark in the eye. She had a curious, but intriguing, hairpin, in the shape of a lily that seemed to draw a line to her jaw. Mrs. Kingston settled her knees again, this time at a distance from the table so that they might stop banging into it.

"Now, Mrs. Kingston," Mrs. Bee continued, her face now quite young, leaning over the brown of the coffee, "I live in Wisconsin. I live in a large home looking over Lake Michigan. It's airy in the summer, cozy in the winter, and I've more than enough company in my circle of friends to keep me there until death."

Mrs. Kingston smiled and took another sip of the cup of brimstone.

"This is my first and last trip to the west. I'm only on this train for my sister-in-law's wedding and I won't do it again. You live in...."

"Portland."

"And I swear now to never run into you there. You may talk to me now, or never tell anyone anything."

Mrs. Kingston massaged the freshly irritated burn at the roof of her mouth with the flattened edge of her tongue. She looked at Mrs. Bee, her small, thin hands, the choker at her neck. Mrs. Bee's body was much like her own on a smaller scale, as if she were looking at a funhouse mirror. She wanted to tell her this, but didn't.

"I hate coffee," Mrs. Kingston said, and placed the coffee to the right of its saucer. She stared at it again and moved it again, all the way to the window, where pollen from the fresh daisy in the vase would surely fall in it.

"What time is it?" Mrs. Bee asked.

"Time for two brandies," Mrs. Kingston said.

"Excellent girl," said Mrs. Bee.

The brandies came, cornfields and crossings flew past, the daisy shook pollen into Mrs. Kingston's coffee cup and the two women's feet were on the floor, leaning into one another over their snifters. Within twenty miles, Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston were aware of the other's bedroom troubles, Mr. Kingston's lack of experience, Mr. Bee's fast dwindling interest. They made several statements of indignation, resignation and pointed misinformation before they made a pact.

In the name of science and the propagation of the species, the two women had each one an assignment. They stood up, gave each other a kiss on the cheek, a warm one, and set off to change for supper.

Mrs. Bee, on Mrs. Kingston's orders, placed an ordinary fountain pen in her purse, taking care that the cap was screwed on tightly. Under her corset and above her stockings, she went bare for the first time since she was a newborn. Fear gathered in her chest, felling dust bunnies and pulverizing gallstones. She could always back out, but she thought for a moment of how she would feel if Mrs. Kingston did the same, and made a new determination to face her risk.

Mrs. Kingston, on Mrs. Bee's orders, changed her clothes with a large handkerchief stuffed into her mouth. She blamed the brandy for the warmth in the base of her body, a poorly placed piece of track for her wayward knees. Saliva soaked the cloth, as Mrs. Bee had said it would, and her jaw got tired, as Mrs. Bee said it would, but she smiled at herself in the mirror, thought that the blush in her cheeks became her. Mrs. Kingston, like Mrs. Bee, had sworn off underpants for the next three days, as good as a blood oath between them.

The Bees and the Kingstons took supper at different times, Mr. Kingston's man, a friend of his father's man and as green as Mr. Kingston himself, slow to make the reservations. Mrs. Kingston supped early and was glad of it, feeling that she'd lose her nerve if she had to wait long. Mr. Kingston made his best stab at conversation, found himself pouring forth, his wife smiling and blushing at everything he said. He'd never seen her like this, so pretty and attentive, so fascinated with his drudgeries. He fell more in love with her instantly, hoped that he could find the courage to ask her to be with him that night. When they stood, her height, only an inch above his, mattered not at all to him for the first time. He squeezed her hand and took their dessert back to the room, two éclairs and two glasses with a small decanter of port.

The Bees supped lightly, Mrs. Bee suggesting that it was the heavy meals that were keeping her husband up at night. He reacted as she'd hoped, humored her, found her in the mood for attention, and gave it to her dutifully. She could feel the loose material, soft, if you went with the grain, across her mound. It pulled at the hair there and brushed it, lovingly, caressed it straight and let it bounce into curls again. She felt quite exposed there, no sensible covering, the air and all free of obstacles to her intimacy. Her toe snapped off of the floor again at the weight of her crossed ankle and it went to her husband's ankle. She left it there until he blushed, snapping an escargots fork to the linen. She did not relent, as her upbringing, fully in control of her muscles most days, would oblige her to. She rubbed his ankle in the thin sole of her dress slippers until he grew accustomed to it, then hooked his heel, looking for all the world as if she were engrossed in her sorbet, the predessert for cleansing the pallet, and pulled his foot to the inside of her thighs.

In the room, Mr. Kingston's face and neck were red from the port and the way Mrs. Kingston looked in her dress. He imagined her in the corset and wondered that they'd been married three years and he'd never seen it. He mused that he might have the bravery to stumble upon her once, at her vanity in the morning or disrobing at night. He smiled, noting that he'd had the decanter in hand for at least a minute without attempting a pour when Mrs. Kingston's hand curled around his fingers, replaced the stopper inside of it, set it down and knelt before him.

The train changed tracks, a steady rhythm to distract him before his trousers were unbuttoned at the fly and the waist and dropped, a thud here at the final selection of tracks, a whistle, his underclothes dismantled, the train speeding up, the touch of his wife's lips, here in the light, a warm, soft sensation, there in his cock, and the friction of tight silk. His cock stole all of the blood from his body. He watched her, both eyebrows raised, watched his wife engulf him. Then he swallowed, face slack, and gripped the washbasin at his back. The train gently swayed, but he rumbled, and spilt his seed into his wife's throat. He winced that she must be repulsed, but a final sucking kiss on the end of his cock contradicted him. Mrs. Kingston stood up and poured the port with a shaking hand.

As the train switched tracks, Mr. Bee took his ankle back and scowled, half meaning it, at his wife. She let some sorbet drip on the side of her mouth from the spoon and licked it in.

"Mrs. Bee," said Mr. Bee, "are you having some trouble with your liquids tonight?"

"I've an idea of how to manage them, Mr. Bee, but you shall have to lend me a bit of license to do so."

Mr. Bee's head cocked a bit and he opened his mouth to speak for a moment. "You sluttish woman," he mouthed, his after-dinner coffee cup blocking intrusive eyes.

Mrs. Bee looked shocked for a moment, and stirred her sorbet until the frozen parts had melted with the solids.

Mr. Bee mocked leading his wife down the hallway after dinner, his hand on the back of her arm, but she'd gone in another direction from their berth, swinging through car after car until she'd found one locked. At this, she pulled her fountain pen out. Mrs. Kingston had taken note that all of the "locks" on the train were opened by the porters using the backside of fountain pens, and had made this part of her dare. She pushed the fountain pen into the lock and slid the door open, the first luggage car. Mr. Bee waited for the door to shut behind him, tested it for fastness, and lifted his wife's skirts above her waist.

"You are a sluttish little bitch, aren't you, Mrs. Bee?"

He searched the room, a lit match before him, until he found a spare coal shovel, flat and black from soot. He returned to his wife, bent her over a large crate, handed her the box of matches and told her to keep one lit until he was finished. Mrs. Bee lit one. She received a slap on the bottom for her troubles. There were three more, each of more stinging intensity, until the flame came down to her fingers. Her husband waited and blew it out. She lit another. It distracted her from the pain. There was another spank.

"You are a filthy, sluttish woman."

Another spank.

"Your backside is black and filthy now, like you."

Another spank. The second match burned down to her fingers, but her husband did not blow it out. It burned her instead.

"Light another."

She dropped the second, watching the dull red as it fell to the floor, and lit another. Mr. Bee pulled her arm behind her back so her hand, the match in the air, lay over her waist, illuminating her small, smooth body, all filthy like an ill-behaved child. He unbuttoned his trousers, bent his knees, though her legs dangled above the floor, and screwed her, fucked her. He watched this match too go out at her fingertips and watched the red coal fall on her skin. She trembled and clenched his cock inside her. He pumped his seed inside of her, clenched so hard as he was, as the coal on the match went out on her skin, and smelled the smoke.

The women met for luncheon the next day, as they had planned, and shared their stories, watching the satisfying shock and blush rise in the other's face. Though they felt sure that much of what they said couldn't be heard by others above the clacks and clicks of the wheels on the tracks and the crashing of plates, Mrs. Kingston asked a porter for a pencil and stationery so that they might pass it in notes.

"It tasted awfully strange," wrote Mrs. Kingston. "I thought it would be sweet, but there was an odd taste, some bitter chemical."

Mrs. Bee nodded and shrugged. She wrote, "Yes, that's what Mr. Bee tastes of too, but I don't find it off-putting, really."

Mrs. Kingston read this and shrugged as well. She wrote, "What did Mr. Bee call you?"

Mrs. Bee wrote it down and passed it on. Mrs. Kingston hid a laugh behind her hand and clasped Mrs. Bee's hand. The two of them sat and laughed for a few moments, and Mrs. Bee's hand curled up to enclose the other. "I'm glad we've met," she said.

"I'm very pleased myself. I don't normally talk to strange women on trains."

"I'm not strange anymore, am I, Mrs. Kingston?" said Mrs. Bee, warmly.

"No," said Mrs. Kingston, "you're a...." Mrs. Kingston folded the paper and pointed at what Mr. Bee had called her the previous evening.

The two women finished their luncheon, Mrs. Kingston asking that it be put on Mr. Kingston's bill, and they walked arm in arm through the train, silently, and comfortably so, until Mrs. Bee mentioned that this was their last day on the train. Mr. Bee and herself would be alighting in Denver. Mrs. Kingston drew Mrs. Bee's arm in tighter and kissed her on the cheek, then briefly on the mouth. The two women stood for a moment and contemplated this, then Mrs. Bee drew Mrs. Kingston down along the hallway a car more.

"This is our compartment," Mrs. Bee said, and opened the door, "though I daresay Mr. Bee won't be back from his card game for quite some time. Would you care to come in?"

Mrs. Kingston didn't answer, but leaned into Mrs. Bee's mouth again. She kissed swiftly and deeply, catching Mrs. Bee in a wave of heat, before she could find her senses and open her door. Upon its closure, with the two women inside, Mrs. Bee pulled her bunk down and placed Mrs. Kingston at its edge. She sat. Mrs. Bee leaned and Kissed Mrs. Kingston for a few more minutes, affection and sadness within it, and broke it off to speak.

"You have reminded me of spontaneity and fearlessness. I have one more lesson, this one for you to pass to your husband. Lift your skirts for me?"

Mrs. Bee and Mrs. Kingston marveled at her legs revealing themselves, the flesh of them, the curves and the organic intimacy. Mrs. Bee parted Mrs. Kingston's legs, dropped her hand between them and found the place, the secret one.

Mrs. Bee had found this place when her mother's maidservant, under orders to punish her for the slight of showing for supper ten minutes late, had bent her over her knee. She cried as the maidservant paddled her with the back of a mirror and her mother, satisfied with listening to the sounds of the slaps, left the room. The maid pulled her skirts up higher, her underpants down lower, for the girl was seventeen at the time, and rubbed the younger Mrs. Bee with her thumb in the secret place, all the while paddling away at her backside. Mrs. Bee was married and moved out within six months, but she never forgot the secret place, nor the kind maidservant, who would never have spanked her without orders to do so.

Mrs. Bee put her thumb on Mrs. Kingston's secret place and kissed her gently. She found it warm and then wet, and soon enough found Mrs. Kingston's breathing heavy, her mouth distracted. "There," Mrs. Bee said, and pushed some fingers inside as she rubbed. "There now." Mrs. Kingston's face came to rapture, then exhaustion, her body in convulsions before she grew still.

"Teach that to your husband," said Mrs. Bee, "and I will remember you."

Mrs. Kingston took a few moments, unable to form words for crying, laughter and shock. Instead, she stood, removed the jeweled hairpin, the one in the shape of a lily, and put it in the hair of her funhouse mirror self, exactly as it was on her.

"Let your husband find you when her returns tonight, doing what you just did to me," Mrs. Kingston said.

"Mr. Kingston should take you from behind tonight," Mrs. Bee said.

The two women regarded each other, nodded and parted.

....

2007-12-09T07:58:00.000-08:00

Does it make any sense, the way that some words boil inside of you, and you want more than anything to say them? You eat your breakfast with a smile on your face and you answer an email and you go see a movie and they’re there, those fucking words are there and they just hover at the back of your throat, under your uvula, in that place where that wad of phlegm sits first thing in the morning before you cough it out. M mmmm mmm. There they are under the mound of thickened spit, and you want to cough them out too, like an itch to be scratched or a piece of dust on the side of your nose that you can just make out in your field of vision. Get rid of it, you think, it’s abnormal.

They’re like mosquito bites, really, because when you say them, you feel better right away, sure, but then a few seconds go by and you need to say them worse than before. You can keep on scratching that mosquito bite all day long, you know, those really awful ones you get on your toes, and they’ll only get worse. They’ll only get way itchier and you’ll scratch and scratch, that wide-eyed look on your face that makes you look like some crazy janitor type, ranting about secret chemical dumps in the clouds, and you can’t be very attractive then. She’s gotta look at you and see you putting those damn words out there faster and faster, rocking in your chair and swirling a finger through a lock of your own hair and think, “This guy’s gone to Mars for a picnic!” and you have, for all the good it’s doing for you. You see, you can scratch an itch away by turning it into pain, drawing blood and ripping the skin off, but there’s nothing you can do with those damn words.

I mean, does it make any sense? Did our monkey ancestors press their tongues to the roofs of their mouths and find that they absolutely must go up to one of their baboonettes and screech out just those three screeches? No. It makes no sense at all. It makes sense that we can’t help but say “Look up! Fucking coconut dropping on your head!” or “Big tiger just over that hedge!” but there’s no emergency with those three words. There’s no immediate warning to howl out or dangerous argument to be contradicted. In the big scheme of things, the basic one with the food and water and shelter bit, those words don’t help anyone at all, so why are they so intense? Why do they paralyze you, make you blubbery and soft, unable to aim so much as your own piss into a toilet? They’re a mental illness, is what they are.

She lays in bed in front of me, her skin spotless and soft, curved against the mattress in the lamplight. I’m sure she’s asleep until she turns her palm back to me, her fingers thin and long. Just when I feel like I’m looking at a picture of her, she turns interactive and I take her hand and lay behind her. She cups it, girl-skin and comfort, coming home. She rubs the scar on my palm with her thumb for a while, as if asking me a question. I don’t answer. She takes my hand to her pussy, presses my middle finger into the wet and the red heat. My mouth goes to her ear because that’s where it’s got to go and I hold it open, tongue against my lower front teeth, and I fight.

All aboard the Sugasm! No really. Just get on top of me.

2007-12-05T17:37:00.000-08:00

Who kicks ass? Vixen. And it's her time of year too. Top of the sled, as always, as far as I'm concerned.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #109? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen

” I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft.”

Interlopers

“Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before, I know what you’re here for.”

Old Friends

“His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

The Count

Editor’s Choice

Hot and Cold

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

BDSM & Fetish

Cuffed Off Guard

Dream #10

Mattress Navigation

Metal

More ideas of my own.

Naughty girl confesses

Or just submitting… (Part 3 about S)

PART 2 -She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile

Pre Game: Sex Camp, Antici….pation

So Delicious

Sex Poetry

Haiku Festival of Erotic Power and Rope

Sex News & Reviews

5 Naughty Gift Sets to Get for Christmas

Feminists Make Better Mates

Fetish Film - Outpatient (Latex, Bondage, Breathplay, Femdom, Spanking)

Intern Sex Toy Review - The Turbo Stroker

Kama Sutra Bliss

NEW Kinky Designs!

Toying With Pleasure - Jamye Waxman

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Emotional Sex is Too Much Work - Who Does She Think She Is?!

More Precious Than Flattery

One way, not the other - why don’t women get eaten out more?

Potential, Real

Sex Advice & Interviews

4 Advanced Cunnilingus Techniques

5 tips to being a sexy ‘cougar’

“Dancing With Werewolves” an Interview with Spanking Superstar Niki Flynn

Erotic Writing and Experiences

The Alley: Man working abroad

Almost a Zipless Fuck

Bathtime

HNT: Rehabilitation IV - The Return of the Cake!

Hooky

In the Laboratory

The list of notches on my bedpost

Lunch

More MILF (Men I’d Like To Fuck)

“She”…

Sugarbutch Star: Jefferson

Touch

A train experience

What it feels like for a girl…who wants to make another girl come

NSFW Pics & Videos & Audio

Audio: Red Wine Seduction

A Busy HNT

Leg Language by Andrew Blake

Peek-a-Boo Map

Pornsaint Kayla Jane Danger

Tiang Fang - White

Veronica (MC Nudes)

The Missing Sex Scene-We Three Kings

2007-12-03T05:44:00.000-08:00

This is seriously blasphemous, so if you are sensitive to that sort of thing, don't read this.

Melchior had been traveling from his kingdom, going west, west, west for months when he again found himself rigid as bamboo. “It’s the myrrh,” he mumbled to himself, reassuring, he supposed, to a Confucianist, but getting damned inconvenient. The traveling had been fine, miraculously speedy and strangely weather-free. Even in the Himalayas, the “Abode of Snow,” he was warm, and path of dry and smooth forever opened itself in front of him. Here in the desert, even at night it was warm and comfortable. It seemed that the traveling would only go faster had he not brought the myrrh, had he not found himself seeing mirages of beautiful women, their robes opening to him, the scent of the flower of their flesh drifting over the strangely comfortable desert to his nose.

He walked away from the sleeping Caspar, tucking his erection under the belt of his robes, taking a flask of peanut oil with him. He’d just met Caspar that morning, his story similar, if shorter, of a star and a strange, beautiful creature dropped from the heavens telling them to follow it. The two of them agreed with a nudge to the ribs that they would have crossed the earth on all fours barking like a dog if that fantastic creature would have asked them to. They laughed, but it was a forced laugh. They were completely serious. She’d appeared in visions to them both for ages, her breasts levitating in the air, her golden hair like silk, you could feel it through the atmosphere. She was the atmosphere when she was there, really. Both of them had dropped to their knees because they wouldn’t hold them anymore when she came to them. The angel, for that’s what they’d decided she was, had made them pure desire, made them hump the air, their eyes half-shut, clutching their crotches like young boys late for the emptying of their bladders.

“She’s a great fertility goddess from the West,” they agreed, to end the conversation less awkwardly.

Melchior climbed a rise and took a few steps, sliding on his heels in the sand, down the other side. He tried not to close his eyes for a moment until he was out of sight of the oasis, though he couldn’t hide from the star. He fell into the sand, exhausted from crushed desire, and quickly opened his robe. He cleared his hands of sand, opened the bottle of oil and coated himself with it. He gasped at his own touch, feeling the first shock of satisfaction and more lust, and twisted his cock between forefinger and thumb. He did not use his other fingers, hadn’t used them for all these months. The tease was transcendent. He began to pump himself and at last closed his eyes, letting the vision of the Western fertility goddess enter his mind unabated.

Caspar woke as he had every night for these two weeks, feeling prickles from the stars above, as if they were far-off suns, each of them with their with their own gods and powers. It was as if they each wanted to touch him, caress him, land on his skin and mate with him in some dance that they’d all memorized through the ages. It was a strange and chaste fantasy, but he chose it over the vision of the angel descending to his cock, her own light and wonder too powerful to be conceived by his addled mind. It had been two weeks since he’d been visited by her and his life had become transformed. Since that indescribable dream, as palpable as any of his other memories but many times their effect, he’d been uprooted from his home, taken from his bed and his many wives, to chase this one goddess’s suggestion. He’d tried to give it more importance in his mind, credit it with something more substantial than a beautiful woman landing at the foot of his couch as he quietly ate supper, but that’s all it was. That he’d rolled to the floor, blinded by her and in paroxysms of pleasure and helplessness, was too unexplainable to be acknowledged, even to himself.

Yet, here Caspar was, on his back, titillated by the very stars again, an erection full and vigorous as the moon itself not so much paralyzing his body as imperiously filling it with vigor. The erection wasn’t of the standard kind that he’d felt in other weeks, before he’d met her. It was all-encompassing, his cock like a boulder and just as deniable. He left the oasis with a small bottle of cooking oil and climbed a hill to be alone, his knees tingling under the heavy-but-light of his body, his cock, too hard to have more than slightest bob in his walk, fighting his robes for relief.

Melchior heard the zip-zip of two feet in the sand and wrote it off as the friction of his own elbow. Though he’d had no reason to notice before, he saw now that sound didn’t carry in the sand the way that it did across normal soil or with the surprising accuracy of water. He allowed himself some noises, some small moans and yips, settling in for the long ride.

That was the other matter. These erections took ages to wear away. Melchior and Caspar had both noticed that they could ride the ecstasy just before the culmination for what seemed like hours, bodies rigid and arms light in the haze, their mouths drooping with dumb joy, joy to the world.

Caspar’s head was muddled, and he knew it. He’d climbed the ridge at the top of a small dune and found Melchior, grey in the moonlight, his robe open and his back arched, his hand pleasuring himself and didn’t balk, didn’t rush away, didn’t so much as quietly save them both the embarrassment and climb back down to the oasis. He lay down instead at Melchior’s side, pushed his hand off of him and replaced it with his own.

Melchior trembled hard at his ministrations, nearly choking at his bodily shock and the lack of mental shock. He reached inside Caspar’s robe and found him too, wracked with his own massive need, and stroked it furiously, just the thumb and forefinger as he had on himself. Caspar looked upon this strange king with the almond-shaped eyes and suddenly adored him, under some spell of the fertility goddess, he fell in his mind onto Melchior’s body, pressed his lips to his own and shared this bliss with him. He knew then that he was meant to, that this journey was not sacred alone.

“It’s the myrrh,” mumbled the Confucianist through his quivering lips. “It’s an aphrodisiac.”

The Muslim shook his head. “It’s the goddess,” he said, “Aphrodite herself.”

Balthasar had seen the oasis reflecting in the moonlight from a mile or so behind him. He’d been traveling at night, though the sun had not been bothering him. At night, he could keep better track of the star that the strange, translucently white woman had planted in his mind. She’d told him that he would be meeting two other kings and that they would seem as strange and wonderful to him as herself. He did not see how this was possible, bent over in the dust of his own hut, the shaft in his robes mimicking the one he held in his right hand, that of his reign. She was ugly, he’d thought at first, insubstantial and blinding white, but his body had reacted, transgressed his mind, with a sandstorm of lust. He fell before her and clutched his cock as if it were magnetized to his hand. He didn’t like doing this in front of a strange woman, but she only smiled at him. Another wave of the storm crossed his body at her smile and his head swirled in the wind. Her words skipped his ears altogether and landed directly in his soul. Star, kings, savior, north.

When she left, he called for his wife. When she entered the hut, wiping some dust off of her nose and confused, he brought her to the floor, pushed her knees apart and mounted her like an antelope. He thrust into her for what seemed like an hour, without soreness or dissipating energy, he fucked her, good and hard and primal, his face drawn and slack, his head swarmed with stinging need and joy. Joy to the world.

In the morning, not sated, but recharged, he made plans to head out, filled his sacks with gold and food, saddled his ass and waited until sundown before he set out.

The terrible rush was hitting Balthasar again as he arrived at the oasis. He dismounted his ass and found himself hunched over, as he had been too many times over the past forty days, not becoming for a king. His heels made zip-zip sounds in the sand. He saw a fire and two blankets, two more beasts tied to a tree and knew that he was about to meet the other kings. He didn’t want to disturb them, not in his condition, and tied his ass to a tree just over the ridge from the camp. He opened a saddlebag, retrieved a small bottle of oil for his skin and followed the crest of the ridge, descending when he would find privacy.

The two men looked like ghosts to him in the moonlight, though not as shockingly as the angel had. He saw them twist in the sand and thought that they might have been bitten by a snake or were in the pains of thirst. He began to rush to them, his mind full of the prayers taught to him by his shaman, when he approached close enough to see their hands. They were pleasuring each other.

His mind reeled at the selfishness of the two men, wasting their seed on the desert floor and each other, until he remembered that there were no women around, that they were as guiltless as he, who’d dropped enough seed in the desert behind him to make it grow lush as a jungle. He fell, as he had so many times in forty days, to his knees and poured the skin oil into his palm. He watched the men, the voice of the angel whispering more lust into his mind. “They will seem as wondrous and strange as myself,” she said. When his hand made contact with his cock, he crushed a long groan in his mouth. It escaped his nose instead as a whine, a single, drawn whistle of ecstatic love.

“Go to them,” the angel whispered. “They know the way too, and will share their journey with you.”

He shuffled through the sand on his knees, the structure of his very bones pulling his body to them. He could hear them now, their strained breaths and wet kisses, the flapping skin of their hands on each other. The smaller one with the straight hair bent forward then and pushed the bearded one flat on his back. He crawled between the bearded one’s knees and took his cock in his mouth, suckling it with concentration and deep need.

“Ah!” Balthasar let out before he could help it. The two men looked up at him and found his shape in the sand. They did not look shocked, embarrassed or even unprepared for him. The bearded one reached out for him, and Balthasar’s knees zip-zipped to his side. He felt a small culmination in destiny, felt his cock descend Caspar’s mouth as if he were a key all these forty days, dangling for a lock.

The three kings moved as one under the stars, pushing and pulling into each other, swifter and stronger at the same pace, a swash and a backwash of the waves of the sea here in the sand. Balthasar reached until he found the leg of the straight-haired one, Melchior, wrapped his hand between his thighs and pulled him to his mouth. The light of the desert grew stronger, brighter, whiter, more focused on the triangle that had formed between their bodies. It was the star descending the gap. The three became thoughtless, weightless, focused and filled with holy bliss. Their cocks each smelled of spices, tasted of honey, moved with the ease of a fish in a river.

The angel appeared above them again, though they did not open their eyes to her. She hovered above them and pulsed, the star in her hands, beaming pure bliss from the center of her stomach, where her navel would be. The kings grasped each other’s legs tightly in their fists and felt creation, joyful creation of the death of death. It was here now, they knew, it was come.

“Alleluia!” sang the angel, declared the angel, and the three men, no longer kings, but under the guidance of a greater being, came in torrents, frankincense, myrrh and gold, precious into each other’s bodies. It pumped and pumped and pumped and they drank it, the last food they would eat on their journey, and fell to their backs, each man’s head on another’s thighs.

And the angel led them all to sing, their bodies straining to set off,

“King and God and sacrifice;
Alleluia, Alleluia,
Sounds through the earth and skies.”

Hot and Cold

2007-11-29T17:28:00.000-08:00

You're not used to seeing your breath in the cold, so when you catch it the first time, you watch it, exhaling hard, seeing the cloud appear and billow, only to disappear immediately. You're distracted by this, though I have my hand in your jeans, making the breaths go faster through direct manipulation. The snow stays a few moments on your jacket too, and you stare at the flakes, stuck into the fabric like crystal grappelling hooks, holding and refracting the colors in the light before they give up and melt. Right before you touch them, you notice, like reaching for fish while snorkeling, right there, but untouchable. They get away. Your exhales get harder and faster now, and your eyes close for a moment, a few flakes landing in your eyelashes. You grab my shoulders for steadiness and open your jacket, take me inside of it. It's warm, humid, breathy in there, like the relief of stepping into a greenhouse in the winter. Your mouth is at my ear before I hear you crack, oh uh ohh, in my ear, the sweet slippery in the heel of my hand. You take a few moments, spots like the snowflakes themselves before your eyes.

Sugasm. It's like fucking a big fat candy cane.

2007-11-29T17:27:00.000-08:00

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #108? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Half-Nekkid Blow Job

” We could hear people walking past and talking so they’d be able to hear us as well.”

Masturbation on a Memory

“I let the first time I had sex with your flash back though my mind.”

Reality Check: Handling Long Calls

“While I get my share of quick cummer calls I have several clients that like to talk for hours.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself

Christian Friis

Editor’s Choice

A Non-Monogamy Lexicon

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

(Sugasm participants should re-post all the links above within a week. The following links may be excluded as long as you include all the above links.)

Erotic Writing and Experiences

Bad Girl

The Driving Lesson

The First Date part one

Flirt

Late Meeting

Night Call

Over the tub

Saturday night special

Sweet Dreams

Sex Advice

Bringing It Up Gracefully

I Don’t Need Porn, I Get Real Sex!

Prince Albert for thanksgiving

NSFW Pics & Videos

Aria Giovanni sexy video

Catalina loves her New Black Silk Corset and Boots

Pornsaint Popwhore

WebMistress Feature Gallery: Flirting with the Camera

BDSM & Fetish

Big Fun in a Small Space

Double Dip Part 2

I don’t chase

Ideas of my own.

My Reformatory Birching

The Perfect Implement of Pain

Rope as a tool for Intimacy

She Came In Wearing A Corset, Stockings, And A Smile

YouPorn, MePorn

Sex News & Reviews

Fetish Film - Julie Simone’s Diary Of A Submissive (Bondage, Spanking, Femdom)

Five Sips of Darkness

Special Discount for Our Naughty Friends!

Sex Poetry

Tulips… His lips… Her lips…

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships

Me and My Vagina

Oh..oh…oh! My orgasm- A User’s Guide.

On Self Image and Confidence

An orgasm faker wannabe

Relationship Rules

Retail Therapy

Sex Humor

Decoding A Dominant Personal Ad

Happy Thanksgiving!