Monday, December 12, 2011

A Year of Sex

A long time ago my husband (then boyfriend) and I did a collaborative art project called A Year Of Bad Sex. It was an illustrated calendar: I created the stories and layout, G drew cartoon illustrations. Each month memorialized one of my mediocre early sexual encounters--until December, which celebrated Great Sex with him. For some reason, our photocopied creation wasn't a huge seller at the holiday craft fairs we offered it at.

Sometime I'll have to try and recount the embarrassing encounters chronicled in those single-panel sentences compiled for 1997. But today I'm here to recommend a much more arousing and in-depth year of sex - Mia Martina's A Year of Sex: tales from New York City's erotic underground.

The moment I heard about this book, I knew I had to read it. Real life tales of New York sex parties? Yes please! And not just vanilla swingers parties, either--kinky dungeon parties where real people live out my fantasies. Yup, that's a must-read.

The book was more than I bargained for. It's not just Mia's straightforward retelling of  experiences that I can only imagine. She also falls deeply and beautifully in love. I found myself a little in love, too, with someone so willing to live life fully and then write it all down.

As part of her online book-tour, Mia has graciously allowed me to post an excerpt here.

We arrive at Carmen’s apartment building, and instead of taking the elevators, we walk through the lobby, turn a corner, and open an unmarked door. The door takes us out of the building to a lush garden courtyard. Wild, hairy plants, trees, and large planters of elephant ears resting among wooden benches greet us. Walking down the pathway, I am struck by a memory of playing hide and seek behind the floppy and slick green leaves of elephant ears in my back yard. Without fail, playing hide and seek would cause my panties to get wet from arousal. I feel my pussy swell and moisten.

The courtyard is fairly dark and secluded, with only a few small lamps lighting the walkway. We make our way to the edge, along a narrow pathway on the side of the building. A metal fence with looped barbed wire rises from a low concrete wall. Carmen sits on the edge of the wall. I place one leg on either side of her; my short skirt is pulled taut. We kiss, and I feel full of energy.

Carmen clutches my ass. “You ready for your spanking?” When I nod yes, Carmen takes my hands and places them on the fence. Holding my breast, she walks behind me and breathes hard against my sticky neck. She raises my skirt and with surprise remarks, “What kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?” I like her question—even though she already knows that I’m not wearing any knickers. She discovered this while stroking me under the table at dinner. But I like any questions that make me admit to being a slut, whore, or pervert.

She asks again, “What kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?”

“A slutty one.”

“That’s right. And what happens to slutty girls?

“They get punished.”

“Very good. Hold tight to the fence, try and keep your dirty mouth shut, and take your spanking like a good girl.”

Gripping the fence, I take her hits. The sound of each blow echoes around the courtyard. I wonder how many people can see us and how many people hear the sound of my ass being spanked. I like the idea of being caught and being called disgusting sinners. Better yet, I like the idea of someone lurking in the garden and joining us in silent masturbation.

Carmen’s words echo my thoughts. “Now the neighbors can see what a dirty whore you are. You like to tease people by showing them your bits when you cross and uncross your legs in public. Tonight, you’ll show them everything.”

From behind, Carmen reaches her hand around to my pussy and splays my lips with her fingers. Her touch tickles my skin. Carmen fondles my labia, mashing her fingers into my wetness. Keeping her fingers on my clit, she continues to spank me. After 50 swats, I want to squirm away and cry out. Carmen senses my need to scream and shoves her wet fingers into my mouth. I bite down. She slaps me and holds my mouth shut with her hand. She clutches me tight and spanks me hard. Then her fingers, hot from the spanking, reach for my pussy. Carmen taps her fingers against my clit and hugs her body against mine. Sweat collects around my jaw line, where our skin makes contact. As I come, she speaks in my ear, “What a good slut. My little pet. I adore you. You sweet dirty whore. You will forever be mine.”

The book is only $4.99 to download. Go get it - you won't regret it!

About Mia—

Mia Martina began recounting her sex-party and open-relationship adventures in the podcast "I Want Your Sex" in March 2008. She recently relocated to Austin, Texas after 10 years in New York City. Mia is the co-founder and producer of BedPost Confessions, an Austin based monthly reading and performance series about sex and sexuality.


Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Suck. My. Cock.

If you trusted him with your secrets from afar, can you trust him with you body when you are finally up close? Just a little something while I work on more complete stories....

“I want you to Suck. My. Cock.”

I’m not really awake. His commanding voice penetrates my somnolence, but not enough to spur a reaction.

“Rosie. Wake up and Suck. My. Cock.” His voice is low, his tone even. I can sense his body behind me, tense with arousal. I need to wake up, I know.

His hand gripping my hair helps me. He’s lifting my head. “Right now,” he says with an air of menace. I feel sick with sleep. He’s pulling my hair painfully, forcing me further from my pillow. “Get under the covers.”

I crawl under the covers, eyes still closed, until I bump into his hip. He’s warm and smells of man and sex. My head drops on to his thigh. Before my next breath, I’m asleep again.

I’m startled awake the next instant by his hand on my neck. His voice is threatening growl. “Do I have to roll you over and fuck your throat? I can find a way to wake you up.”

Fear tingles in my chest. I’m finally awake. My mouth finds his cock, succulently half hard. It curls against the roof of my mouth, a perfect mouthful, and then, throbbing, grows.

I don’t know what he would or would not do to me. I’m thrilled by my fear, but not enough to test him.

Last night was heat and tenderness. We met with passion long postponed: fell in love with each other’s bodies as we had before with souls. We’d fucked hard and fast and then looked into each other’s eyes and started over again, slowly. Late into the night we’d dozed and woken, caressing and kissing and whispering love words.

Now, his cock hardening between my lips, I have no idea how much time has passed. The hotel room’s perfect darkness persists even after he’s thrown the covers off our bodies. Is it morning? Could it possibly still be night? It doesn’t matter. Sleep was never part of our plan.

He’s thrusting his hips and holding my head in place. I choke and gag and struggle to find his rhythm. I want to give an amazing blow job. I want to please. But there’s no room for that in the way he’s using me. I feel sparks of  panic as I fight for breath.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps at me. “I’ve got you.” He lifts my head for a moment and I gasp a lungful of air. Then he shoves me down again, hard, and holds me there. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, comforting me as my air runs out. And lifts me again.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

I Want Your Sex

Actually, it's the sensual sensation Mia Martina who wants your sex. I just want you to listen to her read my story.

Mia tells me she cursed my name many times while recording Centerpiece because of my excessively long sentences. You'd never know by listening that she found it challenging. I think you'll find her hypnotic voice brings the story to life.

This is a story from my former blog and it gets at aspects of my core kinks. It is, however, like everything I'm posting these days, fiction.

Go listen!

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Travelogue, Chapter 3, Part 2

See the sidebar for previous installments.
The sound of footsteps and a woman’s laugh woke Penny from her reverie. The door burst open. A girl stumbled backwards wrapped around Marco’s tall frame, immersed in a kiss. She regained her balance and released Marco. “Ooh, a real bed this time! That’s a treat!” She was blond and cheerful. Her womanly shape made Penny conscious of her small breasts and hips.

“I never get to see you naked, you’re always pulling your skirts up in alleys,” teased Marco. He shot a grin at Penny, then started laughingly pulling at the girl’s clothes.

“Marco, stop!” the girl protested. “I’ll do it myself!” She never even glanced in Penny’s direction. Maybe she did this kind of thing all the time.

“C’mon, Angel,” Marco said, “We haven’t got all night.” He held her waist, looking down at her with an knowing grin.

“I’ve got four hours before my shift, Marco. Not even you can go that long.” Angel’s voice was breathy. The subtleties of her British accent were lost on Penny. Not American, that’s all. And incredibly sexy.

“It’s not about how long I can go. It’s about how long you can go, beautiful.” Marco had his hands on Angel’s ass and his body pressed her backwards, toward the bed. “Don’t you remember our plan?”

“Mmmm,” Angel answered, leaning back in his arms and pulling off her shirt. “That’s tonight?” Penny was surprised by the rather plain looking bra the girl wore, but that quickly came off, too.

“Absolutely. You are going to have the most orgasmic night of your life.” Marco turned his mouth into Angel’s hair and his voice was muffled. “We’re going to show our little mmphbl what she’s missing.”

The two toppled onto the bed, mouths hungrily engaged. Marco stripped off his shirt. His body was just as gorgeous as his face, all lean muscles and golden skin. Penny found herself sitting forward in her seat, arms pulling against the bands. She was rapt, watching their limbs tangle, listening to their sighs and the watery sounds of their kisses. Her breath felt constricted by arousal. Marco pinned Angel and smiled again at Penny. “Ready for your lesson, Angel?”

Angel grinned and closed her eyes. “Oh yes. I am.”

“Off with your panties, then, and turn this way, so our Penny has a good view.” Marco pulled the girl sideways so she lay face up, her feet facing Penny. “Spread your legs,” said Marco. Penny had a perfect view of pink, glistening labia, a few tendrils of damp hair curling around it. Angel’s pubic hair was neatly trimmed and just as blond as the hair on her head. Penny had never had license to really look at another woman’s pussy in real life. She gazed with interest, as Marco’s fingers strayed lightly over Angel’s outer lips and the small peak of her clitoral hood. A line of wetness grew as he grazed her skin.

Marco sat to one side of Angel, his back turned to Penny, his focus all on Angel now. He began to murmur to Angel in a tone Penny recognized, a soft, steady, enchanting monotone. “That feels good, doesn’t it.” (No questions, Penny recalled. He’s telling her what to feel.) “You’re getting excited already.”

Marco held two fingers together and slowly brushed them up and down her labia and over her clit, spreading a thin, glossy, film. “Yes, your little button is coming out. You’re feeling very aroused.” Penny felt herself responding, too. Her pussy was damp. She rocked her hips forward, wishing she had a way to rub herself against the seat.

Angel’s back began to arch as Marco continued his slow, steady caresses and narrative. “So excited. I barely have to touch you. Yes, that’s right, spread your legs a little more.” Penny could see his fingers were dipping into her just a little on each up-stroke and gliding more firmly over her clit. Angel’s breath was loud in the quiet room, punctuated with high gasps.

“You’re going to cum for me soon, Angel. Soon.” Marco’s fingers stopped moving. “Soon. But not yet.” He resumed tracing her slit, this time with only one finger. Penny’s clit ached. She imagined the torment of that delicate touch. Angel’s hips thrust up, but Marco kept his finger just barely in reach.

“Yes, Angel, you’re going to cum for me. When I say so. When I tell you it’s time.” His finger made slow circles around her clit. “You’re so close, aren’t you.”

“I need more,” Angel gasped out. “Please, Marco.”

“Don’t worry, Angel.” Marco continued his subtle movements. “I know what you need.” His finger slipped inside her for a moment, and Angel groaned deeply. Penny felt her pussy clench with sympathetic desire. She wondered if she’d cum when Angel did. It seemed possible.

“I’m going to count, now, Angel. From ten down to one. And when I say one, you-” Marco’s finger withdrew and quickly repenetrated her, drawing a gasp. “-are going to cum for me.” Angel’s body rocked on the bed. To Penny, Angel seemed ready to explode at any second. But then, she was not very familiar with the arousal patterns of other women. Her analytical mind snapped off again as Marco pulled his fingers away from Angel completely. What was he doing?

“Ten,” he began. His right hand was on Angel’s inner thigh. His left rested flat on her lower belly just above her mound. His head was still turned to watch Angel’s face. “Nine,” he said. The hand on her thigh moved upward, again touching her pussy delicately, indirectly. The hand on her belly began to push down more firmly. “Eight.” Angel was panting, pushing up against his restraining hand. Marco’s fingers swam over her pussy, his thumb brushing her clit, middle fingers dipping softly into her cunt. “Seven.” Angel whined and thrust. “Not yet, darling. When I tell you. Six.” Penny’s body throbbed. “Five. Four.” Marco paused and Angel pleaded, “Please!”

“Three. Almost, Angel.” He teased and carresed her with his thumb, then pushed three fingers inside her all at once. “Two.” Angel legs were impossibly spread, and she grunted and thrust. “Now, Angel. One. Cum for me.” Angel yelled and humped and writhed on Marco’s hand. Penny’s pussy spasmed and throbbed in sympathy. Marco kept on talking.

“Yes, that’s it Angel, cum hard, cum hard, that’s right.” He ran his thumb back and forth over her clit, fingers still inside her. Angel gripped the sheets and cried out over and over. At last her body stilled and Marco withdrew his fingers. He trailed a line of wetness up Angel’s stomach and cradled a breast. “Was that good, baby?”

“Yes, yes....” Angel sighed. “Amazing.”

“Good,” said Marco. “Let’s do it again.” His fingers returned to Angel’s cunt and he pushed two inside her without further preamble. Angel grunted.

“Aren’t you going to fuck me, Marco?”

“Yes, later. But first you need to learn to cum for me.” His voice was firm. Penny shivered. She wished she were on the bed.

“I just Did come for you,” Angel whined, lifting her head.

Marco started thrusting his fingers in and out of her. “You have to learn,” he said, as Angel’s head thumped back onto the bed again, “To cum when I tell you. Whenever I tell you.” Angel’s hips jerked and matched his rhythm. Marco began counting. “Ten.”

Marco counted Angel down twice more, each time drawing a more dramatic climax than the last. Penny was drenched with sweat and desire. The chair felt like a cage, cutting into her everywhere as she strained to respond to Marco’s relentless commands along with Angel. Yes, this was a punishment, and most inventively cruel.

After Angel’s third climax she pulled Marco towards her for a kiss. “I need a break, baby,” Penny heard. Marco cupped her breast and squeezed a nipple. Penny could see Angel’s shiver.

“Do you?” Marco answered. “Get up on on your knees. No, turn this way.” He steered Angel onto all fours so that Penny had a side view of her body. He smoothed his hands over Angel’s ass. Penny’s ass tingled. Was he going to spank her? But no. He was speaking in his hypnotic voice again.

“Look at you, dripping down your legs. So turned on you groan whenever I touch you.” He squeezed Angel’s ass firmly and she let out a moan on cue. “You don’t even need me to touch you to have an orgasm, do you.” Angel moaned again in a kind of protest as he removed his hands. She shifted her hips back towards him to reclaim his touch, but he moved away, shifting up the bed to sit near her head. He leaned close to her ear, speaking in a soft tone Penny strained to hear. “You are going to cum for me again, Angel. Just like last time. Just like you’ve been doing over and over again. When I count down to one, you’re going to have another orgasm.”

“I can’t,” Angel whined, but her hips shifted forward in back in the air in helpless arousal.

“You will, Angel. Your body’s already preparing. You’re getting wetter. Your nipples are so swollen a breath of air makes them ache.” He waved a hand under her chest, not touching her. She strained downward, too late. “Now then. Ten.” There was no doubt in Penny’s mind that Angel would cum. She longed for her own orgasm, but her arousal hovered just shy of that desperate abandon.

Marco’s countdown continued. At five, Angel raised a hand to touch her pussy. Marco grabbed her wrist. “You don’t need that, Angel.” He placed her hand back in its position on the bed. Angel’s back and hips thrust against air as he resumed. “Four. You can almost feel my tongue on your clit, can’t you. Three. I’m going to fuck you in just a minute, Angel. I’m going to fuck you, but first you are going to cum for me. Two.” Angel’s body glistened with sweat. Penny could smell her cunt. “That’s it,” said Marco softly. “You want me to say it, don’t you.”

“Say it!” Angel gasped out.

“Yes, darling. You’re going to explode for me. Any second now.”

There was the slightest pause. Penny saw Angel trembling. And then: “One.” Angel’s back arched high and then low, as if demonstrating a frenetic yoga pose. She cried out rhythmically, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!” Marco was behind her, penis erect and covered in a condom. He plunged into her. She threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth opened wide. Penny felt her pussy spasm again, not in a full orgasm but in sympathetic excitement.

With Marco’s second thrust, he began counting down again. Angel was still bucking from the last orgasm as he got to seven. By five she was calming. At three, she was near again to the peak. Marco’s grip on Angel’s hips was firm. He thrust into her steadily even as she struggled for the wilder tempo of her orgasm. From one he began at five again. Angel swore and yelled and came. Five. Four. Penny watched as Marco pushed Angel over one peak after another. Three. Two. Penny lost count. Angel collapsed onto the bed and rolled onto her back. Marco knelt over her, cock in his hand, beginning again. “No more,” Angel muttered, “No more.” One, said Marco, and with a sobbing cry, Angel arched her back again.

Marco lay down beside Angel. He rubbed her belly as she regained her breath. “Very good,” he said. “You’re a quick learner, Angel.” She smiled at him. Penny took in a breath, and realized she’d been gasping along with Angel. Marco and Angel murmured softly on the bed. Penny came back to herself. Her pussy felt painfully engorged. Her wrists and ankles felt raw where she’d pulled against her ropes. Her mouth was dry and foul tasting.

Marco’s voice was inaudible, but Penny could hear that he was talking into Angel’s ear. Angel nodded. He cupped her breast in his hand and captured her nipple between thumb and forefinger, pulling gently. Angel smiled, and nuzzled her head against him. For a moment, all Penny could feel was loneliness, a stronger and deeper ache than any of her physical complaints. The Marco lifted his head to look at her. The touch of his eyes was startling. She’d almost forgotten they could see her. For the first time since dinner, Marco addressed her directly. “Penny. This time, you count.”

It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying. She counted? She mattered? No, no, it fell into place. She was counting down for Angel. An almost giddy feeling came over her. Her voice came out higher than she’d meant. “Ten.”

Angel was very, very tired. That was obvious, from the loll of her head to the splay of her limbs. Penny watched with fascination as each number seemed to pull Angel’s body back towards alertness and tension. At eight, Angel smiled the chin lifting smile of a person feeling great pleasure. At six, Angel rolled towards her, eyes closed but attention focused. Penny hesitated at four. Was it to soon? Marco nodded at her, and she continued. Her body echoed Angel’s rising tension. Count slower, her arousal told her. But she continued on. “Three.” Her voice trembled. Angel had spread her legs wide. “Two.” Penny wished she could touch Angel. She wanted to be a man and thrust inside her. She wanted, deliriously, to feel Angel’s cunt contracting around her as she gave the final trigger: “One.”

Angel got dressed without any further reference to Penny. Penny watched exhaustedly as Marco escorted Angel from the room and shut the door. It seemed clear to Penny that her ordeal was over, but she was too drained to wonder when she would be released.

The wait was not long. Marco reentered and knelt to untie her. “Are you alright?” he asked, as he helped her to rise. She was unsteady.

“That was...” Penny trailed off, unable to think of the right word.

“I know,” said Marco. He touched a hand to her cheek, brushing back a stray hair. “Mr. Craness wants you to come to the living room and say goodnight.” He took her hand, and tugged her towards the door. She followed, her naked skin raising goose-bumps as the cooler air of the hallway touched her.

In two steps they were in the living room, and there was a crowd of people filling the sofa and chairs. It was blindingly bright after the dim bedroom. Penny tried to take a step back, but Marco was behind her. “Penny,” she heard Mr. Craness’s voice and squinted, trying to find him. There he was, across the room, Angel sitting on his lap. Everyone was well dressed. Mr. Craness motioned her to come.

It was almost physically painful to walk naked under the sharp lights and the inscrutable gazes of the guests. Mr. Craness put his free arm around her - the one that was not already holding Angel steady on his knee-- and raised his voice. “Everyone, this is my Penny.” There was a murmur of smiles and greetings. Angel got up, kissing first Mr. Craness and then Penny on the cheek. Mr. Craness rose, too. “Penny, you look like you need to go to bed. I’ll come and tuck you in in a moment.” He gave her a little push towards the doorway, and Penny gratefully hurried from the room.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Travelogue, Chapter 3, Part 1

See the sidebar for previous installments.

Penny heard the door shut and the jingle of keys. They’d gone out. She was alone. It was very quiet. She looked around the room, but there was little to see. A few unornamented pieces of furniture. A simple lamp, glowing yellow.

Practice her posture. Her lower back already ached a little from the strain of sitting up straight. She let her head hang forward, stretching tight muscles in her neck and down her spine. Mr. Craness and Marco would surely be out for an hour or two. Penny considered her next move. She could slump. She could undo herself and wander the apartment, even go out. It was possible, if she were careful, that she could slip back into her bonds before he returned, leaving him none the wiser. 

Nonetheless, she sat. She pondered his reasoning. He had left her loosely bound for safety, surely. In case of a fire, she could easily escape. But safety could have been ensured another way. They didn’t have to go out for drinks. Was he testing her? Had they really gone out? No, she’d definitely heard their footsteps on the stairs. And Mr. Craness was not a man of pretense. 

She thought about the history of their acquaintance. His method of teaching had always been gently Socratic. He had allowed her to lead herself to answers. Today was the first time he’d ever imposed a rule on her: Respect. Was that why he hadn’t tied her? He’d wanted her to have to choose to respect his wishes. Not just once, sitting down and allowing herself to be tied, but minute by minute as her discomfort grew. 

Her legs hurt. The edge of the chair was gently curved downwards. The edge fell just at the top of her calves and it felt like it was cutting into her. She adjusted her ankles as much as she could. The air was cooling and she wished for a blanket. To distract herself, she tried to recall the progress of her friendship with Mr. Craness. How had she come to be here, naked, anxious, and alone? 


Penny had first known Mr. Craness through his blog. She couldn’t recall how she’d stumbled across it. 

He’d started keeping it after the death of his wife. His brief biography explained he wanted to both mourn and celebrate their marriage. Writing, he’d said, recalled her vividly to his mind. As a reader, Penny found his stories equally vivid. Most of his recollections were erotic. It seemed he’d found his wife unendingly alluring, and their sexual exploits were recorded with a sensual precision that held Penny riveted. 

Sometimes Mr. Craness had mused on his youth, tracing how he’d come to be the man he was. Penny read these posts with interest. She’d come to greatly admire the man who wrote merely as “Crane”. It was illuminating to learn about his early mistakes and inadequacies. Eventually, she began to comment on these posts, noting similarities to her life. Crane had responded kindly, asking his characteristic leading questions. In one such comment, he’d appended his email, should she want to talk in more depth.

That had been at least a year and a half ago. Maybe more. 

It had been a time of transition for Penny. She’d had conflicts with her family. She had a terrible break up and moved into her own apartment for the first time. In her new isolation, she felt she was discovering herself for the first time. Her emails with Crane became increasingly essential to her days. Every question they discussed led to another. He encouraged her to use her independence to explore what she wanted, rather than rushing into new commitments. He reassured her after painful conversations with her ex that she was a worthwhile human being. He made her laugh when she felt at the end of her rope. Crane was steady in a way no man in her life had ever been. 

Meanwhile, she continued reading his blog. Sometimes he’d mention her obliquely. He wrote less about his wife, as the months passed. He instead told stories of observation: imagining the sex lives of people he saw in restaurants or on the train. His writing voice was different than the tone he used with her. He wrote forcefully. His wife had submitted to punishments and demands for obedience. The people he imagined were always engaged in exploring power dynamics. His imagination was often cruel.

To Penny, he’d always been gentle and kind. As the affection between them grew, she found herself wishing, sometimes, he’d be firmer with her. Shyly, she told him as much. “You’d like me to tell you what to do?” he answered. “We can see. Start by calling me Mr. Craness.”

“That will be hard,” Penny had written. “I’ve called you Crane for a long time.”

“It will be a good exercise for you, then. Work at it. Train your thoughts.”

The phrase made her shiver. Train your thoughts. Mr. Craness’s first, simple demand worked its way into her like a thorn. He’d given her a gift: his name. And he’d taken something away: a little bit of her freedom.

Remembering that day still aroused her. She learned, that day, how subtle a thing control could be. Her admiration of Mr. Craness deepened.

So much had happened since then... Penny smiled, reviewing scenes of lovers and adventures. Mr. Craness had been her rudder, but he steered gently, gently. He wanted her to explore where her desires led her. So when she’d come up with the idea of travel, she’d been surprised by his lack of enthusiasm.

In the face of her determination to go despite his warnings, he suggested she begin her trip with a sojourn under his tutelage. What had he propsed to teach her? “I think you confuse enthusiasm with confidence,” he’d told her. “You don’t know yourself well enough to be truly confident. You’re impulsive and it will lead you into danger.” His reasoning was unclear to her, but the prospect of an intimate visit with Mr. Craness had been irresistibly alluring. And now - here she was. Shivering, naked, and wondering if maybe he'd been all too right about her trusting nature. 

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Violation When All Red

I'm printing a copy of this to hang over my bed. As a kind of hopeful blessing.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Me, live.

Here I am at the Kessler Theater in Dallas, playing along w/the amazing F*Bomb and friend. Hi!

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Travelogue: Chapter 2, Part 2

(To start with Chapter 1, see the sidebar)

The voice was unrecognizable. “Penny.” She opened her eyes to darkness. Where was she? And then her eyes opened again on the white room, still awash with the clear grey light of a cloudy summer afternoon. Mr. Craness was standing in the doorway. She wanted to stretch out her arms to him like a child but her limbs were still too heavy with sleep. “It’s time for dinner,” he told her. The door shut again.

It was hard to pry herself out of bed, but her stomach growled and  she knew Mr. Craness was waiting. The morning came back to her, along with a sinking feeling of embarrassment and anxiety. He hadn’t told her if she could put her underwear back on. Were they going out to dinner? Which dress should she wear? When she sat up her insecurity was allayed. An outfit had been laid across the back of the armchair. To her further relief, he’d included panties. She dressed quickly, spent a few moments in the bathroom with her lipstick and comb, and stepped out into the living room.

Mr. Craness was in conversation with another man whose back was towards her. Penny hesitated in the doorway a moment, but Mr. Craness caught her eye and lifted his chin slightly to coax her forward. Penny took a step. At that moment, the second man turned towards her. Her next step hung in the air, then her foot swung backwards instead. It was Marco.

“Penny!” Marco cried warmly. He strode forward and embraced her. Despite her confusion, it was good to have arms around her. She hugged him back. As he stepped away again, her balance faltered. He caught her arm, looking down at her with concern. “Penny, I startled you! I’m so sorry. Come and sit down,” he said.

Mr. Craness stepped forward and took her other elbow. He had that amused look in his eyes again. “I think a meal will steady her, Marco. Lead the way.”

The three headed down the stairs and out to the street, Marco ahead and Penny on Mr. Craness’s arm. Her mind was awhirl. Had Mr. Craness known she sat with Marco on the airplane? Of course he knew, he must have--in fact, he must have set it up! It couldn’t be an accident. But Marco’s questions on the plane--she’d so completely fallen for his patter! It was humiliating.

Penny hardly saw her surroundings as Mr. Craness steered her over uneven pavement through the cooling evening air. She was glad to be walking as she turned recent history over in her mind. With a chill, she recalled Mr. Craness’s seemingly innocent questions about her flight. She had been dishonest! And he had known it all along.

She felt sick. What exactly had she said? For a moment  it was hard for her to recall their conversation. This morning seemed like days ago. But there was no question. She hadn’t merely omitted meeting Marco, which would have been bad enough. She had definitely lied. And then... it was after that, she thought, that Mr. Craness had told her his rules. Respect. Honesty. She thought there were two more, but they were unimportant now. Why had he not confronted her? Maybe this transgression explained his distance?

At this point in her anxious meditations Mr. Craness steered her to a stop. They were in front of a small Indian restaurant.  Marco asked for a table for three, and they were seated around a square table near the window. The geometry of the table increased Penny’s discomfort. Marco was at her right, and Mr. Craness straight across from her. She felt chilled in the spot where his hand had been while they walked. Her shame at being caught in a lie and the unsettling way Mr. Craness’s had treated her were augmented by the sense of dislocation and unreality caused by travel and jet lag.

She opened the menu and gazed at it without reading. The waitress brought her water. She could feel her first cold sip travel down to her stomach and sit there. Mr. Craness and Marco ordered a number of dishes and the waitress went away again without consulting her. She barely noticed. She wanted the meal to be over, to face whatever consequence or confrontation awaited her. The men seemed in no hurry, though. They talked and laughed and gestured as they ate.

Marco poured her a glass of wine and a vivid memory of their evening on the airplane returned to her arousingly. He was so charming. Her distance began to  melt a little as the two men turned their attention to drawing her out. Mr. Craness told anecdotes of his move to London 20 years ago, and Marco told of his first visits a decade later. Penny found herself laughing and drinking a second glass of wine.

“How did you and Marco come to meet?” she eventually asked.

Mr. Craness’s face became serious. “We met him towards the end of my wife’s illness. She was in a lot of pain—” he paused, his lips momentarily tight, but then continued evenly enough. “Marco provided her with relief. A great deal of relief.”

Marco gave Penny a small smile. “Hypnotism has many uses,” he said.

“He was more than a hypnotist. He gave us both comfort. And he’s become a very dear friend.” Mr. Craness squeezed Marco’s arm. For a moment Penny felt the warmth between them. Her chilly dread receded in the face of real emotion. They might be playing an all-consuming game, but the players themselves were not merely plastic markers.

She remembered, comfortingly, that before she’d become his protégé, Mr. Craness had been her friend and confidant.

Dinner soon came to an end. In the street, Mr. Craness tucked her in between himself and Marco, and they walked back to the house arm in arm. Penny’s laughter now was unforced, as the two men told stories of late-night misadventures. The bodies on either side of her were solid and masculine, their arms affectionately buoying her up when she stumbled on the uneven pavement. Mr. Craness took her arm when they reached the stairs. Penny giggled when Marco fondled her bottom as he followed them up.

Her laughter ended as the door shut behind Marco. Something about the spare, modern space didn’t seem conducive to laughter. And Mr. Craness was looking at her with that deceptively friendly grin again. “This way, my dear,” he said, and led her along the hall to the master bedroom she’d peeked into before. There, again, was the straight-backed dining room chair. It had been set out in the middle of the excessively spacious floor between the window and the bed. “Does anyone really live here?” she found herself wondering, picturing her last apartment’s clutter.

“Undress,” Mr. Craness said, bringing her sharply back to the present. “And sit in the chair. I’ll be back.” She began to undress. He hadn’t said how long he’d be gone. It seemed best to move quickly. She began to sit down, then bent to pick up the clothing she’d dropped on the floor. “Leave them,” said Mr. Craness, reentering the room. She sat down.

The chair was cool against her skin. Penny shivered. Thankfully the  day had been warm and the room wasn’t chilly. “Now, I want you to sit up straight. Good posture is paramount.” She straightened, pushing her shoulders back and down. Her breasts felt embarrassingly exposed. “Good,” he said. “Now, hands behind the chair.” She positioned herself obediently, wrists crossed against the wood.

“I’m not going to tie you,” Mr. Craness said, looping something fabric around her wrists. “I think if you try you’ll find you are quiet able to remove your wrists from this band.” She moved a little and found the binding firm but elastic.

He knelt in front of her and pushed her knees apart. Her body jerked surprisingly. The phantom of his earlier caresses made her suddenly deeply aroused. Mr. Craness efficiently looped a band around her left ankle and the corresponding chair leg, then did the same on the right. “It’s the same material,” he said as he rose. “I’m certain you can get out of these bands whenever you choose. They are merely to help to remind you of my instructions, should you become distracted.”

All of Penny’s dread had returned. Her knees shook. “Are you going to punish me?” she asked.

“Punish you?” Mr. Craness gave a tolerant smile. “I think you would enjoy that too much. No, I’m simply going to ask you to sit here until you are released. ”

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Penny said.

“I’m sure you will be,” said Mr. Craness. “We talked about respect, Penny. It is my Only rule.” He cupped her face is his hand, stroking a tear away from her eye with his thumb. “You’ll be a bit lonely here, I imagine. Later on I’ll tuck you into bed.” He looked down at her kindly, and she couldn’t help smiling back at him.

“Now,” he said, moving towards the door. “I want you to practice your posture, and leave your arms and legs where I’ve placed them. Marco and I are going out for drinks.”

Friday, May 27, 2011

Travelogue, Chapter 1: Penelope Sets Out

Leaving is easier than one imagines, Penelope found.

As soon as she’d made up her mind, it was simply a matter of following through. No one told her not to go. Instead, they were vicariously enthusiastic about her upcoming adventures. Everyone had a travel tip. In her email and on scraps of paper, she was presented with scores of contacts for “a friend of my sisters who lives in Amsterdam” and “my high school exchange parents - they don’t speak any English, but you would totally hit it off.” She discarded all these, along with her CD collection, mismatched kitchenware, and far too many pairs of shoes. This was not going to be the kind of adventure one writes home about. Adventures can only go so far when you stay with friends of friends of friends.

And so, without very much money and barely a plan, she gave up her apartment, quit her job, and kissed her lover goodbye. In a week from making her decision, she was boarding a flight to London with all the worldly possessions she cared to keep: a couple changes of underwear, a sexy dress or two, sweater, sandals, toothbrush, lipstick and a novel for those moments when adventure failed to materialize.

At least she didn’t have to buy a ticket. The first leg of her journey was to meet a man she’d met online. They had a tenuous connection, really. And yet she supposed he must have been as intrigued by her as she was by him. After all, she was flying business class at his expense. He told her he'd give her his flyer miles so she could travel in comfort. "Besides," he said, "In coach, you're likely to meet some interesting vagabond. I want you thinking about me when you're over the Atlantic." He didn't figure, she thought to herself as she waited in the endless line at customs, on Marco.

No one could have figured on Marco. Penny closed her eyes for a moment to remember him as she’d first glimpsed him. Handsome. Gentlemanly. And utterly seductive. Had it only been eight hours ago? It felt like a much longer journey. As the line wound on through cordoned walkways, she tried to relive the long flight to London. She wanted to fix it in her mind: her first adventure.

Her flight left late - an 8 pm departure delayed until 9:30. She was a bit tired from the ordeal of the airport, but so excited about finally leaving on her adventure that she didn't care. It was a full flight. Mr. Craness had reserved a seat at the side of the plane in one of the two-person rows rather than the four-across middle row.

The passengers boarded mid-plane and Penelope found her seat was only a couple rows back, over the wing. She was eager to settle in and daydream, but when she saw her seat-mate, all thought of silent meditation left her. He was drop-dead handsome. And he was smiling at her.

He rose as Penelope approached and settled her bag on the empty seat next to him. "Would you prefer the window?" he asked, leaning forward solicitously.

"No, no, I'm fine on the aisle," she told him, trying and failing to meet his gorgeous dark eyes. What was his accent?

"Or may I switch seats so you and your husband can sit together?"

"I'm not married," Penelope returned thoughtlessly, tucking her skirt under her as she sat down. She glanced up at his eyes again and saw a faint twinkle. She realized her mistake instantly. Of course he’d been fishing for information. She gave him her best skeptical look.

"Ah. I'm transparent," he said. "Forgive me. I wanted an excuse to talk. I'm Marco," he said, extending his hand. She reached across awkwardly to shake it. "Penelope. But everyone calls me Penny."

"Penny? The smallest coin? Surely you are worth more than that?"

Penelope laughed nervously. Marco’s gaze was really too disarming. She rummaged through her purse as if for something important and carefully arranged it beneath her seat.

They were silent for a while as the airplane taxied and announcements were made. Penny got out a magazine but didn't open it. How could she start their conversation again? It was important to say something before he gave up on her and went to sleep for the whole flight. After all, one is not often trapped next to someone so attractive for eight hours at a stretch. As the flight lifted off, she at last found the courage to ask what he'd been doing in the US. "Visiting some old football friends," he told her. It seemed he'd been a professional soccer player some years past. (Was he really old enough to have a past?) They talked about the sport for a while, Penny embarrassedly admitting her complete ignorance. She asked general questions, like "What was life like on the road?"

"We didn't travel first class, I tell you that," he said. "And you - why are you going to England? I don't think it is business."

"No," she admitted, "I'm just going as a tourist."

"Just a tourist? I think it's more than that. You have the look of a woman who is going to meet her lover." He nudged her arm familiarly. She liked it. Still, she shook her head no. Their conversation rested. This time the silence felt comfortable. She read for a while.

The flight attendant came through offering beverages. “Just water,” said Penny, but Marco grabbed her hand as if they were a couple and asked for red wine for them both. He rapped their hands against the armrest emphatically as he declared, "We must celebrate the beginning of your journey!" Penny couldn't help laughing.

When the wine came, Marco raised his glass to her and she touched hers against it in toast. As she took her first sip, Marco pounced.

"And what is he called, this lover of yours you are traveling so far to see?" Marco asked. Penny nearly choked on her wine. It seemed she wasn’t much of a liar.

But why not answer him? It slipped out so easily. "Louis."

Marco's hand touched hers again, and he smiled wickedly. "I don't think 'Louis' is what you really call him." Penny tried to look puzzled. "I think, when you are alone... you call him something much more respectful."

Penny took another swallow of wine to hide her discomfiture. How did he know?

"I can read so much in a woman's eyes," Marco continued. He ran one fingers slowly down the inside of her arm. His voice was pitched low. "What do you call him - Sir? Master?"

"Mr. Craness," she choked out. It was horribly embarrassing to admit, and yet she felt she couldn’t help herself. It was like she was under a spell.

"Ah, yes, Mister Craness, very proper." Marco's voice massaged the words, making them sound lascivious. Penny felt herself flush.

"Don't worry, little Penny. Mister Louis Craness won't mind my enjoying your company. I know all about his kind."

The cabin lights dimmed as the flight attendant collected their glasses. Penny thought she might read a little while. She felt restless, even vaguely claustrophobic. Despite being in business class, there wasn’t quite enough room. Or maybe it was the tension of sitting next to a handsome man inside the intimate hum of jet engines. She reached to turn on the light, her arm brushing Marco’s shoulder. A searing pain struck her shoulder and she made an involuntary cry of pain.

“What’s the matter?” Marco asked, immediately attentive.

“It’s just a muscle spasm,” Penny said, but Marco was all concern and sympathy. "Let me," he said, inveigling his hand under hers where she gripped her shoulder.

"Ah," she protested, "No," but already his fingers had found their way to a spot that offered relief.

"Breathe out," he said, and her breath released. Why should she not let him help her, if he was willing? He took her shoulder in both hands and moved it, pulling the scapula towards him gently. It felt marvelous. She could feel the pain and tension draining out of her. At the same time, Marco’s nearness took on a new intensity. Handsome, handsome Marco was giving her his full attention, touching her with his warm, intelligent hands.

"You're good at that," Penny said, to break the silence as much as anything.

"It's what I do," he said. "Now that I'm retired from football, I do massage. Or, massage is part of what I do." He lifted her upper arm, rocking it back and forth as his fingers probed the base of her neck.

"What else?" she asked. She felt her neck and jaw relaxing.

"I specialize. I invented a new technique. I call it Hypno-Massage."

Hypno-Massage. How corny, Penny thought. She laughed and as quickly tried to stop herself. “That sounds very interesting,” she ventured.

"Would you like to try it?" he offered.

That sounded like a come-on. The whole idea sounded like a come on. But Marco was still working on her shoulder, and his touch was entirely sincere. "What do you do?" she asked him.

"It's hard to explain. I'd love for you to experience it." His voice was earnest. "I think it would be a wonderful way for you to start your journey. In the right frame of mind - relaxed, confident..." She could tell this was a seduction. Maybe she was a little hypnotized already, because she didn't feel the need to object.

"Alright," she said. "What do I need to do?"

"Nothing, cara. Just put your seat back so you can rest your head."

"Are you going to hypnotize me?"

"Yes, but, you know, it is perfectly safe. You won't go to sleep, you can stop anytime." His voice was soothing. She put her seat back and Marco turned out her light. She felt warm and at ease. "I think," he said, his voice getting lower, "You would like some pleasure. Something to prepare you for Mister Craness."

It was too much. I should stop him, she thought. His knowing tone when he mentioned Mr. Craness. The offer of pleasure. They were on an airplane -- practically public transportation. As her mind protested, Marco was massaging her upper arm, melding pain with kindness as he unwound her muscles. "Pleasure," she heard herself saying in a sleepy voice. "We're--there's no privacy."

"Don't worry. I won't undress you. If you would like, I will touch only your arm." He gazed at her sincerely, and she smiled. It had been a long day. Why not relax. Her eyelids were heavy.

"Wonderful," she said, and let her head fall back against the seat. Marco's thumb ran down her arm, erasing tension. Her whole body began to relax. Her eyes closed.

"Let yourself go," he said into her ear. She could feel his breath on her cheek. "Focus only on sensation." His thumb pressed a knot near her elbow. Pain flared and then faded. He continued kneading her arm.

"I'm going to make my touch lighter," Marco murmured. "But it won't tickle. You'll remain relaxed." His fingers began to run slowly up and down her arm. It felt incredibly sensual.

"Feel my fingers tracing lines of light on your arm," he told her. She could visualise it, glowing white behind his fingers. His thumb grazed the inside of her arm and she shivered with pleasure.

"That's right," he said. "Sink into the sensation. Feel your arm is your whole body." He traced a circle on her shoulder. "Here is your head." His fingers trailed down her deltoid and lingered at its base. "Here," he said, his voice getting lower, "Are your breasts." He pinched her there, very gently. She felt it in her clit. "Yes," he said, "Good. It is as if I am playing with your nipples." His fingers pressed and squeezed. Her chest felt tight. The pressure of her clothes against her breasts became noticeable, and her nipples hardening against her bra.

His fingers slid lower down her arm and for a moment she felt bereft. He was making small circles above her elbow crease, around and around. "Do you feel this in your tummy?" he asked. Speaking felt difficult, so she nodded minutely. "Yes, you do. Good girl. This is your tummy, and here--" he traced the fold of her elbow-- "we are lower still." Her pussy throbbed. Marco traced a triangle along the crease of her elbow, pointing downward. "It feels good, doesn't it? You know where this is." She did. Her body did. Her hips were rocking slowly beneath the airline blanket. His touch lightened. He might only have been stroking the fine, invisible hairs of her arm as he made tiny circles. She could feel the circles like fire around her clit. Moisture was seeping out of her, and her breath was short.

"Mmm," said Marco. "You like that. How beautiful you are when you are deeply aroused." His fingers didn't stop their subtle caresses. "Soon you will reach your peak," he continued. "Soon. Already you feel the energy building, don't you. You crave a finger inside you. A cock, filling you. You long to be fucked."

Every word became true as he said it. Her legs were parted lewdly underneath her blanket, and she longed for his hand to leave her arm and touch her pussy. Privacy be damned. She was past caring. "Shh, shh," he said, pressing a finger to her lips. "Soon you will cum for me, but quietly, quietly. Pay attention to my hands." She tuned back in to the inside of her arm. His fingers were brushing her skin rapidly now, from just above her elbow to halfway down her forearm. His strokes were rapid, as if he were brushing something off her skin, and she felt each one as an electric force, pulsing against her clit.

"Yes," he said, "You're ready. Relax. Let it unfold." She realized she'd tensed every muscle in her body. With a breath, she let go. Her orgasm bloomed in her like a peony, unfurling layer after layer of iridescent pleasure. Marco's hands steadied her, one firmly behind her neck, one still tracing circles on her arm. She gasped and arched silently, on and on, and finally subsided. Pleasure still lingered at her core, sending little spasms through her. She turned to look at Marco and saw his gorgeous smile. She smiled back, and their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss.

She would have gone on kissing him. She imagine she would have climbed on his lap and ridden him if he'd asked her -- but he drew away. "Do you feel wonderful?" he asked, holding her face in his hands.

"I do." She did.

"You are delightful company," he said. "But now--let me help you sleep. After all, you'll be meeting your Mister Craness in the morning. You need to rest." He tucked the blanket around her. His fingers brushed her arm and she moaned. "Mmmm," Marco hummed at her. "But it's time for rest now. Listen to me." He moved his palm over her face, closing her eyes. "Sleep, and wake rested."

She don't think he did anything else. There was no repeated suggestion. Maybe he still had her hypnotised or maybe, replete, she was just ready to drift off. Either way, she fell asleep, and woke surprised as her breakfast tray arrived.

Read at BedPost Confessions, November 2010.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Travelogue, Chapter 2, Part 1

Well, it seems I never published chapter one of this story. I'll have to get to that. Meanwhile - enjoy.

Mr. Craness was waiting on the sidewalk as the taxi pulled up in front of one in a long line of tall row houses. A jolt of recognition ran through Penny as she glimpsed his profile. He was exactly as she’d imagined from his photographs. Perhaps the grey in his hair was less prominent in real life, and his eyes less dark. Then he stepped up to the cab and opened her door, and she saw that his smile was far warmer than she could have pictured. They paused, then, for a moment, Penny poised to disembark, Mr. Craness half bent to peer in at her, their eyes locked. His eyes crinkled appealingly, and she thought there was a hint of mockery in them. Her heart pounded. Then he extended a hand and she took it, trying to rise gracefully from her seat.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport,” he said, stepping smoothly in front of her to pay the driver and retrieve her bags. “It was project day at school, and I was required to preside.” His hand was on the small of her back, guiding her towards the stairs. She reached for the iron railing to compensate for the unsteadying influence of his touch.

“Are you alright?” he asked, moving his hand to just above her elbow. She turned toward him. She was on the first step, while he still stood on the sidewalk. His eyes were startlingly close to hers.

“I’m just nervous,” Penny managed. Mr. Craness smiled that heart-melting smile again, and began to propel her up the stairs.

“Nothing to be nervous about, my dear. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” Through her increasing haze of unreality, she examined this statement. Friends? This was not how she would have described their arrangement.

He’d taken her hand and touched her back, but no embraces or kisses had been exchanged. As he showed her to her room, now steering her firmly by the small of her back, Penny debated whether to make some affectionate gesture. Meanwhile, Mr. Craness explained that the house was not, in fact, his, but that of one of his employees. “Robert and his wife are out of the country for a few months, and they’ve put the house at my disposal,” he explained. “This way you will have your own space without feeling any obligation.”

He set down her bag on the bed of a rather plain room, furnished in modern, clean-lined teak. Penny went to the window and found a view of a row of back yards. Clouds hid the sun but she was surprised at how bright the day was. It seemed impossible that it was still morning.

“I’ll leave you here to get comfortable,” Mr. Craness was saying. Penny turned, sensing her last chance to instigate affection. Her step forward was checked by his next words. “Please remove your panties before you come out to the front room.”

It was said matter-of-factly, as if it were a house rule along the lines of “no shoes on the carpet”. If Mr. Craness noticed her startlement, he didn’t show it. He smiled congenially and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Alone, Penny looked about the room. For furniture, there were a bed, a small bedside table, a chest of drawers, and a rectangular white leather arm chair. A long white curtain at the window was the only decoration. A clothes rail hung along one wall. She was glad she’d packed lightly. Too many dresses would have disturbed the rooms peaceful spareness. All of her belongings took only a minute to put away. She opened a door and found a small bathroom. A door on the other side of the bathroom connected to what she assumed was the master bedroom. She closed it again quickly. At the tap she brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face.

“Remove your panties...” She replayed his tone in her head. There was no room for questioning. She’d agreed to come as his protégé. It seemed lessons would begin immediately. Her stomach tightened pleasurably, and she slipped off her underwear. They were a bit stiff with dried essence from her evening with Marco. She smiled at the memory. Just as well she was taking them off. Not seeing a hamper, she tucked them in the dresser’s top drawer, in another corner from the rest of her things.

She found Mr. Craness emerging from the kitchen, drinks in hand. She accepted the water he handed her. He gestured towards a bentwood dining chair, out of place in the living room next to more boxy white leather furniture. “Sit there,” he said. “I want to look at you.” He sat on the couch facing her, his knees a few inches from hers. Penny tried to adjust her posture. He was purposefully putting her ill-at-ease. Her shiver of nervousness was almost arousal.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” she ventured. She tried to make her voice sound natural but the words sounded embarrassingly out of place. He surveyed her steadily, the same appealing smile he’d greeted her with hovering about his eyes.

“I’m certain we’ll enjoy getting to know each other better,” he replied. “Now - tell me about your trip. Did you enjoy the seat I chose for you?” They chatted about her flight, which she reported as pleasantly uneventful. She felt herself relaxing slightly. Mr. Craness’s voice was reassuringly familiar from their many telephone conversations. He told her a little about his morning. Then, without any change in tone or pause for transition, he put a hand on her knee and said, “Move your chair closer and spread your legs apart.”

Penny felt her whole body flush. Awkwardly, she did as she was asked, hiking her chair forward between his knees. “Closer,” he said, and then lifted her legs so her knees sat on top of his, her hips tilted slightly up, her feet hanging against his ankles. Her skirt was rumpled, and she moved to pull it down, but his hand stopped her. “Sit up straight,” he admonished. She had to prop her hands behind her on the seat of the chair to comply. “Good,” Mr. Craness said. “Stay like that.”

It was not a particularly comfortable position. Penny was painfully aware of Mr. Craness’s eyes on her exposed pussy. She felt a faint dampness building, and hoped he couldn’t see it glisten. He smiled into her eyes as he reached out a hand. One finger traced lightly up and down her cleft. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I have only one rule to teach you, Penny. But it will require your complete attention.” His fingers glossed gently over her clitoris and traveled down her slit again. “Do I have your complete attention?” he asked.

She managed to muster her voice. “Yes, Mr. Craness.” On the telephone he had always asked her to answer him by name.

“Good,” he said. His fingers brushed and lingered. “My rule is this. You will treat me with respect.” He pinched her clit lightly, and Penny gasped. “What do you think respect means?” he asked.

Penny’s mind was not equal to the question at this moment. Her attention was on his two fingers, subtly, rhythmically, pressing and releasing her clit. Mr. Craness’s deepening smile seemed to acknowledge her difficulty. “It means, Penny, that you will be honest, obedient, and courteous. Do you think you can do that?” His fingers released her clit and resumed tracing her slickness up and down.

“Yes, Mr. Craness,” Penny replied. His finger penetrated her slowly and, unintentionally, her cunt muscles grabbed and pulled at it. She heard his low chuckle through a fog of desire.

A second finger joined the first, and his thumb returned to her clit. Her hips moved helplessly. “What a little whore you are, Penny,” she heard. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted his lips desperately. She shifted her weight to reach out for him, but his free hand pushed her back against the chair. “Stay there,” he said. His fingers fucked her. Her tits ached and her back arched towards him. His hand again pressed her backwards. The thrust of his fingers emphasized his words. “I - want - an - obedient - little - slut.” Penny’s control was rapidly slipping. Only his hand against her sternum kept her from slipping out of the chair. She cried out over and over, grinding her hips against his hand, aware only of wetness and pleasure and need.

Her orgasm crashed over her, lifting her hips into the air, pushing her head backward to hang over the chair. All that held her up were her hands on the seat, her thighs on his knees, and his fingers, deep inside her cunt. She’d wanted to be beautiful. She’d wanted to be confident and graceful and self contained. In some small corner of her mind she saw herself, straining and grunting, and knew all of that was lost.

Her legs slipped from Mr. Craness’s knees and he removed his fingers from her cunt. Her body curled forward over their interwoven knees. He didn’t object, when her forehead came to rest on his thigh. Neither did he run his fingers through her hair. It was quiet. She felt bleary and increasingly disconnected. “I want kisses,” she said, sitting up again. It came out sounding petulant. She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to look Mr. Craness in the eye. He stood, his legs still against her knees. He looked down at her.

“I imagine there will be kisses for you, pretty Penny. But you’re not here for a romantic tryst, are you? We’re not passionate lovers. We agreed you would come here as my student.” He smiled again and caressed her cheek. She could smell herself on his fingers. Seeming to catch her thought, Mr. Craness moved a finger to her mouth, and she opened her lips obediently. “I think,” he continued, “We will both enjoy your visit quite a bit.” Suckling his finger, almost floating with jet lag and arousal and confusion, Penny gave up on analysis. There’d be time enough for thinking later. Right now, she was being led to the bedroom and clean white sheets.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Six words for air

A little six-word-lines exercise.

You take my breath away.
You are my air. I'm yours.

I'll breathe when you let me.
You'll let me breathe, won't you?

Let me breathe, I need to.
I need you to let me!

You've taken my air. My need.
Not even breathing is mine now.

You're taking my breath away, you-
You're taking me. I need you.

I need breath I need air

You'll let me breathe won't you?

I need you- Gasp- my air.
I writhe and explode, desperately airless.

You are my air. I'm yours.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Straight Talk

Look, I know you think you should treat me tenderly, look into my eyes. I get that you love me. Thing is, I already know how happy you are to see me. I feel the same way. So quit wasting our time together. Let's fuck.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Garden View

I can see into my neighbor's yard from my roof. He gardens naked.

I don't go up there on purpose to watch him. In fact, he kind of offends my sensibilities: he's too skinny and I can see his balls dangle as he bends over his veggies. I like looking out further, from my airy vantage. Tree tops and chimneys. Nothing to distract from daydreams. Until today.

My neighbor may not be my type, but on a rooftop three houses down there appears to be someone smitten. Like me he has a small balcony, but mine is just a smidge higher than his. The potted plants around the edges don't conceal him from me. This guy is so my type. Grey haired and muscular. And, I tell myself, apparently gay. He's leaning over the balcony gazing at my young, nude-gardening neighbor. Below the balustrade, he has his hand on his cock.

Maybe balcony guy is bi. I imagine joining him on his perch. We could watch together. I could add my hand to his, press my breasts against his back. We'd undress each other, losing track of the gardener until our sounds of pleasure turn the tables. Gardener guy looks up and sees us, entwined above him, and suddenly his nakedness is no longer innocent. We're fucking standing up and he can see our strawberries and cantelopes, zucchini and tomatoes. His produce has been corrupted. As we cry out in orgasm, he covers himself with his hands and bolts indoors.

Of course, that's just my vengeful fantasy. I'm pulled back to reality by a whistle. Balcony guy is signaling gardener guy. Gardener guy signals back with a saucy wave. They each disappear into their houses, presumably to meet elsewhere.

All's quiet again on my rooftop. It's back to daydreams for me. There's nothing left to see.

Friday, March 18, 2011

The Little Lovers

I keep them in a fish tank. I know it sounds cruel, but believe me, it's not. They can leave anytime they want. I put in the staircase early on. Two flights up the tall glass wall, four flights down the outside to the floor. They've never made it past the first landing.

I watched them, on their first trip up. After five or six steps they stopped to exclaim at the view. One ran down to make different poses on the couch, while the other laughed and shouted directions. Before long they were together on the couch again, wrestling delightedly.

They love novelty. If I bring them a new pillow, a new bit of furniture, they welcome it enthusiastically. A few months ago I made them a private bedroom in the back corner, using construction paper to covers the glass and a bit of plywood for a roof. They made several, ecstatic "tests" of the bed, then never used it again.

Overall, they are creatures of habit. While they don't seem terribly interested in me, they are agitated if I rush through my morning and evening visits.  They relish eyes on them, though they don't make a performance out of things. It's more like they can't bear to constrain their pleasure to the confines of a box.

It's hard not to smile, watching them.

How'd I get them? They were a gift from a friend. Well, not a gift exactly. She asked me to take care of them for a few months while she was out of the country. And then she came back with this Danish guy and it just wasn't going to work. So I said, fine, I'll keep them, they're no trouble.

They're not. I mean, not in terms of taking care of them. I set up some basic plumbing to keep things clean and provide water, so that's no problem. I deliver table scraps and the occasional treat. They entertain themselves.

Sometimes they can be a bit of a mental burden, though. It can make a person feel inadequate, after a while, witnessing their unending happiness. I used to sit around and watch them a lot. A tap on the glass was enough to wake them. For a moment or two they might look at me curiously, speaking their incomprehensible babble and making gestures I could only rarely interpret. Then his arm would graze her side or she'd turn to him with a question, and they'd be back at it again, their observer forgotten.

My friend Sylvie used to pester me to take them out. Her brother-in-law's childhood neighbor had a some and he used to spy on her playing with them. For some reason the idea makes me squirm. It's alright, them together in their tank, going at it with innocent abandon. It's another to imagine myself taking part. "What would she do with them," I asked Sylvie. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

"Oh, all kind of things! Just let them roll around on her tummy, I guess. Bobby said they liked to straddle her fingers. And one time, he saw her put them down between her legs and when they climbed up again they were all-"

"God, Sylvie, that's enough!" I interrupted. 'They were all-'. Ugh. It was best not to think about it.

It must have been that conversation which started me dreaming. The dreams were disturbingly vivid. In the first one I remember, I took one out and put him between my legs on the bed. I was both him and myself at the same time, in that way that dreams can be. Imagine standing in front of a vulva as tall as you are. In my dream it was red, steaming and glistening. There was a round pink nub peaking out near the top and if I stood on tiptoe I could get my mouth around it. At the same time as my tongue explored the texture, I could feel the pleasure of slickness and tiny teeth. There was painful tugging on my pubic hair and I realized he was pulling himself up by it so he could get a better angle on my clit. His sucking and licking intensified. I felt the probing of little feet  climbing my cunt and then slipping -- too easily-- inside. I was close to orgasm, but I was terrified I'd crush his legs if I let go. And then I woke up.

The dream left me feeling disgusted with myself. I took a shower, spreading my labia to the hot spray to wash away every trace of arousal. When I saw them in their tank on the coffee table, I had to look away.

I felt guilty for neglecting them, though. When I got home from work that night I got them a dish of ice cream - a spoonful each of chocolate and vanilla in my smallest saucer. It was far more than they could eat, I knew, but I didn't feel like being parsimonious. Of course, they were thrilled. It was only moments until he'd wrestled her down into the bowl and was licking ice cream off her while she wriggled and screamed giddily about the cold. Soon she'd pulled him down beside her and was piling ice cream on his middle while he shivered and laughed. The ice cream melted to a creamy pool while they thrashed and cooed. With a sigh, I brought them a tea cup of warm water to rinse themselves in and cleaned up the puddles from the tank floor.

To be continued... after I read the complete story at BedPost Confessions in May

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

It's True

It’s true: I did beat his ass with a belt while he ate out my best friend.
When I put it like that, it sounds dirty.
It didn’t feel dirty. It felt clean. Spring rain clean. Fresh snow clean.

It’s true: She spanked him while he spanked me, bent over the side of the couch.
It sounds ridiculous, described.
For me it was bracing: like the icy crunch of fall leaves under a clear, blue sky.

It’s true: I watched while they fucked and my pussy clenched with pleasure.
It sounds perverted, maybe, in so many words.
But the moment confounded me with its beauty.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Red Riding Hood and the Wolf

Little Red Riding Hood grew up kinky. Who wouldn’t, after those early childhood experiences with a wolf? Especially the part where he devoured her.

One foggy night Red went to a party, dressed in her favorite crimson dress. The men gathered around her, but her attention fixed on one: The guy with the glint in his eyes that told her he was a hunter. She wasn’t at the party for more than a drink or two before they left together, his hand on her arm.

He walked her to his car, but she pulled him across the street into the park. It was dark among the trees. Glimmers of street lamp stood in for the moon. He growled into her ear and Red arched her back against a tree. “Eat me,” she urged, and he knelt down between her legs, ravenous.

The smell of Red overwhelmed him. He dove into her and licked and sucked as he never had before. He bit her gently, then harder, as her cries of pleasure swirled around him. Time seemed to stand still. He felt as if he’d never be done with her until he’d consumed her. The taste of blood filled his mouth. And then - someone was pulling on him, hard, from behind.

He tried to resist. He braced his feet in the grass and searched for a grip on her thighs. But something strange was going on. He couldn’t fold his arms around her. There was a terrible pain at the base of his spine. Someone was pulling his - Tail?

With a howl, he let go of Red. Helpless with confusion, he loped away.

Red smiled at the man now standing in front of her. He was tall and rugged and his belt was already undone. “There you are,” she breathed. “Hard and ready as ever. Fuck me, my woodman.” And he did.

Read interstitially at BedPost Confessions, November, 2010