I’ve known plenty of weird people in my day. A certain percentage of them have actually had some sort of malfunction, the tamest being eating disorders. I mean, which is more serious, playing chicken with a train, shooting heroin or making yourself barf after a few bags of Fritos? But of all the disorders, eating or otherwise, the weirdest was Wayne’s. Wayne’s disorder was along the eating line, but it was sexual as well. See, he could only really get off while he was eating. Food, I mean.

Seems he discovered his particular kink one day after numerous ho-hum sexual escapades. Somehow he had never made the connection that his best masturbating had been in front of the TV, bag of Cheez Doodles or similar junk by his side, mesmerized by a bad music video, munching on snackies with one hand and pumping away at his cock with the other. Seems he just figured that was normal. No, it took a piece of gum, of all things, for him to recognize that his brand of orgasms only came, so to speak, when he was chewing.

He’d suffered through about two hours of excruciating foreplay with an extremely sexy young thing named Rita when she had finally acquiesced and spread her legs for him. As it happened, he was chewing a fairly large wad of Bubble Yum at the time. When he’d been sliding in and out of sexy Rita for a sufficient duration, he says, his orgasm peaked and just about knocked him out. Now, mind you, this guy was no novice. He just hadn’t ever been so blown away by an orgasm before. I asked him if perhaps it had been sexy Rita, but he said no, she was more or less run-of-the-mill. No, he was convinced it was the gum.

So, for the next year he carried a pocket full of gum with him, sandwiched between his car keys and his condoms, and every time sex seemed imminent, he’d stuff his mouth full of gum and get his rocks off while chewing away. It became a bit of a game, he said, sometimes popping in a wad just before he shot his, climaxing one particular time simultaneously with the oozings of a handful of FreshenUp. There was something about the juiciness, he said. Yes, I see, I said. I didn’t really, though.

Lying on the tar roof of our apartment building, we would attempt amateur analysis of his fascination with chewing to achieve orgasm. He would try to explain how he felt at the exact moment of climax, how it felt to have his salivary glands squirting in stereo with his gonads. I asked if his mother had withheld breastfeeding or anything Freudian like that, and he mulled the thought over a bit before responding that if she had, there was no way he could remember it now. When he finally unearthed the munching-cum-masturbating connection, I pronounced the solution discovered, case closed. He had whelped his sexuality while feeding. Wayne, however, was convinced it was deeper than that.

The only way to get to the bottom of it was through experimentation. With me, of course. I felt surprisingly game. And Wayne was bordering on desperate. I told him to bring a bag full of his favorite foods over to my apartment and we’d see just how excited he could get.

The next night Wayne arrived with a bag full of junk food. Well, which is your favorite, I asked him, almost nauseated by the array of garbage: Oreos, Pepperidge Farm Goldfish, peanut M&M’s, nacho cheese tortilla chips. I had purchased a few snackies myself, things I thought would be easier to eat while having sex than, say, a pint of Haagen Dazs. Come here, I told him, I have an idea.

I peeled off my t-shirt and shorts and Wayne did the same. I was wet with anticipation of this new kind of sex. And Wayne was always hard. I must admit that my first glimpse of his cock had my salivary glands fairly excited. He was extremely appetizing. Anyway, I slipped one of those elastic candy necklaces around my neck, laid back on my bed and told Wayne to climb aboard. Just nibble on a piece of candy every minute or so, I told him. And keep nibbling right through. See how it feels. Well, the ever-cooperative Wayne slid his cock into me, holding himself up on his arms, and as he pumped slowly in and out he started to crunch away at my candy necklace.

Sweat and drool dribbled over me as Wayne was transported to another place. He was practically crying as his hips thrust crazily into me and he devoured the tiny pastel beads of sugar from my neck. He arched his back, bit down on the last bead and shrieked, and I knew he’d had the rockin’est orgasm of his life. After sniveling and snuggling into my sugar-coated neck for a few minutes, he confirmed my suspicion. That was the best. Unbelievable. The absolute best ever.

But it wasn’t. They got better as Wayne and I spent weeks on end exploring every food imaginable. He’d fuck me from behind with a bucket of popcorn on my back. We’d fuck standing up, me feeding him peanut M&M’s, popping them in one at a time, then cramming an entire handful into his mouth just before he came. Over time, his hunger for sex increased as his appetite for certain foods diminished. His orgasms became more mind-blowing with each type of food we eliminated until the only things that got him off were the goldfish and the peanut M&M’s.

In an attempt at variety, I convinced him to let me give him head and, handing him a can of whipped cream, I told him to shoot a load of the sweet, sticky cream into his mouth at the same time he was shooting his sweet, sticky cream into mine. He said that way sounded like fun, but that he preferred to have me feeding him while he came. He seemed certain that the actual motion of my cramming the food in increased his pleasure. Not exactly doable when giving head, considering that I would be otherwise occupied at the opposite end of his body, engaged in cramming his tasty morsel into my mouth.

I became convinced that his mother had taken her breasts away from him at exactly the wrong time or in a decidedly nasty fashion. It was about time I did the same thing with his food supply. I mean, how much longer could he possibly go on chewing and coming at the same time? How many women would be as understanding—and patient—as I had been? It was getting annoying, with all the gnashing and crunching in my ear, when what I wanted to hear was sweet nothings. Or at the very least some dirty talk. It was high time Wayne learned to come without a mouthful.

At first I tried weaning him with ice cubes, figuring that if he had something to crunch on he’d be happy. I tried big earrings and told him, here, chew on these! But neither the ice cubes nor the plastic earrings gave him that salivary jolt, he said. He needed to feel his orgasm in his taste buds as well as his testicles. I tried smearing my shoulders with jelly, which Wayne said was better than the earrings, but still didn’t offer the full experience of chewing.

Eventually I became exasperated. Wayne wasn’t making any effort whatsoever to wean himself, whining, instead, that it had taken him years to discover the key to explosive orgasms and he wasn’t about to give them up. In fact, since his dick more or less just laid there, limp against his leg, unless his mouth was full of his beloved goldfish or M&M’s, his orgasms had become more explosive but limited. Not even plain M&M’s would do the trick. I cut him off completely.

Wayne and I eventually drifted apart. I hear he hooked up with a sales rep from M&M/Mars. It would take a true junk food enthusiast to make him happy and I hope he’s found himself one. Me, I’m still single, but at least I don’t have a bed full of crumbs anymore. Although I do wind up with the occasional gum chewer, I haven’t had any trouble finding guys who don’t chomp in my ear. And if they’re a little less than spectacular in bed, I’ve found that sucking on a throat lozenge or something will usually insure that I experience an orgasm.

I sat in the doctor’s office, trying to read a magazine that was about 15 months old. The place smelled the same way every doctor’s office had ever smelled to me, as though I’d been stuffed into a box of Band-Aids. I’ve never actually seen the stockpiles of bandages it would take to emit such an overwhelming scent. Could it be that Band-Aids just have extremely strong smell molecules?

The nurse called out my name and I stood, following her into a small, antiseptic room full of mysterious mechanisms. I was instructed to disrobe and slip into one of those charming paper robes that never quite covers your body and crinkles when you sit down. The room was arctic. I sat, crinkling, on the examination table, clutching the outdated magazine.

I’d read about this new form of birth control in a few women’s magazines before seeing a piece about it on Lifetime. It sounded rather organic, in comparison with all the other relatively intrusive birth control methods. And I had hoped that it would be easier on my body. Everything else I’d tried had affected me in some detrimental way or another. Missed periods, immobilizing cramps, excruciating headaches. This sounded like a pleasant alternative.

It had been invented, more or less by accident, by a female scientist who was peripherally involved in studying those superconductors that were supposed to revolutionize mass transit. Unwittingly, she had revolutionized sex. Her little invention had not yet been “approved” by the proper government authorities, but with the new rulings of 1996 that freed up companies to be more experimental with their technologies and medications if it would produce a happier, healthier and less-expensive-to-maintain citizen, proper approval was no longer necessary. Of course, they had conducted extensive tests. I was confident that it was a safe method.

The way it was supposed to work was this: After determining a woman’s personal electromagnetic field, she would be “fitted” with some sort of electrically charged sheath that would invisibly envelop her entire body. It would be a barrier of charged particles and these particles would not only prevent pregnancy but sexually transmitted diseases as well. Since an AIDS cure had yet to be found, this was heralded as the savior of the sexual revolution. I considered it merely a savior of my personal sexuality and, without fully understanding exactly how the apparatus was going to work, made an appointment for a “fitting.”

The doctor swept into the little room with an efficient swish and flourish of her clipboard. I had filled out pages and pages of personal information, so there weren’t too many things this woman didn’t know about me. All that remained to be done was my reading, or whatever. After going through the usual physician’s patter of how “we” were doing, she asked me to lie back on the paper-covered table and relax. She pulled a piece of machinery that resembled the X-ray machines dentists once flashed at your purported cavities and explained that she would be running this machine up and down my body, recording my electromagnetic resonance. Fine by me.

The entire process was painless and lasted only a few minutes. She followed it with a standard gynecological examination that was augmented by various measurements of my internal electromagnetic resonances. I wondered if any of the doctor’s tools were like tuning forks—if I was vibrating at a particularly pleasant wavelength.

I asked the doctor how long it would take to manufacture my personal veil of ions, or whatever they were, and she told me I’d be walking out of her office with it hovering around me. She then attempted to explain to me exactly how the thing worked in what were supposed to be layperson’s terms, but most of it was lost on me. The only words I cared about were “virtually maintenance free” (a quick mental knee jerk at the ambiguous word “virtually”) and “99.9 percent effective.” After I’d sat shivering on the crunchy paper listening to her crypto-pseudo-explanation for an interminable amount of time, she told me to get dressed and take a seat in the waiting room.

Listening to the Muzak and reading my outdated periodical, I found myself worrying just the slightest little bit. This thing really hadn’t been tested—at least not tested the way other birth control devices had been. I was less concerned about its birth control efficacy than sexually transmitted disease preventiveness; the fact that these charged particles might affect me in some way wholly unrelated to my reproductive system lurked behind the other looming worries. But what the hell, eh?

I had read the dog-eared magazine cover to cover and worked myself into a stomachache thinking about all the possible horror-movie things that my new electro-shield could do to me when the doctor called me back into the little room.

“All of your information has been fed into our computers and we have devised the proper field for you. All you have to do now is step up here,” and she gently pulled my arm, moving me to a small, raised black metal square, “and stand on this lead box. I’ll be aiming a number of beams, shall we say, at you. And I’ll be leaving the room. It only takes a few minutes and is relatively painless.” Relatively? The look on my face caused her to reassure me almost immediately. “You will feel a certain anxiety-provoking sensation. It will feel like your heart is racing—and it will be. Most people say it feels like an acute case of stage fright. But it will be over in no time. Good luck.”

And she left me alone with the machines and impending beams. I heard her voice over a tinny intercom tell me to take my clothes off again. After I’d tossed my underpants onto the crunchy paper table and returned to the lead box, she told me to relax and breathe. Why is it that you’re always told to breathe in these situations? It’s pretty involuntary, for crissakes. I breathed as instructed and nodded when she asked me if I was ready.

The lights went out and I heard a faint humming noise that reminded me of the way electric power lines used to hum. It got louder until it blocked out all the other sounds. A small rivulet of sweat ran down my cleavage. Nerves are a funny thing, that I could actually be sweating in this refrigerator! Then I felt a strange vibration in my brain, as though my hair were growing. My eyeballs felt like they were rattling in their sockets. My teeth started clicking and I tried to stop them by pushing my tongue between them, but the clicking wasn’t between my uppers and lowers; it seemed to be between each individual tooth.

The vibrating spread through my body until I felt like I was levitating. Its severity escalated from a small humming, like what you might feel in an old rattling elevator, to an intense internal quaking. Much more than my heart was racing—it felt like every molecule in my body was about to burst out of its orbit. Just as I was about to scream that I couldn’t take it anymore, the vibrating shifted to my crotch and, for a moment, it was concentrated on my sex, in my very core. The next thing I knew my knees were shaking as I experienced the most effortless orgasm of my life. It was unbelievably fast and I felt it deep, deep inside. For a few seconds I was sure my eyes had rolled back into my head, and I wondered if this was a normal side effect of the procedure. Surely the doctor had witnessed my short snatch of ecstasy through her little observation window. I could feel every molecule of blood, each individual corpuscle, rushing to my cheeks, which felt about the size of overripe pumpkins. Then it was over.

For a few seconds I was in the dark, feeling numb, as much from my orgasm as from my scrambled ions. Neither had proved at all debilitating, just draining, and my knees were a bit wobbly. When the lights came on again my cheeks had returned to their normal cheek-size feeling, but as soon as the doctor came in, the receding corpuscles returned and I hoped she would launch into some speech about the side effects of the procedure and distract me. Staring intently at her clipboard, she did exactly that. Perhaps this was a common occurrence with the procedure, all the clitoral molecules getting shaken around and stimulated to the point of orgasm. If so, it was good of her to avert her gaze while I wrangled with my embarrassment. The art of bedside manners wasn’t lost after all.

“For a few days you may periodically experience the same feeling of anxiety,” she told me authoritatively. “This is similar to the way your skin may hurt for days after a sunburn. Or how muscles feel sore a few days after a strenuous workout. It’s merely a lingering reaction to agitated nerves. It will lessen with time and eventually disappear.”

I mumbled an “Mm-mm” to let her know that I understood and she continued.

“You may also feel slightly disoriented. And your depth perception—you know, balance and such—may be a bit off as well.” Funny how this was all coming out after the procedure. Not a word of such minor inconveniences as falling on my ass beforehand. “The bottom line,” she added flippantly, “is that you won’t feel 100 percent yourself. Keep in mind that although no incisions were made, you have undergone a fairly involved physical alteration. It will take a while for your body to adjust.” And with a flip of her clipboard and another muffled mumble from me, she was gone.

I was already feeling anxious and still reeling from the after-effects of that strange orgasm. I couldn’t tell exactly why it was that I found myself unable to properly process my thoughts and decided that the best thing to do would be to get home, maybe administer some good old-fashioned Haagen Dazs, take a nap and hope for the best upon awakening. I fumbled with my clothes, struggling for an alarming–and laughable—amount of time with my bra hooks. It felt as though it took me an hour to get dressed and once I was ready to leave I had a bit of trouble getting the door open. I kept trying to push out rather than pull in. This, too, struck me, at the time, as laughable. I sort of felt like I’d eaten a few magic mushrooms or something. Not quite high, exactly, but not with it, either.

The trip home was equally slow and silly. I kept taking wrong turns, hailing taxis that had passengers, transposing numbers and and hearing voices. I couldn’t get to my couch fast enough. I changed out of my clothes, turned on a movie channel and fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up a few hours later in a sweat. My hair was matted to my head and my robe was twisted around me, and I felt as if I’d just had an exhilirating hour’s worth of wild sex. My chest was flushed as it is after I come and my cunt was slick and swollen. I smelled my fingers to see if I had been masturbating in my sleep, which I found pretty fucking unlikely, but it certainly felt as though I had been. Boy, when the doctor said I wouldn’t be feeling 100 percent myself, she wasn’t kidding. I had woken up feeling post-orgasmic maybe once or twice before in my life, and even then I hadn’t exhibited any physical evidence, only that “feeling.” I figured it would pass.

Over lunch the next day I related my mysterious sexual nonevent to Clair, my know-it-all coworker and resident sexpert, and she rattled on for a half hour about machinery that cybertypes used to alter their brainwaves to enhance their sex.

“There are all kinds of things you can get plugged into, connected up with, whatever, that are supposed to make you come,” she enthused. “They’ve been doing it for years, you know, those edgey types that are always looking for new thrills. They heralded all the chips and bytes as the sex of the 90s, but no one has really been able to completely forgo actual physical contact, regardless of the inherent danger.” That made sense to me. I’d rather go without than have sex with a bunch of electrodes. “Anyway, maybe the rays or whatever they shot at you were along the same lines. You know, electronic stimulation of some sort that did more than just provide you with a birth control device. It sounds like you got a bonus!” And she smiled a huge smile at me.

“Oh, great,” I grumbled, “and when I’m at work, in the middle of a presentation, I can pause for a moment, let my eyes roll back in their sockets, shake like I’m some possessed voodoo woman, have my little orgasm and then go back to my sales projections. Just great!”

“Well, I can see where it might be a bit intrusive, but, well, I would think you’d be able to control it after a while. Don’t you?” She looked at me hopefully and then mused, “Maybe I should get myself one of those devices.” Her eyes sort of glazed over and I knew I’d lost her. She didn’t seem to think I had much of a problem. And maybe I didn’t. I’d wait and see. It had been a few hours now, and no orgasms. Yet.

I suppose the thing to do at that point would have been to ask the doctor if anyone else had reported any similar side effects, but the truth was I was too embarrassed. I would just wait, I thought, and see if the sensations passed, along with all the feelings of disorientation and anxiety. After about a week I had noticed that I was no longer walking into walls or mixing up my addresses and phone numbers. I hadn’t felt any real physical effects since the first day or two. I felt almost completely normal. Except for the orgasms. They hadn’t stopped. And they weren’t normal. They would come at merely inconvenient—as opposed to inopportune—times, like in a public restroom when there were women on line behind me. I would have to wait until the waves of pleasure had ebbed before I could get up off the toilet. See, they were fairly incapacitating orgasms. Not your ordinary, garden variety at all. One hit me in the elevator on my way up to a friend’s apartment for dinner. I was grateful that no one else got on between floors and was able to pass off my flushed cheeks and loss of breath as having taken the stairs instead of the elevator. “I need the exercise,” I told Melissa. She just nodded and looked at me like I was crazy.

The worst one—or should I say the best—hit me at home, thankfully. I was standing in front of my bathroom mirror, combing mascara onto my morning-heavy eyelashes when that same warm feeling came over me, just exactly like when I was standing in the examination room. It seemed to be a product as much of my head as my genitals, if that makes any sense. And as my eyes rolled back. I saw flowers, beautiful, blossoming flowers like giant, enveloping Georgia O’Keefe paintings, all around me, and then I felt the most amazing sensation, from the center of my cunt to the tips of my ears. I came to, so to speak, on the floor, tears rolling down my face and every nerve in my body feeling raw and exposed. When I managed to get back to my feet, not only were my chest and face flushed, but my ears were a bright pink as well. I sat down, weakly, on the toilet and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. One time soon this was going to happen when someone else was around, and then what was I going to do?

But it didn’t. Every day or two the orgasms would come, but always when I was alone. After a while I started talking to myself about them. “Wow, that was a good one,” or “Jesus, that one’s gonna wipe me out for the rest of the day.” And it wasn’t too long before I imagined someone answering me. “Thanks,” I would conjure. “We’ll just see about you being wiped out.” And I would laugh at my ability to converse with myself. Quite a lively imagination, huh?

The orgasms themselves seemed to be taking on a personality. They seemed to be somehow related, or in reaction, to how I was feeling at the time. If I was feeling particularly irritable or impatient, the whole thing would be over in seconds, allowing me to right myself and get on with whatever I’d been doing. If I was feeling at all horny, they would last for long, exhausting minutes, and I would be reduced to a mass of nerves for a good half hour. And on one occasion, when I was actually indulging in a bit of fantasizing about this sexy guy I’d had my eye on, the usual warm feeling came over me and then, just as I was about to peak, just as I was ready to come, it stopped, and…nothing. I was left feeling totally frustrated and even my manual attempts at completion were futile. I had been right there on the edge and then it was too late. That episode had me irked for the longest time. And it was then that I began to suspect the orgasms had nothing whatsoever to do with me.

Ah, those words seem so strange. The orgasms had everything to do with me in that they were happening to me. It was my body experiencing them. But they were not being caused by me, by my mind or my hand. They were the product of a separate entity, the effect of some remote cause. It had gone beyond my not having any control over their onset. That had always been the case. I just found it strange that never once had I been overwhelmed by one of the mysterious orgasms during a meeting, an uncomfortably crowded bus ride or one of my feared presentations. But following even the most obliquely sexual interlude, that familiar warmth would wash through me, almost always culminating in orgasm. After an unsuccessful date I would be treated to an hour of foreplay and then a swooning, swimming multiple orgasm, almost as if someone were trying to make up for my unpleasant evening. If, however, a date was a success, I would be left feeling a bit used. And on the one occasion that I actually managed to get myself laid, a few hours after I got home, showered and put in a load of laundry, I was wracked by an extremely rough and painful orgasm right in the laundry room that left me feeling downright violated.

Finally I decided to give the doctor a call. I was forced to leave a rather cryptic message with the receptionist and wondered if the doctor would even bother returning my call. And what I would say to her when she did. The first thing she wanted to know was if I was experiencing any pain. No. Dizziness? No. Memory loss? Disorientation? Bleeding? Numbness? No, no, no and no. Thank God. She had never mentioned any of these side effects. I told her my problems were a bit more cerebral. “Headaches?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. I would have to be more specific. How embarrassing. I recounted my initial orgasmic episode during my “fitting” and she chuckled reassuringly, saying that many women who were clitorally orgasmic experienced a pleasant sensation during their fitting. Some even had the pleasure of an actual orgasm, as I had, but it wasn’t an overly common occurrence.

“Has anyone reported any lingering similar, uh, effects?” I asked her.

“Lingering orgasms?” she said, laughing. “Not that I know of, but, gee, imagine if there were a way to market that…” I could imagine her eyes glazing over just as my sexpert friend’s had that day at lunch. Spontaneous, effortless orgasms may sound, I admit, very appealing, but they had no idea how disconcerting it was to have no control over your own body. I wanted orgasms when, well, when I wanted orgasms. And not at any other time. She proved useless.

I didn’t know who else to call. It had crossed my mind, oh, maybe a thousand times that I was imagining the whole thing, or that I was causing the orgasms myself without being conscious of it. In these moments of self-doubt I thought that perhaps I should be seeing a shrink of some sort. I got the number of a woman I’d met at a party through a friend and made an appointment for the following evening.

After I plopped onto a plain sofa in a barren, beige-walled office and we exchanged a few words of reacquaintance, Dr. Caroline pressed her fingertips together and looked at me gravely. “So, what brings you here, Elizabeth?”

I hurriedly explained my “situation,” trying hard not to sound too out of my mind. She listened intently, as I assumed all therapists must, and nodded any time my voice rose in question. I explained that as far as I knew I had no repressed sexual desires or anything, that I’d always been able to express my sexuality in fulfilling ways, in an attempt to keep her from taking a Freudian route with me. She asked if I was under any particular stress lately, any changes in lifestyle, sleeping patterns, anything of that sort. I assured her that the only changes I’d been going through were these nerve- and body-racking unexpected orgasms.

She thought for a few moments and then asked, “Would you like to have children someday?”

I furrowed my brow and answered with a convincing “No,” and followed it with a quick “Why do you ask?” before I could stop myself. As the patient, I wasn’t supposed to be the one asking the questions.

“Well, it seems to me that your subconscious may be in rebellion against your conscious effortsd to control your body. You are, in fact, experiencing a lack of control, correct?”

I had to give her that. “Uh-huh,” I answered.

“Do you think it could be possible that, deep inside, you really would like to have a family? That this liberating new technology is providing you with the exact opposite of what you truly, deeply desire?”

“You mean, do I think that all this is happening because of a subconscious desire to have kids?” I asked increduously. “No, I don’t think so. Definitely not. I’m afraid you’re missing the point.” And she stopped me.

“Well, I may be, but I think you should give it some thought. I’m sorry, but our time is up. Perhaps you’d like to continue this discussion next week?”

And I got out of there. In a totally agitated state. Disgusted with myself for having wasted my time. For having wasted her time. My problem was not psychological. It was, without a doubt, something outside of me. Maybe this force field of mine was causing these orgasms. That was the only explanation I could come up with. They certainly had nothing to do with my subconscious. I had no desire, subconscious or otherwise, to have children. And I resented her for suggesting that I did.

On my way home I stopped for Chinese take-out, but once I got there, I didn’t have the stomach for it. Instead, I decided to take a bath. This should soothe my nerves, I told myself, as I poured the aromatic salts into the stream of steaming water. Maybe some tea would be nice, too, I thought, and left the tub to fill.

It had been a few days, 63 hours to be exact, since my last “visit.” I was tense with anticipation, figuring that I was about due. And if “it” did, indeed, have a personality, then it had to know that I was plotting its demise. I started to panic, believing that now the power of suggestion would be so strong that there’d be no way I’d get through the night without another episode.

I armed myself with three magazines, a Stephen King novel (probably not too bright, given my circumstances), a huge mug of hot peppermint tea and a loofa, and slipped into the scented bathwater. After a few sips of tea, I felt sufficiently relaxed and leaned back, closing my eyes. All I could hear was the steady drip from the tap, and I moved my legs to let it splash on to my knee instead of into the water. Ahh, silence.

I awoke with a start—and a splash.I must have dozed off. I’d been having a vaguely sexy dream, but since my body didn’t feel at all ravaged, I wrote it off as a release of tension rather than a “visit.” My bathwater had grown tepid, so I boosted myself out of the tub and toweled off, wrapping myself in my ratty terrycloth robe.Convinced that the herbal tea had done the trick, I put more water on to boil and transferred my reading materials from the bathroom to my bedside. I located the TV remote—just in case—and piled it with all the rest of my anti-insomnia artillery. The whistling teapot called me to the kitchen and I plopped another teabag into my mug, drowning it in steaming water. Now I was ready.

Halfway through my tea and still caught up in Stephen King’s intro, I felt my eyes crossing. I slid down under my comforter and pulled my pillow over my head. I wanted to leave the lights on, just in case. In case of what? I wondered as I drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t as if light would keep my “entity” at bay…

I woke up in a sweat, tangled up in sheets and the ties of my robe. Strands of my hair were caught in my mouth, wet with drool. My pelvis was bucking, and for a horrifying moment all I could think of was that scene from The Exorcist when Linda Blair is shrieking, “Mommy, make it stop!” My knees were pushed apart and I caught a powerful whiff of my own sexual excitement. I felt swollen. And hot. I tried to pull my knees together and couldn’t.

Mind you, the entire episode was over in minutes—at least minutes after I woke up—so although it all sounds incredibly surreal, I simply didn’t have the time to think about reality as it was happening. After my knees were forced open, my hands were pinned to the bed above my head and, I swear, I was looking for secret messages to be carved into my belly. Instead, I felt my nipples being tugged on and teased. Invisible thumbs pressed into my thighs and I felt tiny puffs of hot air snuffling into my crotch.

I squirmed as something warm and wet slithered into my folds and caressed my protruding clitoris. I was creeped out but cramped with a ghastly emptiness until an insistent, nonexistent cock filled me up and began slamming into me, again and again. The headboard banged against the wall with each ghostly thrust, and I felt an orgasm welling up inside me where the invisible energy was concentrated. I arched my hips up to meet an impalpable pelvis, surrendering at last to the ministrations of someone who wasn’t even there, crying out to no one, “Yes, oh yes! Deeper! Deeper! God, it feels incredible!”

My orgasm literally shook the bed, rattled every nerve in my body and interrupted the synapses firing in my brain. I slept.

When I came to, it was after noon and daylight was sprawled across my bedroom floor. I felt…comfy, curled up and safe. Sexually satisfied. I felt as though I’d woken up from the midst of a pleasant dream. Until I realized that I’d fallen asleep following a nightmare. Well, not really. It had actually turned out to be pretty good. A good nightmare. Or at least one with a happy ending. I was boggled.

As I shuffled into the kitchen, carrying my mug, a bracing sip of the cold peppermint tea transported me back: to my bath, to my bed and to those few, fleeting moments of Twilight Zone-inspired sex. This episode had been different from the others. This time I came away feeling elated, rather than violated. As scary as it had started out to be, the end result, aside from a deep sleep, was a feeling of well-being, a happy, warm glow. I mused a bit: Mmm, perhaps plotting my invisible power’s demise wasn’t such a good idea after all.

That was almost a year ago now and, although I haven’t gone so far as to drag my entity to the altar, we have come to a bit of an understanding. He’s around to augment my sex life when it needs augmenting, and he has learned to graciously step aside when I’m lucky enough to score some flesh-borne sex. I’ll admit, it is a strange arrangement, but technology is sometimes a strange thing. And an ordinary condom could never make me come.

I rang apartment 4B and waited to be buzzed in. The work order said multiple jacks, but I never would’ve guessed I’d be jacking off multiple times, fantasizing about the lovely occupant of 4B.

“Coming!” I heard a high-pitched voice call out. And then the door opened.

“Hi, I’m Rose,” she said.

I gulped. After taking in every inch of this lady’s adorable little kewpie doll face, I lowered my eyes. I just couldn’t look her in the eye a second longer, she was that beautiful. She had crystal blue eyes with a devilish gleam, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and a big, ripe red smile, with dimples about a mile deep. Her hair was the strangest color, strawberry blonde, almost, but really more pink. Like cotton candy.

Looking down, I saw the most perfect set of pink toes I’d ever seen. And each of her tiny toenails was painted in frosty polish the exact same color as her hair. My throat constricted. And I could barely breathe when she asked, “So, uh, Frank, I guess you’re here to install my phone lines.” She must’ve read the name stitched across my uniform pocket. My mouth was watering like crazy.

“Uh, yes,” I managed to gasp, and Rose opened the door for me.

I stepped into her apartment and sank a few inches into her deep pile shag. Pink deep pile shag. “This way,” she said, and she waved me into her living room.

“Where do you want ‘em?” I asked, still staring at her feet. She was wearing a pair of shiny pink patent leather sandals that wound around her feet like licorice whips. So much of her feet showed through the straps that it was almost as if she wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. Almost.

“Oh, just start at this corner and work your way around the room,” she answered, obviously not minding the attention I was paying her pretty little feet. It’s a good thing I had brought so many jacks. I set down my tools and prepared to get to work.

Miss Rose checked on me every once in a while, looming over me in her shiny sandals each time, giving me a tantalizing up-close view of her toes. They were right in front of my face as I lay on my stomach, pressed into the shag carpet, drilling into her baseboards. She wiggled them enticingly and I almost installed a jack right into the back of my hand.

I spent the next few afternoons flat on my belly in Rose’s deep pile shag. I must’ve put in about 20 lines, and although I secretly dreamed that she was only having me come back day after day because she enjoyed my company, or maybe the way my work pants kinda hung off my ass, I finally had to ask her about the peculiar number of jacks she was getting.

“Oh, I think I’m gonna start up a phone sex business,” she answered, standing beside me and wiggling those toes of hers some more. “Or maybe some computer sex thing. They say it’s where the future is.”

Rose was standing over me, her feet just inches from my face. I could smell the sweat between her adorable toes. Hell, I could practically taste it! That, and the smell of the leather of her strappy little sandals was just about driving me mad. My hard-o

n was trapped between my belly and the deep pile shag, and I knew that with only a couple of humps against her fancy carpet, I’d be shooting my wad right in my work pants.

“Well, hon, I’ve got to get ready for a big date. You go right on working.” And Rose was gone, her sandals leaving tiny spike-heeled shoe prints in the carpet behind her.

While she was in the shower, I had to jack off. Just thinking about her, all pink and naked, the water running over her ripe, luscious body, got me so hard I couldn’t see straight. I sat up and unzipped my pants, and my cock sprang out eagerly. It only met with my spit-slippery palm, though, and not pretty Miss Rose, but after a few strokes it didn’t matter so much. I yanked on my stiff prick a few more times and groaned, spraying my hot seed into my fist.

I quickly cleaned myself up, wiping my spunk on my work rag, before Miss Rose came out of her room, wrapped in a towel.

“I’m about finished for the day, Miss Rose,” I said, packing up my tools.

“Okay, Frankie,” she said, seeing me to the door. “See ya tomorrow!”

It was my last day and I knew it. There was no way her walls could hold another jack. So if I was gonna make a move, this would have to be the day. I was on my belly again, trying to concentrate on the job to keep my cock from climbing out of my pants when Rose strolled over to inspect the job I was doing on this latest–and last–phone plug.

She was barefoot. I gazed halfway up her taut calves and, well, let me tell you, this poor guy had taken about all he could take. I squirmed over and slid my tongue right between her toes. Thankfully, Rose giggled and, feeling encouraged, I continued. I worked my way between every toe, slurping and licking. I swore I could taste sugary cotton candy as I lapped away at her pearly toenails, first one foot, then the other, bathing her pretty peds in my salty saliva. My cock was aching as I practically ground it into her carpet, so to give myself some relief, I lifted my ass up, got onto my hands and knees and continued my tongue-worshipping all the way up her tight, young calves.

“Ooh, honey, that is soooo nice,” she squealed as I slopped my tongue up to her kneecap. I could hardly hear her with the blood pounding in my ears. All I knew was that I wanted to feel her beautiful toes on my cock, my poor, stiff, trapped, throbbing cock.

I gave the inside of her left thigh a quick flick of my tongue and then worked my way back down the front of her calf, stopping to suck on her fragile ankle bone. When I tried to slide my tongue along the arch of her foot, I wound up with a mouthful of carpet fuzz. “Ummph,” I grunted, my ass half in the air.

“Oh, babe, why don’t I make you a bit more comfortable?” Rose cooed. And again, I almost came in my pants.

She strode ahead of me, urging me on, but I stayed on my hands and knees, following her like an obedient puppy. She led me into her bedroom and plopped herself down on the bed, her feet dangling in front of my face. I didn’t need a cue. I tenderly cupped her ankle in my palm and guided her toes into my slathering mouth.

I sucked and slurped, nursing on her tasty pink toes, getting deep between each one, savoring the slight salty taste of her sweat as it slid over my taste buds and down my eager throat. I tried my damnedest to get her whole foot into my mouth, and I just about made it, too, taking her in almost up to her arching instep. Then I slid that foot out again and started on the other, coating every square inch of it with my adoring tongue. I even managed to slow down a bit. I wanted to gorge myself on her appetizing toes forever.

When I had thoroughly bathed both of Rose’s pink little peds with my mouth and my tongue, I gathered up every ounce of courage I had and asked her, still gazing down upon her sparkling pink feet, “Miss Rose?” I asked. “Miss Rose, may I please feel the caress of your soft, perfect feet on my cock?”

“Of course you can, sweetie,” Rose giggled, wriggling her toes.

I gratefully unzipped my work pants and released my throbbing prick. There it stood, angry red and hard as a rock, and I was almost blinded by the thought of Miss Rose’s toes sliding along its shaft. I pushed my pants down till they were around my ankles and then stretched out on my back, feeling the scratch of the shag carpet. I laid there, holding my breath, waiting to see what Miss Rose would do next. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and listened to my heart pounding away in my chest. It felt like if she didn’t do something fast, it might explode right there on her rug.

Just before every blood cell in my body burst, I felt the slightest little tickle at the base of my cock. Rose’s tender toes gave my balls a little squeeze and I groaned. She worked her 10 little piggies over the throbbing flesh of my thighs, my belly, my groin, teasing me. She was taking care to touch every inch of me, all around my cock, but not actually on my cock. No, not yet. I could feel her toenails digging into the flesh of my thighs and when she gripped my balls with her toes a second time, she really gave ‘em a squeeze!

I was feeling light-headed from the lack of oxygen. I couldn’t remember having taken a breath since I’d laid down. No, only quick little gasps for air. And then I felt Miss Rose’s feet slide up the hot shaft of my cock. Mmm, they felt so cool and dry. I looked down and saw those two precious feet, gleaming clean from the footbath I had given them, sliding slowly along my twitching prick. She pressed the soft, delicate skin of her insteps against my cock, trapping it, and I had to shut my eyes again for fear I’d lose it right there.

“It’s okay, baby,” Rose whispered. “Come for me. Come all over my pink little toes.”

Oh, man, oh man! With my eyes still screwed tight, I saw the fireworks of a million Fourth of Julys explode inside my head. I took a big gulp of air and held it, wanting those few precious seconds to last the rest of my life. And then Miss Rose started sliding her tiny feet up and down, up and down the shaft of my aching cock.

The sounds that came out of my throat were like something in a caveman movie. And still I managed to contain the come that was insistently attempting to explode all over the pink walls of Miss Rose’s bedroom. But when I felt her take my pulsing cock between her feet, and when she started moving those feet along my shaft, pumping suggestively, in, out, in, out, I had to see–had to watch. I opened my eyes and looked down, and there were those beautiful feet I’d been worshipping all week, gently milking my member, so soft and so sexy, sliding up and down my prick, and brother, let me tell you, that was it.

My back arched up off the deep pile shag, my cock stiffened with one last pump of blood and then, blammo! Spurt after spurt of my hot, sticky semen erupted, splashing my chest, the deep pile shag and, most importantly, Miss Rose’s pretty pink peds. The creamy dribbles of come splattered against her instep, frosted an ankle and showered her painted pink toenails. Meanwhile, I was letting go of a growl like an old grizzly bear.

“Oohhhhuuuyeeeaahhhrr!!!” I strangled out. And still Rose kept milking my cock. One or two more half-hearted loads spouted out, and then I was spent. My pelvis fell back onto the floor and as I lay there, panting on the scratchy pink carpet, Miss Rose slid her toes into the splashes of come on my belly.

“Well, now,” she said cheerfully, “I’ll bet that feels much better!”

“Uurrgghhh,” was all I could answer. And I set about licking her come-laden toes clean one last time, hoping that whether those phone jacks turned out to be for phone sex lines or computer sex lines, Miss Rose would be good enough to let me ring her up and jack off–multiply.

I gave Mrs. Lavelle strict instructions to make arrangements for her replacement prior to her departure. She’s a silent, businesslike woman who follows orders perfectly, so when I sent her off into the elevator on that Friday evening, I had no doubt that come early Monday morning, a similarly silent and cooperative executive assistant would be there in Mrs. Lavelle’s place, eager to see that my apointments were kept, my mail was answered and my affairs ran smoothly for the entire two weeks Mrs. Lavelle would be away. Needless to say, I was completely unprepared for the events that transpired.

As the executive director of systems design at one of the country’s most advanced interactive technology corporations, I spend my work week juggling intercontinental teleconferences, brainstorming sessions and product development at almost every step of the design process. I oversee a staff of bright, inventive young minds who often require a watchful eye. I cannot tolerate insubordination—or lack of focus; it is, simply, what the job requires. So you can imagine my consternation when I arrived at my office early Monday morning and was met with an empty chair where Mrs. Lavelle’s temporary replacement should’ve been sitting.

After unloading my laptop and briefcase, I sat down in the empty chair and began shuffling through the few papers Mrs. Lavelle had left on her desk in hopes of finding some clue as to who I should be phoning, so that I could inform her that her services would not be required. Then, of course, I’d have to call in some mindless temp from an agency. When I heard clicking footsteps outside the door, I looked up, eager to reprimand the tardy woman.

What I did was merely stare. The woman was quite stunning: easily six feet tall, with long, subtly muscular legs encased in sheer black hose and a rather short skirt showing off those legs to jarring effect. Her highly polished pumps were unfashionably  high, like something out of a sex fantasy. A close-fitting blazer flared slightly above her ample hips, with a neckline that dove dizzyingly in the direction of her waist. She had a sheer scarf slung casually around her neck, almost like an afterthought, but it framed her face well. And her face. By the time my halting gaze reached it, I had forgotten exactly what it was I’d planned on saying to her. She provided the words.

“I’m looking for Dr. Clark Engler.” For a moment I was so enthralled by her ivory skin, her sensuously full lips and her heavy-lidded hazel eyes that I was unable to respond. “I believe this should be his office, according to my directions,” the woman added, still towering in my doorway. Her raven hair was shorn close to her scalp, almost a military cut. It was severe and maddeningly alluring.

“Yes,” I managed to croak. “I am Dr. Engler.”

“Fine then,” the woman answered. “I am Miss Krall, here to fill in for Mrs. Lavelle.”

My pulse was racing in a most unfamiliar fashion. I hadn’t paid much attention to women since I married my wife, almost a full decade ago. And now, I’d been rendered speechless by a temp. A tardy temp, at that.

After what I’m sure were a number of awkward minutes had passed, I mumbled some instructions to Miss Krall and offered her the chair I’d been sitting in. “Yes, yes, Mr. Engler. Mrs. Lavelle has given me all the information. Proceed with your morning.” She waved her hands in a “shoo” gesture, indicating that I was to leave her. I silently shuffled to my desk. Sitting down and slowly opening my briefcase, my prick became uncomfortably wrenched in my shorts. I felt slightly embarassed that this strange woman had had such a peculiar affect on me. I’m sure I let out a low moan when I looked up to see her standing in the doorway, reading from a legal pad.

“You have a 10 o’clock with George Carlyle, an 11:30 with the software development team and a one o’clock lunch meeting at Don Quixote’s with the university campus recruiters. Will you need me for anything?”

She looked up, no doubt expecting an immediate response. I was unable to provide one. My ordinarily sharp mind was muffled by the sight of Miss Krall’s legs. I could see her muscles flexing almost imperceptibly as she shifted her weight from one reflective pump top the other. My prick was aching, now bent at an impossible angle, cramped inside my trousers. I had a sudden flash of my cock brushing against Miss Krall’s ankle. I could almost see up, way up, to what was hidden beneath those dusky hose, that decidedly un-corporate skirt. “Wake up!” Miss Krall snapped sharply.

I looked her straight in the eye and felt a sudden urge to obey. I was, however, already awake.

“Uh, sorry,” I offered.

“You are forgiven,” Miss Krall said brusquely, striding to my desk and slapping the list of appointments down in front of me. I could smell her perfume, an enticing combination of flower and spice. The hem of her skirt hovered above my desktop and the visible inch or two of thigh had me transfixed.

While I stared helplessly at Miss Krall’s legs, she continued. “Don’t think for one minute that I’m flattered by your testosterone-fueled appreciation of my body. I’m completely aware of the affect I have on men and it has only worked to my benefit. I’m going to leave you alone now, Dr. Engler. I trust you’ll find the need to release some, shall we say, tension? Feel free to notify me if you would like me to help you with anything that doesn’t concern your bodily functions.”

I looked up at her with a start, unsure that I’d heard her corerctly. “You may need this,” she added, producing a handkerchief from deep in her cleaveage. “But don’t discard it once you’ve soiled it. I prefer to keep them as trophies.,” she laughed, tossing the handkerchief onto my desk. She turned on her heel imperiously, barely brushing my desk with her firm behind, and strode out of the room, closing my door behind her with a slam.

I sat there for I don’t know how long, painfully aware of the cramped hard-on in my pants, marveling at the situation. Had this woman, this temporary secretary, just ordered me to masturbate? True, it was becoming imperative. The throb in my crotch was insistent. Almost without thinking, I unzipped my fly and released my cock. I sighed with relief and immediately began stroking myself. Closing my eyes, I saw a vivid image of Miss Krall standing over me, her long legs towering up, up, up. “Make yourself come,” she ordered, and I obeyed. I stroked faster, wrapping my fingers tightly around my rigid prick until my fist was a blur and I was erupting, heaving a volley of seed onto my desktop. I groaned with satisfaction, all the previous tension now gone. Then, blinking, I realized that I had neglected to capture my issue in the handkerchief. For one fleeting second I anxiously anticipated pumishment. What would it be? But I hastily mopped up my pools of sperm with the scented hanky and stowed it in my top drawer, nervous and uncertain about how I should present Miss Krall with my evidence.

Seconds later she came through the door—without knocking—and held out her open palm. I sheepishly reached into my drawer and withdrew the wadded up handkerchief. I carefully deposited it in Miss Krall’s hand, averting my gaze, but stealing furtive glances at her thighs. I knew that Miss Krall’s cunt lurked only a scant few imches above that hem—and those firm, delicious thighs, her pubic hair—cropped short, like her military hairdo, perhaps?—matted by her pantyhose. I felt my prick stir anew.

“Well done,” Miss Krall said, closing her hand around the damp hanky. “I’ll be leaving for the day. The remainder of your appointments are outlined on a legal pad you’ll find on my desk.” And with that, she spun on her high heel and left.

I do believe I sat there, contemplating what had happened—and my miraculously renewed hard-on—until George Carlyle came through my door.

The entire week continued in the same manner. Miss Krall would make an early morning appearance, demand proof of my masturbation—her tribute, she called it—and then she would leave for the day, providing me with written instructions as to my itinerary. It was quite clear that she was in control. I certainly wasn’t. I bumbled through the week in a fog, jerking off as often as possible, eger to please Miss Krall with as many “tributes” as I could manage. By the time Friday arrived, I wasn’t sure I could take another week of the situation. And that was what I was calling it: my situation.

Well, my situation became even more peculiar on Friday. When I referred to the written instructions for the afternoon, the last entry read: At six o’clock you will wait in front of the building. I will be picking you up at 10 after.” And that was it. No explanation or elaboration. Only “Your wife has been informed that you have a dinner meeting and that you will be home late.” Well, I’m glad she’d thought of everything! I felt a strange nauseous gnawing in my stomach that was part fear, part excitement. I couldn’t imagine what Miss Krall had in mind.

I found out soon enough. At 10 after six, Miss Krall pulled up to the curb where I stood waiting and threw open the passenger door of her Volvo. “Get in,” she barked. I slid in quickly and fastened my seatbelt, too frightened and anxious to ask any questions. We rode in silence to Miss Krall’s, a ranch-style home in a respectible suburb. I followed behind her as she led me inside. In the vestibule she instructed me to remove my clothes. I did as she said, embarrassed that she would see the level of excitement this “situation” had driven me to. My cock was so stiff it was practically pressing against my belly. A bead of pre-come pooled in the slit. I stared at in shame, with my suit, shirt, shoes, tie and shorts at my feet. “Socks, too,” Miss Krall intoned. I crouched over, pushing off the silk socks. The flagstone felt cold beneath my feet. “Come with me,” Miss Krall ordered. I followed her down a flight of wooden stairs into a cool, dark basement. On the cement wall opposite the stairs was a large wooden X cross, with eyebolts at the four ends. There were a number of eyebolts in that basement—in the ceiling, the walls, the floors. Other than the cross and the bolts, the only other thing down there was a large wooden chest. My mind reeled with the incomprehensible possibilities. Only brief flashes of sanity broke through my thoughts, the most obvious one being, what was I doing here? Of course, the answer to that was simple: I was obeying Miss Krall.

“Get down on your hands and knees,” she whispered, nudging me with her shoe. I hesitated and her nudge became a shove. I fell to my knees, then placed my palms on the cold, rough concrete. My cock was aching, my balls heavy and in need of release. Somehow I knew that I would not be receiving relief any time soon.

“Pull that chest over to the cross,” she said, her voice blunted by the cement walls. On my hands and knees, I crawled to the chest and pushed it. It hardly moved. “Use some strength, you pitiful excuse for a man!” Miss Krall shouted. My eyes fluttered as I felt my heart lurch. God, I didn’t want to die of a heart attack there on Miss Krall’s cellar floor. But I put my mind to the task at hand and shoved the heavy chest across the cement, sweating and grunting with the effort. Much effort was required, too, since Miss Krall had mounted me like a steed. I could feel the warmth of her cunt on the small of my back, and I was sure I would faint from the thought of her becoming wet and dampening my skin.

When the chest was beside the cross, Miss Krall instructed me to open it and place the contents at her feet. I did, placing a large coil of rope and a heavy wooden paddle on the floor. Miss Krall was wearing her glistening patent leather pumps. I was startled to see my face, greasy with sweat, reflected back at me. I stole a quick glance at her ankles, strong yet feminine, and was tempted to lick them. I daringly moved to do so and was rewarded with a powerful cuff to the head. “Don’t even think about it!” Miss Krall growled. “Stand up and let me see how excited you’ve become.” The initial pain of the smack she’d given me was a surprise, but my hard-on hadn’t flagged. I stood up slowly, staring down at Miss Krall’s feet and my drooling cock. “For a powerful man, you certainly do follow orders well,” she whispered, raking her fingernails across my thigh. My knees buckled and for a moment I thought I’d be back on the cement. But Miss Krall grabbed me by the chin, forcing me to look her in the eye. “I’m going to show you the true meaning of submission,” she continued, “and we’ll see just how much excitement you can handle.”

I could tell that Miss Krall’s control over me was affecting her as well. The scent of her perfume was strong now, and her voice had become gravely and low. The mere thought of bringing her pleasure—in any way—made my prick twitch. “Get over against the cross,” she ordered. I shuffled toward the wall and the rough-hewn beams. “Raise your arms,” she said, and as I did, she lashed the rope around first one wrist, then the other, slipping the end through the eyebolts and fastening me to the cross. My face was pressed against the cinder block wall. I shivered in fear and excitement. “Spread your legs,” she said, and she lashed my ankles to the eyebolts near the floor. With my legs spread, my loaded balls hung free in the damp air. Goosebumps rose on my skin; my nipples strained. I could not believe the heightened state my body was in, the impossible sexual excitement. I couldn’t see the object of my worship—and worship was what it was. I realized that fully as my cock scraped the rough cinderblock, making me weaker still.

I was lost in my reverie when I felt a powerful smack across my asscheeks. I strained to arch my back and another smack quickly followed. Then another and another, driving my cock harder and harder into the wall, burning the skin of my ass. Miss Krall rained blow after blow down on me until I was moaning in both pain and pleasure. I was out of my  mind with physical sensations: cold and rough, splintered and sharp, sexual tension and flaming pain. When the blows stopped, I was panting, crazy to know what would be next.

What was next was the excruciating pain of Miss Krall’s fingernails raking over my raw, bruised flesh. I groaned, yet chills went up my spine. She scratched back and forth, pausing to graze my asshole. Soon she was fingering me, and I shuddered at the unfamiliar feeling. “Now I’m going to violate you,” she whispered, her hot breath close to my ear. I’m going to take your asshole, and with it, I’ll be taking you.” She paused, breathing heavily. “Do you understand?” she asked, running her finger over my clenching asshole.

“Yesss,” I hissed, my prick ready to explode. “Yes, what?” she demanded, pressing against my virgin hole. “Yes, ma’m?” I tried. “Yes, Mistress!” she corrected.

“Yes, Mistress,” I gasped, eager to comply. And she violated my asshole, working her finger in, grinding it, mashing me harder still into the cold concrete. And my cock jerked ever so slightly; I was so ground into the wall that all I could do was hump it, scraping my sensitive flesh and smearing the wall with my steaming spunk.

When I had pumped out every drop of my load, I hung there, limp and spent, inhaling the pungent stench of my sweat and come. Miss Krall’s finger was still deep in my ass, and as she slowly pulled it out, she whispered, “That was quite commendable, slave, Perhaps next time I will permit you to look at my legs while you masturbate.”

As I hung there, my arms tingling with sleep, my cock raw, I shivered. All I wanted was to look at those legs, those thighs. And perhaps, if I was a very good slave, even more. I felt my lacerated prick twitch, and sighed. Monday could not come soon enough.

“Honey, do you think we have a good sex life?”

Anna had her nose half buried in a women’s magazine as she posed the question to her husband.

“Hmm?” was Steve’s response.

“Our sex life. Do you think it’s good?” Anna repeated, emerging from behind her Cosmo. “I was just reading about ways to spice up your sex life. It seems like ours has been, well . . . “

Her voice trailed off. The thirtyish blonde was tucked under their duvet, the spaghetti straps of her Victoria’s Secret nightie slipping slightly off her smooth shoulders.

“I wouldn’t complain,” Steve offered, not turning away from Letterman. “Would you?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” Anna sighed, returning to her magazine. “But even the best sex life could use some spice.”

“Babe, if you want spice, you just let me know what flavor,” Steve said lovingly, leaning over to peck his wife on the cheek.

And so ended an average evening in the lives of Anna and Steve. He didn’t give it another thought until he checked his voice mail at the office late one afternoon about a week later. “Steve?” his wife’s voice wavered. “Remember what you said about, um, spicing up our sex life?” There was an ominous pause and Steve started to worry. “Well, I’ve got a surprise planned for you tonight, so try not to be too late.” And she giggled. Steve hit delete and smiled. So, Anna wanted to add a little zing to things, he mused. Probably some Frederick’s of Hollywood lingerie, a bottle of cham­pagne and a basket of strawberries. His cock stirred at the thought of some action. It had been a while. Seems like they’d slid into the usual married life sex schedule: once a week, if he was lucky. If a bit of spice were to up that average to, say, twice a week, Steve was all for it. He packed up his briefcase, looking forward to getting home–and getting some.

When Steve strode in the door, nothing seemed very surprising. Anna met him in her usual jeans and silk blouse. He didn’t smell anything cooking and he didn’t notice any champagne chilling.

“Hey hon,” Anna said, kissing him on the cheek. “Go on upstairs and get comfortable. I’m still working on your surprise.”

She seemed awfully calm for a wife about to spring a sexual extravaganza, Steve thought, slipping out of his sport coat. He kicked off his loafers and started up the stairs, nervous again. There was no sign of a surprise in the bedroom either. The bed was still made and Steve didn’t spot any lacy lingerie lying around. He stripped out of his shirt and slacks, debating whether to lose the boxers as well. Finally deciding that naked was best, he removed them and stretched out on the bed in anticipation. To Steve’s slight embarrassment, his cock was already half hard. Kinda pathetic, he thought. But hell, better to be at attention and ready for anything.

Steve gave his prick a casual stroke and closed his eyes, still curious about what was to come. When Anna breezed in, she laughed devilishly. “I see you’ve almost started without me,” she purred, grabbing his hard-on and giving it a playful squeeze. “Guess I’d better get started before you finish without me!” And from out of her pocket, Anna produced a black silk blindfold. “Let’s put this on you, so it’s a real surprise,” she said, smiling. Steve didn’t protest. Anna was in charge of this treat and he was going to enjoy every second. He closed his eyes against the dark silk.

“Now, I’m going to tie your arms and legs to the bed,” Anna whispered. “I’ve got some soft, silky cords and it’s all in fun. Okay?”

“You’re in charge, babe” Steve laughed, figuring that would be the right thing to say. “Just don’t hurt me.” So, she was going to venture into a bit of bondage? Steve had seen a few of those videos at bachelor parties and it sounded fine with him. He didn’t struggle as Anna wrapped the silk ropes around his wrists and ankles, securely fastening them to the bed frame. Steve’s cock jumped and twitched, eager for what was to come. A blowjob, maybe? Hmm, that would be great blindfolded! He grinned knowingly when he felt Anna’s tongue twirling around his ankle. She slowly and torturously licked and kissed him, up one leg and down the other, strangely neglecting his straining prick. From there he felt her move to the side of the bed, where she continued her ministrations, tweaking his nipples, still licking, kissing and sucking.

“Babe, you’re making me nuts,” he growled. “I can’t wait to get inside you.”

“Shhh,” Anna whispered. “Be patient.” Then she was on to his neck, his ears, the palms of his hands. Steve had never experienced anything like this before. He made a mental note to write Cosmo, thanking them for motivating his wife to give him this little treat. When Anna had licked and nibbled just about every inch of his body, Steve’s cock was swollen and ready to burst. If Anna didn’t relieve him soon, he didn’t know what he’d do. That’s when she untied his blindfold. But instead of regaining his sight by seeing his wife poised to slurp his prick into her mouth, Steve was met with the sight of a naked stranger standing at the foot of his bed. And the guy’s cock was bigger–and harder–than his own.

Steve tried to sit up and made it only a few inches off the bed. The silk ropes constricted around his wrists. He fell back, chastened. Before he had a chance to ask, Anna introduced the interloper. “Steve, this is Carlo,” she cooed, stroking the stranger’s stiff cock. “He’s here to add a little Southern spice to our sex life!” And while Steve watched, Anna knelt down and took Carlo’s enormous cock into her mouth. Her eyes were flutter­ing as she deep-throated the Latin lover.

“Si, baby, si,” he hissed, grabbing Anna’s blonde curls and pulling her head closer, forcing his huge tool further down Anna’s throat. Steve groaned. This was definitely not what he’d been fantasizing about. Who the fuck was this guy, anyway? He was just about to ask. Hell, ask? Demand! But as Carlo’s hips pumped slowly in and out of his wife’s throat, Steve felt his engorged cock throb. Could he possily be turned on by this? He’d never even entertained the thought of his wife with another man. Not outside of a nightmare, anyway. But here it was, happening right before his eyes. And it wasn’t like he could do a damn thing about it. His hands and feet were still securely bound. All he could do was watch.

Releasing Carlo’s cock to come up for air, Anna asked, “What do you think, honey?” She gave the guy’s cock a tender kiss. Steve winced. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Steve didn’t respond. He couldn’t. True, the tanned, muscled stranger was pretty good-looking. Probably made a decent living as a gigolo, nothing to do but hit the gym all day. “How would you like to see him fuck me?” Anna asked, pumping her fist up and down the gleaming shaft of the stranger. “Carlo, babe, I would love to feel this magnificent prick of yours buried inside me.”

“No problem, señora,” Carlo growled. “How would you like it?” Anna scrambled up off her knees and braced herself at the foot of the bed. “From behind,” she panted. “Like an animal!” Anna gripped the bed right between Steve’s feet. Her breasts hung down, swaying obscenely, as she shook her ass at the stranger. “Mount me like a bull!” Anna ordered. “Toro, Toro!” Steve’s mouth fell open in shock. He’d never heard his wife talk dirty before. His cock twitched and jerked. God, he was dying for release. It didn’t appear to be happening anytime soon, though. Steve stared as the Latin lover moved up behind his wife, stroking his tool. And not five feet in front of his disbelieving face, Steve watched as Carlo sank his throbbing prick into Anna’s cunt. His wife’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Oh, baby, that is sooo good!” she purred, pushing herself back against Carlo’s grinding pelvis. Carlo reached around and grasped her breasts, kneading them roughly as he began to pump into her. Harder, and harder again, Carlo rammed his cock home. Anna’s hands were still gripping the duvet. She arched her back to meet the Latino’s thrusts. Steve strained to hear the sound of his wife’s pussy belching to accommodate the stranger’s huge cock. He could smell her arousal, pungent and strong. He groaned in distress. His cock was throbbing like never before.

While Carlo was banging rhythmically into his wife’s cunt, Steve hungrily took in the obscene tableau. It was like watching a porn movie, starring his wife! It had him so turned on, wildly, incredibly turned on. More so, in fact, than he could ever remember feeling. If only his hands were free so he could jerk himself off while watching! He fought against his restraints in frustration, desperate for release, half crazy with both jealousy and lust. Small droplets of sweat were sliding down his wife’s arms, dribbling off her tits, dripping onto the bed. Steven couldn’t believe how much she was enjoying herself. She was eagerly slamming her ass back to meet each of Carlo’s thrusts. How could this guy hold out so long? Steve wondered. He’d have shot his load ages ago. But still Carlo kept pumping, his eyes screwed shut with passionate concentration. Then suddenly he stopped.

“How about another position?” he asked, still sliding slowly in and out of Anna’s dripping pussy.

“Sure!” she squealed enthusiastically. “Where?”

“On the bed,” Carlo panted. “Right over your husband.”

Anna didn’t bother to respond. She just scrambled onto the bed, positioning herself on her hands and knees, her sweaty tits dangling enticingly in front of Steve’s face. She had one knee pressed against his hip, the other uncomfortably nudging his swollen balls. She was practically right on top of him! And the scent of her ravaged cunt was even stronger. All she would have to do is just squat down, if she would just move a few inches, and Steve would be gratefully inside her. But that wasn’t the plan. Anna braced herself as Carlo gripped her waist and slipped easily into her greased hole. She moaned as Carlo’s cock filled her and a second later she was sliding back and forth on his pole. The fucker didn’t even have to work! Steve strained to see Carlo entering his wife, but the angle was impossible. He knew what was happening, though, and he could easily imagine the details, her pussy lips stretching wide to accommodate that stiff, shining cock. Anna was moving forward, then back again, sliding her slippery cunt up and down on Carlo’s prick, while Carlo just knelt there with a satisfied smile on his face.

“Your wife,” he said, nodding at Anna’s gleaming body, “she is a good fuck.” Steve’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t speak. He was, by this point, totally out of his mind. “Verrrry, goooood,” Carlo repeated, his cock still sliding in and out of Anna. She pressed herself down against Steve’s chest, arching her back and shoving her ass out lewdly, and he could feel how sweaty and hot she was. But still, no contact—and no release—for his engorged cock! While Anna continued her rhythmic ride on Carlo’s prick, Carlo started to pinch and slap Anna’s ass. This seemed to drive her even more wild, and she sped up her motions. “Oh, señora, that is good!” the Latin groaned. “Sooo gooood!” And Carlo bent over Anna’s back, driving his cock in deeper and deeper, until he slammed in one last time and held it there, his breath coming in noisy wheezes and rasps. Anna moaned as Carlo emptied his cock inside her, mashing her tits into Steve’s chest and pushing her ass back into the Latin’s groin as hard as she possibly could. And when Anna’s belly brushed lightly against Steve’s cock, he erupted uncontrollably, spewing spurt after steaming, pent-up spurt of his seed against his wife’s heaving stomach.

They held that position for a few moments, each reveling in their own post-orgasmic bliss. Finally, Anna pried herself up off of Steve’s chest, her belly gleaming and gooey with his come. Carlo pulled his now-limp member from Anna’s pussy and his copious load immediately began to ooze from her swollen lips, dribbling down her thighs. Carlo moved away from the bed and out of Steve’s line of sight. Not that he was paying attention to the Latin any longer, though, because his wife had repositioned herself. Anna straddled Steve’s face, forcing him to confront her dripping cunt right in front of his nose. “Can you smell his come?” she hissed, smearing her pussy across Steve’s face. “Eat me, baby,” she whispered. “Eat his come out of me. Make me come like you do.” And Steve obediently began lapping Carlo’s come from his wife’s pussy, slurping it off her trembling thighs, nib­bling mischieviously on her swollen clit.

It didn’t take Anna long to climax. The heightened excitement and Steve’s loving tongue conspired to drive her over the edge in just minutes, and she screamed with release, convulsing against Steve’s face. “Man, that was amazing!” she exclaimed, scrambling to reposition herself again. While poor Steve was still bound, spread-eagle, he had managed to achieve another hard-on, despite the previous circumstances and his huge orgasm of only moments ago. Anna mounted him in such a frenzy, he barely had time to give it a thought, and soon the two were fucking wildly, their coupling bodies a sweaty blur. Anna bounced and humped, riding Steve’s cock like something straight out of a sexual fantasy, and Steve valiantly shoved his pelvis up off the bed to meet her every bounce. The sound of their two bodies slapping together seemed amplified by their delerious sexual abandon. Steve felt like he could fuck forever. Absolutely forever. But that wasn’t to be either. Without the usual warning, his orgasm simply overcame him. And Steve cried out as his raw, overworked cock flooded his wife’s already-filled cunt. In answer, Anna’s pussy clenched in climax, squeezing every last, impossible drop of come from Steve’s spasming balls.

When Anna slid off of Steve and flopped, breathlesss, on the bed beside him, she curled up around his sticky body and sighed contentedly. “So, honey, do you think we have a good sex life?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Baby, we have got the spicy, fuckin’ hottest sex life there is!” Steve responded. “Now do you think you could untie these ropes?”

From across the room I saw him: tall, handsome, interesting glasses and shiny, shoulder-length, curly brown hair. He had wide, strong, shoulders that tapered to a tiny waist, cinched into a pair of almost-tight Levis. His button-down shirt didn’t disguise his muscular physique, in fact the blousing accentuated it. I took a long draught of my beer and stared, scheming a way to meet him.

When the models came on stage, parading in a line of leather and latex, leading groveling slaves on chain-link leashes, he pushed toward the front and started snapping pictures. Although his stance appeared professional, his camera was certainly amateur, but the mere fact that he had a camera made him accessible.

“Go up and ask him what the pictures are for,” my friend suggested. I banked on his being a photo buff as an ice breaker and wove my way through the crowd.

While he captured the regal women in their suggestive garments, I admired him from my closer vantage point. He was handsome, with a sharp jawline and a straight, patrician nose. After the models’ finale wound down and the stage lights dimmed, he lost no time getting to the bar, where he ordered two beers. Ah, I thought, he’s here with someone after all. But when he was joined by a six-foot woman in a red latex corset, their body language told me that if they had ever been lovers, they weren’t any longer. After a few words she excused herself and he was alone.

He crossed the room, passing right by me, to sit on a bench against the wall. Now’s my chance, I thought. He looks like he’s just waiting for someone to talk to. I strolled over. “What are the photos for?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“A friend of mine was modeling,” he answered. “They’re for her.” Hmm, good time to end my questioning, I thought. In my 30-odd years I had learned that everyone has walk-in closets positively bursting with skeletons and it’s always better to wait and fall in love—or lust—before allowing one’s past to scare me off. He was here, at this party, simply to photograph his friend. I had no idea whether or not he’d be interested in what I was doing here: invited, peripherally, by a friend who was sleeping with—and supporting—a newly initiated dominatrix. I decided to probe in other directions, resorting to the standard question.

“So, what do you do for a living?” I asked.

“I’m in advertising,” he answered. Excellent, we already had something in common. I swallowed hard at the prospect of him being even more perfect than his mere tall, dark handsomeness made him.

“Really?” I mused, trying to conceal my eagerness. “I’m in advertising, too.”

“Oh? I’m an art director.” Too perfect! “What do you do?”

“I’m a copywriter,” I enthused, thinking that we would make an unbeatable team.

From there the conversation wandered through the usual territory and we discovered that we had a few former coworkers in common. After exhausting advertising we talked about high school and living in New York and people we knew who had married too young. We were getting along unbelievably well and I could barely contain myself. He was sexy, smart and tall and I wanted so badly to collaborate with him. On a number of levels. When my friend tapped me on the shoulder to say that our entourage was leaving, I almost smacked her. However, I turned our impending departure to my benefit and told my new friend, Jansen, that we were moving on to a bar and he was welcome to join us. I gave him the address as we left and hoped he would follow.

An hour later my friends and I were sharing our third pitcher when Jansen walked in. Brilliant, I thought. Nothing better than having a guy track me down. We leaned against the bar and resumed our conversation. When he yawned, apologized and said he had to get some sleep, I boldly ventured, “Mind if I walk you out?” figuring that if he’d followed me to the bar he had to be somewhat interested.

“Sure!” he smiled, and we made our way to the door.

I stood in the street beside his sparkling Harley Davidson and looked into his eyes, attempting to discern just how interested he truly was. I bravely reached out and grabbed him by the belt buckle, pulling him close. His eyes widened and a sort of frightened grin spread across his face. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m a bit aggressive,” I told him. “I usually know what I want and am never afraid to get it.” This was only partly true. I was, in actuality, quite terrified. But he needn’t know that.

“Uh, no, uh, it’s okay with me,” he stammered and I kissed him. It lasted for a long, breath-stealing, spine-tingling time and I could feel his passion pressing hotly against my thigh. Finally I pushed him away and gasped and told him he’d better get on his motorcycle and go home before I ravaged him right in the street. He laughed and reluctantly climbed onto his Harley. I gave him one last quick kiss before he slipped on his helmet and in seconds he was off, guh-guh-guhhing up the avenue. The fact that we hadn’t exchanged phone numbers hit me as he disappeared in a cloud of exhaust and I cursed. Well, I thought, he knows where I work; perhaps he’ll call me at the office.

Returning from a long lunch spent regaling a girlfriend every detail of my having met Mr. Right, I found a pink message slip: “While You Were Out: Jansen Phoned. Will Call Again.” The afternoon was looking bright. Around 3:45 it became blinding when I answered my phone to hear his voice. We made a date for the following Thursday.

So it was dinner on Thursday, a media party the following Tuesday, dinner and dancing a week later, all in a swirl of swooning excitement. By the third week I was ready to have him, take him, to finally, after the proper and polite amount of anticipation and panting and unbearable waiting, pull him into my bed. Readying for yet another date, I fussed over my makeup and wondered what kind of lover my tall, handsome Jansen would be and, after an impressive meal at the trendiest new restaurant in town, I suggested we go back to my apartment for Kahlua and coffee in hopes of finding out.

“I make extremely strong cofee,” I warned him. “You may be up all night,” and I cocked an eyebrow to see if he caught my double entendre. I should have known that my wit wouldn’t be lost on him.

He arched his eyebrow in response and answered, “I usually don’t need much help staying up all night, but if you’d like to make sure, feel free.” I smiled and kissed him deeply, running my fingers up his thigh. The waiter dropped the check onto the table just as I grazed the bulge in Jansen’s crotch.

He stood close behind me as I fumbled with my keys. I hadn’t been this nervous about a guy in years and I attributed it to the fact that, up until now, everything had been so moving-picture-perfect that I was terrified about the sex being anything less. It couldn’t possibly be, I thought stubbornly. As I closed the door and pushed him gently against it, I reached for his fly. I took a good grab of his erect cock, trapped beneath his civilized slacks, kneaded it a bit and listened to Jansen’s breathing becoming heavier. I pulled him by his belt loops over to the couch, sat myself down and positioned him between my legs. I pried open his belt buckle, carefully unzipped his slacks and slid them to the floor.

His burgundy boxers came as no surprise. They seemed to fit the mid-30-year-old art director image I’d had of him. But the protrusion leaning out at me was slightly startling and I groaned in anticipation of taking it full-length into my throat. There was a dark spot at the point where the fabric was stretched and I dabbed my tongue on it, feeling the head of his cock through the satin. Then I sucked it, tasting his ooze mingled with the faint flavor of laundry detergent.

Jansen stood quietly, with his arms at his side, as I licked a sloppy trail of saliva along the waistband of his shorts, prolonging the anticipation. I could hear his rasps but he didn’t make any other sound. No encouragement, no verbal urging. I hoped he was at least enjoying himself as I wormed my tongue under the waistband and then grabbed the slippery fabric, sliding the boxers to his ankles.

When I was face to cock with Jansen I held onto his hips and leaned back to take him in visually. What an impressive body—and prick—this guy had. His tapered torso and all its accompanying muscles culminated in this magnificent cock, jutting out of a triangular forest of sandy curls. He smiled down at me, seemingly proud of his fine physique and as I returned his gaze, I trailed my left hand along his hip, across his thigh and up to his balls, cradling them gently. Still no noises to indicate approval, just a slight hitch in his breath. Well, he wasn’t telling me to stop. I raked my nails through the hair on his balls, pausing to pinch and tweak. This caused Jansen to grunt slightly and as I drew my tongue slowly up his shaft I contined to take little grabs at his scrotum. Reaching the shining head of his cock, I echoed the tiny tweaks by taking a little nibble at his cockhead and Jansen’s hips jerked in response. Ah, he likes a bit of pain with his pleasure, I thought, and as I sucked his cock into my mouth, slathering him with saliva, I ran my teeth across the tightly stretched skin, back and forth, stuffing him slowly into my throat.

With my mouth completely full of Jansen’s stiff cock, I sucked up and down his shaft, my spit dribbling and dripping off of his balls. I worked my hand around them, squeezing, with increasing force, in rhythm with his sliding prick. I concentrated on scraping my teeth against him and at one point I lost a beat and his cock caught more teeth than I’d intended. He let out a deep, animal-like moan and started thrusting into my face frantically, his arms still at his side, and seconds later he was shooting hot spurts of semen across my tongue. As he emptied himself into my upturned throat, I gave his balls a severe squeeze and he folded over, spewing his last few drops, and finally groaning his approval, a long, throaty “Ooohh, yeeeaaahhh.”

Between an assortment of strenuous sexual acts, I gave Jansen head twice before I let him leave the next morning. Each time the scraping and squeezing got more serious and his orgasms intensified. I’ve always been a quick study when discerning exactly how to pleasure a partner, and it became obvious that the way to pleasure my handsome art director was with a liberal amount of pain. I’d encountered men who preferred a delicate mixture of discomfort with their pleasure, but it seemed that I had yet to cause Jansen enough pain to completely blow his mind. I looked forward to giving him whatever it was he needed to experience absolute ecstasy.

Throughout that evening and into the morning, in between orgasms, the two of us had divulged bits and pieces of our pasts. I told him about my few significant affairs and he told me about his most serious—and most recent—with the woman who’d been modeling at the fetish fashion show. After a six-month whirlwind romance they’d moved in together and were engaged to be married. Everything was perfect, he said, until she found herself a night job to make a few extra bucks. A friend had been working as a dominatrix and suggested that she give it a try. At first it seemed a lark, but as it began to take more and more of her time, she quit her day job and devoted all her working hours to the house of domination. Soon she was spending all her free time there and the relationship gradually fell apart. He said he had missed her terribly for the longest time, but now, he allowed, he was over her. Comforting, I thought. But somehow he wasn’t completely convincing.

After he left I stood over my bathroom sink, rinsing out my lingerie, and wondered precisely how much pain she had actually caused him. Someone who was professionally employed to cause pain had to have done a bit more for him than just give his balls a good grab. How extensive a repetoire did I have to live up to? Perhaps, I thought, I should buy myself a book.

As our dates became more sex and less dinner, I expanded my scope of painful pleasuring to include nipple clamps and spanking, assorted straps and strings and clever cords, and even a rather serious-looking pair of handcuffs that I’d run across at an antiques auction. I had, indeed, bought myself a book. And that had led to a few more books and eventually a trip to a discrete sex boutique. As I’ve said, I’m a quick study. On nights we didn’t spend together, I would curl up on the couch with my latest S&M bible and voraciously read about the myriad ways to make Mr. Right the happiest man alive. There was truly nothing I wouldn’t consider and every time we were together he would eventually groan his enthusiastic, orgasmic approval of my latest lesson. No words were ever exchanged about what he preferred and his arms were always either at his side or behind his back, so without his physical and verbal encouragement I was left on my own to improvise and improve upon what I’d gleaned from my books. It was all a bit like a game—or a proving ground. But he was still calling—and coming—so I naturally assumed that I was satisfying him. That was until a certain cocktail party.

The party sounded innocent enough. One of our common ex-coworkers was moving to another city and it seemed the entire advertising industry had been invited to bid him farewell. I was anxious to be seen in public with Jansen. It had been well over three months and things were going so well. He seemed happy and I was way beyond that. I had confided to a few girlfriends that Mr. Right was looking like THE Mr. Right and now I wanted to show him off. I agonized over what I could wear, buying four different outfits, wanting to look as radiant as I felt.

My friend who was under the spell of the neo-domme was going to be at the party, too, and I was especially looking forward to seeing him. He had looked like hell the last few times I’d seen him and our mutual friends attributed his disheveled appearance to his obsession with this vixen. I wanted him to see what true love could do for a person. He’d dallied with this domme long enough. People were worried about him.

After finally settling on a flowing pair of black silk pants and a transparent vest over a stiff, black lace bustier, I tried on a half-dozen different shades of lipstick in an attempt to find just the right color to complement my recently lust-flushed complexion. The choice was made for me when Jansen arrived with an armful of mauve roses that matched my latest trial shade perfectly.

When I put my arm in the air to hail a cab, I suddenly became aware of how much our dynamic in the bedroom carried over into the rest of our lives. At restaurants I was always the one waiters gave the check to, even when Jansen was buying, and I couldn’t recall his ever having hailed us a taxi. I’d always wanted control, and in this relationship it appeared as though I had it.

The cab ride to the party was full of my babbling about who would be there. Jansen volunteered that there would be plenty of people he knew as well and I briefed him on my friend with the troublesome dominatrix. “It sounds to me as though he’s headed for the same ending you experienced with Gwen,” I told him, squeezing his knee tightly and leaning into him. “God, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all poor Stuart!” And Jansen mumbled in agreement.

The party was over a four-star restaurant in Soho and the place was crawling with ultra-hip people—much slicked-back hair, expensive fabrics and of-the-moment footwear. I eyed the crowd, pleased with my wardrobe choice. Jansen appeared to be happy with it as well, as he shyly ran his hand over my silk-sheathed ass. He had fetched us both cocktails the second we’d arrived and we stood, arm in arm, beside the crudite. Neither of us recognized anyone and we laughed that the truly cool people always need to make an entrance. Our friends—who were nothing if not cool—were no doubt waiting for just the right moment.

Before we’d finished our second drinks, the room was full of familiar faces. Jansen and I became separated in the rush of the crowd. Standing in the kitchen with a couple of account execs, I saw Stuart slink in with his dominatrix. Shit! I thought, not out of exasperation that he’d brought her, but at the sight of him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he held onto Belle’s arm as though she were his mother, leading him through a crowded shopping mall. When he spotted me, he pointed and she nodded. I guess he had told her of my disapproval, because she avoided speaking with me whenever possible. She melted into the crowd as he skulked over to me in search of a seltzer. As he poured—for her, no doubt, since he’d never been one for soda—I asked how he was doing. He mumbled that he was just fine and then brightened as he told me how great I looked.

“Yeah, thanks. I haven’t felt this good in years,” I told him.

“It appears as though love agrees with you,” he said, craning his neck to see where his domme had disappeared to.

“Come, I’ll help you find her,” I said, pulling him through the party.

When we finally spotted her my stomach siezed and my nails dug into Stuart’s arm. She was leaning casually against a wall running her index finger up and down the chest of MY art director, and Jansen didn’t appear nonplussed.

“Fuck, she is the LAST person I wanted him to meet here,” I hissed under my breath.

“It looks to me as though they may have met before,” Stuart offered meekly, and I shot him a stabbing glance. The two of them watched us approach and neither altered their stance. Jansen stood stock still, his hands clasped behind his back, as Belle continued to rake her fingers across his chest. A wave of nausea whooshed over me as I noticed the large crest at Jansen’s crotch. That bitch, I thought, it’s not bad enough that she’s running my poor friend Stuart through the ringer, but now she’s determined to run me through it as well.

I tried to modulate my voice and appear nonchalant. “So, you two have met?” I squeaked out.

“We’ve known each other for months, haven’t we Jan?” There was the most hideous, tormenting tease to her tone of voice. I wanted to throw her up against the wall and shove her perfectly manicured nails down her throat.

“Oh?” I managed to gasp. Jansen hadn’t moved an inch since I’d seen him from across the room. His gaze was directed at the floor and it stayed there.

“Jan here has been one of my best customers ever since mean ol’ Gwen dumped him. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to break his heart or anything, but we’ve had our share of intimate moments.”

I was certain that the entire party could smell the smoke I imagined puffing out my ears. I couldn’t remember ever having felt so unbelievably enraged in my entire life and it was a frighteningly electrifying feeling.

Grabbing Jansen’s chin and lifting his face to mine I asked him, “Is this true?” and he nodded, shaking my arm. A thousand thoughts shot through my mind as I cast around for the proper response, the proper reaction to such a situation. I was casting around in vain. Never having found myself in such a situation, there was no way to determine what the proper reaction would be.

I was entirely too pissed off to enjoy myself, so there was no question—I would be leaving. However, handling my exit gracefully would be difficult.

“Well, I’m out of here,” I blurted. “Are you coming?” I asked, poking Jansen in the chest that Belle had been stroking seconds before. As if a chain had been attached to my finger, with a ring through his nose, Jansen jerked and doggedly followed me out the door.

Down the steep stairs, passing arriving revelers, we did not speak. Out on the sidewalk, the heat of the summer evening wafting up off the pavement, we still did not speak. I thrust my arm in the air and a cab screeched to the curb. As we sped up the avenue I fumed. I had spent these past weeks imagining I’d found Mr. Right and Mr. Right had been out paying for what I thought I’d been providing. I couldn’t undersand it. If only he’d been more verbal. Surely he could have told me what it was he wanted. At least I could have saved him a few bucks. I was mortified.

Throughout the ride, Jansen didn’t move, didn’t speak—he barely breathed. At least he knows I’m pissed, I thought. Maybe I hadn’t been taking things seriously enough. I’d been playing the part with a certain amount of humor. Perhaps I had not properly risen to the stature of my role.

We pulled up to my apartment and I barked, “Get upstairs!” as I paid the cab driver. Jansen slid out of the taxi and scurried to my door, holding it open for me. When I unlocked the door to my apartment, I spat, through clenched teeth, “Get inside. Now!” and I pushed the door open, kicking him in the calf as he hurried in.

I locked the door behind me and turned to see Jansen standing in the middle of the room, staring down, still, at the floor. I let out a torrent of verbal abuse and he cringed. As I approached him, he cowered, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through my body.

“How dare you embarrass me like that! If you feel the need to satisfy yourself elsewhere, the least you could do is tell me. You are a fucking sneak!” and, spewing that last word, I kicked him sharply in the shin. He let out a small squeal and I kicked him again. “What the fuck were you thinking? Alone, your time is your own. But when you are with me, it is mine! Do you understand?” I was shocked at my tone. For the first time, my position felt palpable, no longer a role scripted in a book. I was positively electrified by the combination of adrenaline and the sheer power of my voice. Jansen squeaked out a “Yes.”

And following that meek reply, I was transformed. My chest swelled. My posture became more erect. I felt positively imperial. My partner had become more erect as well, so I snatched up my newest prop, a riding crop, suddenly assured of its uses, and prodded Jansen’s groin with the stiff leather loop.

“You find all this adversity exciting, do you?” I demanded.

“No, no! I knew that sooner or later our paths would cross, but no, the soap opera bullshit doesn’t do anything for me!”

“Then why this?” I scraped at his cockhead with the crop’s loop. He lowered his eyes.

“I love the way you look when you’re angry. Your eyes glisten. Your chest rises. And look at your nipples. They’re hard.”

I looked down. He was right.

“You look…excited. And THAT excites me.” He raised his eyes and looked straight into mine.

“If I excite you, then what were you paying HER for?” I twisted the crop and the loop tightened around his cock. He sucked in a gasp of air with a satisfying hiss. “Hm?”

“Because she can get herself really worked up…really pissed…like you are now.” I loosened the noose. “And she’s comfortable with her…severity.”

“Is that all?”

“Well,” he began slowly, his cock still hard in the lax loop of my crop, “I’ve never been with anyone who was so eager to indulge my fantasies. So, I would get what I could from our relationship and what I couldn’t get, I would pay for.”

A sudden flash of anger gripped me and I gave Jansen another kick. “Are you so ashamed of your desires that you’re terrified to verbalize them?” I didn’t wait for him to respond. Obviously he was able to verbalize them when there was a cash transaction involved. “What are you thinking right now?” I demanded, and I slapped his face. His brown curls shook with the impact of my hand and I watched the skin of his cheek bloom to a deep pinnk. “I’ll tell you what you want! You want to be treated like shit. And that’s what you deserve for treating me like shit, do you understand? I will not tolerate being treated like shit! Understand?” I cracked the back of my hand across his other cheek. My knuckles stung but, judging from the way Jansen’s neck snapped, the blow stung his face even more. But instead of crying out, he groaned. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Is this what you pay HER for?” I shouted.

Jansen squeaked out a “Yes” and that was all it took. I closed in and rained a series of blows on his chest, his shoulders, his neck. And in the midst of all the pummeling, I glanced at his crotch. He was still hard. This WAS what he wanted. This was what turned him on. His dick was hard and his breathing was labored and the small squeals he was emitting were the exact sounds I had been wanting and waiting to hear the dozens of times I’d sucked his cock. I ripped open the oxford cloth shirt and the sound of the buttons ripping from their fragile threads was complemented by another little shriek from Jansen.

I scraped my fingernails across his chest, etching a pink web across his Hamptons-tanned flesh. His knees buckled slightly and he wavered. Deftly unbuckling his belt, I slipped it smoothly out of its loops and dangled it as I undid his slacks and slid them to his knees. Then I grabbed at the satin waistband of his boxers and yanked them down, dragging his erection along with them before it sprang back up, smacking his belly with a little “ttthip!” His cock was swollen to a bulging burgundy and it made me unbelievably hot just looking at it. I was wildly torn between pushing him down into my crotch or climbing onto that beautiful cock. The cock won.

Dropping the belt and grabbing Jansen by the lapels of his torn button down, I shoved him onto the carpet. He kind of collapsed, since his knees were still bound by his boxers and slacks. I wished for tile floors so he would be more uncomfortable, but decided that there were other ways to cause him discomfort. As I slowly unfastened my chiffon vest and reached behind my back to free the clasp of my bustier, I pressed my foot into his groin. His cock was hard under the heel of my pump as I jabbed it, nudged it, scraped it. I ordered him to watch me undress and continued to tease his dick, leaving little round, red marks up and down his cock, across his abdomen and along his thigh with the spike of my heel.

Jansen had suddenly bcome a communicator, grunting and squealing his excitement and groaning encouragement. And I was finally able to pleasure him in the exact way he’d wanted to be pleasured all along. At one point I wondered aloud why it was that he hadn’t communicated his desires sooner, why he’d felt com­pelled to pay for services that I would’ve gladly rendered him free of charge. As he thrashed beneath my heels, a dribble of spit trailing across his cheek, he gurgled that he’d never met anyone who would completely indulge him outside the boundaries of bondage houses. I found that ridiculous and told him so, and he sobbed that he’d had no idea of the extent of my desire to indulge him. “Well, now you know,” I growled at him, aiming a sharp toe at his anus and prodding.

“Lay there, and don’t move an inch,” I commanded him.

I stripped off my silk pants, tossed them aside and straddled Jansen’s stomach. Then I squatted and slowly slid down onto his erection. He sank deep inside me and although he felt incredible, I wanted to frustrate him into a frenzy. I slid off and let his cock slap back onto his stomach with another “ttthip.” I repeated this little game until Jansen was practically howling. When I raised my hips and slammed myself back down onto him once more, I simply couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull myself up off his hot cock. I began to ride him. I ground into his pelvis with a passion I’d never experienced before, shoving my tits into Jansen’s contorted face.

I could tell he wasn’t far from orgasm and I didn’t want to forfeit the powerful spasm of semen that I knew would be forthcoming, so I sped up my rhythm. When he started panting as though he was about to climax, I warned him that his orgasm was not to come before mine. I squirmed on his thrusting pelvis, taking him in as deeply as I could, until I felt the familiar tingling sensation start in my toes. I dug my nails into his shoulders and his resulting squeal was the last bit of stimulation I needed. My cunt clenched in waves of orgasm. Jansen’s cock took its cue and spasmed as well, spilling pent-up streams of hot come deep inside me. When my head cleared, I knelt and looked down at Jansen.

“You are mine, do you understand?” I panted.

“Yes, Mistress,” Jansen responded gravely. “I am yours.”

“Your last girlfriend, she was getting paid to…I mean, why didn’t you ask her to…um…indulge you.”

He sighed. “Yeah, you’d think that would’ve been the perfect situation. But all she wanted with me was vanilla sex. She saw the dominatrix thing as a job, just a way to make some extra money. She couldn’t deal with the fusion of dominance and love. To her, they were completely separate concepts.”

“I believe I can deal with the two as one concept,” I said sternly, twisting his cock into the noose again. “But you’ll have to teach me. And with more than your little groans and twitches.”

Grabbing the riding crop, he pulled me to him, took my wrist and drew my hand over his chest.

“Scratch me,” he whispered. “Hurt me.” I blinked questioningly. “Don’t be afraid.”

In the beginning, my nine-to-three shift at the laundromat was usually passed uneventfully. I would just make change and keep an eye on the place, reimbursing lost quarters and checking out the ladies. I had never been aware of it before taking this job, but lately I find that I am intrigued by women’s undergarments. I watch with interest as girls tumble their clothes out of the dryers and into baskets, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of lace or silk.

During the day, there are a couple of women who come in to do other peoples’ laundry. I myself don’t have to do anyone’s wash, but I take in the big bales when customers want to take advantage of the landromat’s drop-off service. All I have to do is fill out a receipt and tell them to check back in a day or two.

One night a beautiful redhead came in. She was about six feet tall, with these magnificent D-cups jutting out from underneath her blouse. She dropped off two huge bundles of laundry and said I could take my time washing them, that she’d be out of town for a week. I asked her for her name and number, for the receipt. Her name was Estelle, she said. No number.

That night, after closing, I eyed Estelle’s bags of laundry innocently lying in the corner and, as wicked thoughts started going through my head, felt my cock spring to life. I wondered if Estelle wore those underwire bras…if she was the lace type or the silk type…and before I realized what I was doing, I was rifling through Estelle’s laundry, madly searching for her underwear.

The clothes smelled fantastic, heavy with her perfume and other female scents, and I inhaled deeply as I dug deep down into the bag. Near the bottom I felt something stiff and pulled up a large bra. Sure enough, Estelle wore the wire kind, and it was satin and lavender-colored. I dove back into the bag in hopes of finding a matching pair of panties and, after a bit of rummaging, I did. Delicate lace trimmed the lavender triangle that looked like it would barely cover Estelle’s pubic hair; she was such a big woman. It boggled my mind to think of her in this beautiful pastel ensemble.

My cock, by that point, had just about climbed out of my shorts. I reached down and rubbed my hard-on, closing my eyes to get a good mental picture of Estelle. My balls were aching to unload while lascivious thoughts of Estelle were torturing me.

Standing there, massaging my stiff cock, I decided that if I couldn’t see Estelle in person wearing these frilly underthings I’d put them on myself! I ripped off my t-shirt and shorts and grabbed the panties, pulling them slowly up my legs. The satin felt cool and smooth, and the lace pulled at my hairs. They fit snugly on my ass and around my balls, but they left about three inches of my hard-on uncovered after the elastic. It was a total turn-on to look down and see my cock poking up out of the lavender lacy underpants.

Feeling quite glamorous, I reached for the bra and fingered the stiff wires. How uncomfortable her heavy breasts must be with these unyielding wires underneath them, I thought. I attached the tiny hooks and slid the straps over my arms, disappointed with the gaping space between my chest and the satin cups. I balled up a few loose socks and stuffed them into the voids, creating soft, round breasts for myself.

I strutted through the laundry, past the warm dryers, watching my reflection in the round glass doors. My ass looked great in the shiny purple satin and I ran my hands over my smooth cheeks. My cock was rock-hard and a droplet of pre-come was dampening the panties. I couldn’t stand it any longer; I had to jerk myself off. I stood, with my feet apart, in front of one of the big dryer doors and pumped my dick with my fist, stroking my balls through the satin with my free hand.

Within seconds I was spurting violently. Hot, steaming come splattered the dryer door, with some dribbling down the lavender panties and onto the floor. Droplets dotted my stomach. I groaned and caught myself on a washing machine as my knees weakened. I hadn’t had that powerful an ejaculation for weeks, and it knocked me out.

I mopped up as best I could, crumpling the slightly sticky satin panties into a tight ball. I shoved them deep into Estelle’s laundry bag and hoped that the day shift would just throw the whole bale in at once without detecting the remnants of my impromptu fashion show.

That was just the first of many quiet nights, after closing, spent experimenting with assorted ladies’ undergarments. I found sports bras to be rather unappealing aesthetically, but enjoyed the binding feeling they created across my nipples. The G-string underpants, so popular with the college girls, gave me a real jolt. With my cock strapped tightly to my stomach and the string separating my balls, riding up into the crack of my ass, I could almost get off on pure sensation alone.

All of these fashion forays culminated in frenzied climaxes. Here I was, my eyes squinted, my breath caught in my throat, surrounded by the clean, warm scent of soap and fabric softener.

I was always very careful to conceal the ejaculatory results of my fantasies. The only unpleasant thing associated with my newfound “hobby” was a small, paranoid voice in the back of my mind, asking, “Does this mean I’m gay or something?” But I assured myself that I was still very much attracted to women. In fact, envisioning the women themselves wearing the garments I had on would always fuel me to orgasm. Especially Estelle.

Every few weeks, Estelle would come in right before closing with her bales of laundry hugged up against her huge breasts, drop them at my feet and instruct me not to hurry, that she’d be out of town. When I finally got up the nerve to ask her where she was always going “out of town” to, she replied, “Well, I’m a buyer for a lingerie boutique and I travel to shop for exotic underthings.”

I closed up the second she left, rapidly jerked off and came forcefully, imagining Estelle in foreign cities fingering mysterious fabrics. For days after that brief but stimulating conversation, I continued to masturbate while fantasizing about Estelle’s travels and her luscious body clad in her most recent purchases. I could not get her off my mind.

One late Friday night, after a particularly irritating evening of work, I was getting ready to close, wondering which laundry bag I should burrow into to relieve the stiffness I was experiencing in my shorts. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen Estelle, and what I really wanted was to put on a set of her imported panties and climax, inhaling the lingering scent of her flowery perfume.

As I was counting the cash drawer, I heard a knock on the door and looked up to see Estelle clutching an armload of bags and packages. I ran to unlock the door and let her in. Fortunately, I hadn’t let down the gate yet.

“I’m glad I caught you before you closed up,” she panted. “Going out of town again?” I inquired. “As a matter of fact, I just returned from a long, stressful trip to the Mediterranean. And I have loads of laundry for you,” Estelle said, dropping a large canvas sack at my foot. Immediately my imagination went into high gear, as I tried to picture what fabulous new panties I’d be slipping into after I closed the door behind her.

“There’s no hurry,” she said, as she always did. “However,” she added, “I do have something here that’s a bit more urgent.” She set a deep-green shopping bag down on top of the closest washing machine. It had intricate gold lettering across the left edge. “Go ahead, open it,” she urged. “It’s a gift.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this gesture. The standard “You shouldn’t have” seemed too obvious. Of course she shouldn’t have; she hardly knew me. Instead, I managed to stammer a polite “Thank you” as I reached for the bag. The heavy paper inside crinkled loudly in the silence of the laundry, and I cleared my throat. “I hope you won’t think it too forward of me,” Estelle said, breaking the tension. I reached into the bag and pulled out the most exquisite bustier I had ever seen. It was all gleaming white eyelet, seemingly held together by invisible threads. It had a distinctive hourglass shape, but no discernable rigging. It was almost magical. “It’s from Italy,” she informed me, “made from the finest Venetian lace. Please, put it on.”

My face blossomed with a fierce blush and I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. “I’ve been spying on you these past few months,” she said, her eyes gleaming mischievously.

I looked around frantically, trying to figure out how she could have witnessed my evening escapades with the storefront gate pulled down at closing time. Reading my mind, she answered, “I park in the back, right out there,” and she pointed through a tiny window to the employee’s parking lot. “At first I only caught a glimpse of you through the corner of my eye, but when I stood up on the bumper of my car, it was like having a front-row seat.”

My eyes were watering with acute embarrassment. I couldn’t believe that, for all these weeks, my most private, erotic moments had been on view like a stage show! My face stung from the blood rushing to my cheeks. I was vaguely aware of blood rushing elsewhere.

“Oh, come on, aren’t you going to try that on?” Estelle asked, as she fished around in the bottom of the green bag. “Here, I think these should complement the bustier quite well,” and she pulled out a pair of sheer white stockings with lace tops. “Please?”

I couldn’t wait to get into the bustier, to feel the fine lace against my skin, but I didn’t want to appear too eager. “The thought of you in this ensemble has had me turned on for days,” Estelle cooed, and her hands brushed across her breasts. “There’s nothing more exciting to me than a fine human form scantily draped in expensive fabric.”

That was all the encouragement I needed; if Estelle was stimulated by the sight of bodies in lingerie, I wanted her to see mine, desperately. I peeled off my t-shirt and wrapped the stiff lace around my chest, straining my arms to fasten the hooks behind my back. Then I lifted my left foot and rolled a silky stocking slowly, sensuously up my leg, aware of Estelle’s longing gaze and her breath coming in quick little gasps.

“Doesn’t the silk feel wonderful?” she asked. “It’s the most expensive there is, from the Orient,” and she began to unbutton her blouse. “You’d better get rid of those shorts,” she said, arching her eyebrow. “They simply don’t work with the eyelet.” Another button undone and her bulging cleavage became visible. With one stocking clinging to the hairs on my leg. I yanked off my shorts, kicking them aside, and proceeded to slide the other stocking up my right leg. They bagged loosely, and Estelle handed me a garter belt.

“This will hold the stocking in place beautifully,” she rasped, her words thickening. As I snapped the garters to the hose, she let out a small gasp and fingered one of her erect nipples. “Oh, just look at yourself. You’re beautiful.” She grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face my reflection in the dryer door.

She was right; I looked magnificent. My chest was spilling out of the bustier, small blond hairs poking through the eyelet. The shape of my legs was accentuated by the glistening white of the silk. And my cock, well, my cock was stiff and purple, pointing straight into the air.

In the reflection, I saw Estelle’s hand circling her crotch. Thus far, I had evidently performed admirably for her. I wondered aloud if there was anything I could do for her now that I was properly attired. “Perhaps there is something,” she answered, and she continued undressing.

She undid the last of the buttons on her blouse and dropped it to the floor, exposing her succulent breasts, displayed more prominently in a stiff, white eyelet demi-bra. It was a companion piece to the bustier I was wearing! I groaned. Then, rather than removing the bra, she flopped each breast over the tops of her bra cups, the underwires and starched material pushing her tits out at me.

From there, her hands moved their way down her fleshy torso to her spandex skirt. She slid it down in a quick motion, revealing her panties and the small white V of eyelet, her excess strawberry blonde pubic hairs framing it beautifully. I let out another, deeper groan, and my hand went straight for my cock. I massaged it slowly, as Estelle stepped out of her skirt.

In a second, she had boosted herself up onto a washing machine. She smiled at me and slowly parted her legs. Her sweet lace panties were crotchless! Two thin curlicues of eyelet flattened the hair on either side of her pussy. Eyeing Estelle’s gleaming cunt lips, opened wide in invitation, I moved toward her. A bead of pre-come dribbled down the front of my erection, and I ran my thumb around the head, spreading my lubricant.

Leaning into her, I could smell the familiar perfume that had hung in the air during so many of my masturbatory fantasies. Now my fantasies were becoming reality. Gripping the edge of the machine that Estelle had perched on, I slid my cock inside her in one quick, fluid motion. We gasped in unison, and I slowly, smoothly, began to pump my stiff cock in and out of her slippery cunt.

She leaned back on her palms, wrapped her soft legs around my waist and pulled my hips hard into her. My dick plunged deep inside Estelle and she cried out. Instinct overcame all control, and with sharp, rhythmic thrusts I was slamming into Estelle, my thighs slapping against the side of the washing machine. She threw her arms around my neck and rode me, lifting off the washing machine with each violent thrust of my pelvis.

The pressure from months of dreaming about Estelle and her succulent body was building to a crescendo. I was wildly humping her, shoving my cock into her with powerful strokes, accompanied by my low, throaty grunts. Estelle was answering every stroke with equally powerful thrusts of her full, round hips, pressing the delicate points of the bustier into my skin with each clench of her legs. As her moans got louder, I knew that neither of us could hold back much longer.

Our rhythm increased and sweat drenched our bodies, soaking the stiff lace of our lingerie. In the final few seconds before I came, all other sensation faded as every nerve in my body seemed to be concentrated in my cock. All I could feel was the soft, wet insides of Estelle’s pussy clutching my dick. When she cried out sharply, “Oh! Oh! Yes!” my cock exploded inside her, echoed by her post-orgasmic contractions. I leaned back a little, my dick still inside her, and prayed I wouldn’t pass out.

Estelle’s long, soft legs were still wrapped around my waist, sealing the sweaty lace to my skin, and her pussy still had a tight grip on my cock. When I finally opened my eyes, she was looking at me with a satisfied expression on her face. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” she sighed.

Not wanting to let go of Estelle’s accommodating body, I ran my hands over every inch of fleshy soft skin within my reach. She massaged the knots in my shoulders and the back of my neck. I had goosebumps from the feel of her strong fingers and the cool, damp fabric drying and stiffening against my skin.

When she began working at the flesh of my buttocks, I felt my cock hardening up again inside her. She made a sly remark about my stamina and I assured her that my ability to fuck her for hours would leave her crying for respite. She laughed and said, “Show me,” and with that, I lifted her off the washing machine, carried her across the room, still straddling my cock, and laid her down on a soft pile of fresh laundry.

We made love for hours in a dozen positions, insulated by the warmth of the laundry. I explored all the gentle curves and moist spots that had featured so prominently in my dreams, and she returned the favor, pleasuring me over and over again. When we heard early-morning stirrings outside on the street, I suggested we continue our explorations elsewhere, and Estelle eagerly agreed.

I did my best to disguise the fact that two tremendously sexual beings had been using the Laundromat as their personal playground. Estelle slipped into her skirt, buttoned her blouse and watched, with a gleam in her eye, as I pulled my shorts on over the silk stockings. I also left the bustier on underneath my t-shirt. This caused Estelle to giggle and growl, “Just wait until I get that hot bod of yours home!”

Wait indeed; after the months of waiting I’d already endured, the drive to Estelle’s was nothing. As she led me across the threshold, through the bedroom and to her closet, bursting with the most beautiful lingerie I’d ever seen, I knew this was only the beginning of a long, adventurous affair. And Estelle had been well worth the wait.

Ever since receiving my first Plaskool phone, I’ve had an insatiable appetite for talking on the telephone. In college, that appetite took on a sexual dimension when I received my first obscene phone call. Answering the pay phone in my dorm hallway one night, I heard nothing but soft breathing.

“Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” More silence. “Are you gonna say something or should I hang up?” I figured it was one of the fraternity pledges playing a prank. And then the breather spoke.

“I’ve got my dick in my hand. It’s so hard…I’m jerkin’ off…right now. How does that make you feel?”

I wanted to tell him I felt ridiculous, but instead I said, “It makes me feel really horny. I wish I were with you, caressing your cock, jerkin’ you off.”

“Babe, if you were with me I’d be rammin’ your cunt so hard…I’d fuck every hole you have.”

“Mmm…tell me what you’d do to me.”

“Man, first I’d stuff my cock into your mouth. Then, when I was just about ready to come, I’d pull out and jerk off until I sprayed my load all over your face.”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted, trying my best to sound compliant. His coarse suggestions were exciting me. No one had ever actually spoken to me that way. “Go on,” I prompted.

“Then I’d get you on your hands and knees and shove my prick into your hot, juicy cunt. I’d ram into you until you were cryin’ with joy, and then I’d ram you some more and tell you that you had to wait till I come. It’d take a while and I’d be grabbin’ onto your ass and ridin’ you hard. They I’d tell you, ‘Hold still, I’m comin’,’ and I’d shoot my load onto your pussy.”

By this time his breathing was extremely labored and he was pausing between each sentence. My heart rate had increased quite a bit as well. I crossed my legs to put friction on my clitoris. Eventually, after more of his dirty talk and my breathy responses, the caller climaxed, groaning hoarsely into the receiver. And then he hung up. I dashed back to my room and masturbated, coming in quaking waves. It was the start of a new fascination with the telephone.

When I saw the ad for women to work a phone sex line, I thought, brilliant—a way to profit from my obsession! I applied that afternoon and spent three evenings a week talking dirty to paying callers. When I realized that my business psychology degree was worth no more than the paper it was printed on, I inquired about a full-time position working the phone sex lines and wound up making a career of it.

But I had a problem. Although it was quite arousing to spend 40 hours a week fielding what are essentially paying prank callers, there were no comparable services to fulfill my needs.

The entrepreneur in me became inspired and I drew up a business plan. A phone sex service that would meet the needs of straight women—the only one in a marketplace glutted with similar services for men—would make millions. Within a month I had a bank loan and I was sitting at my kitchen table trying to decide which phone system to purchase.

The thought of actually placing a help wanted ad was out of the question. I wanted men who had a passion for the phone, as I did, not a bunch of guys looking to make a quick buck. I decided the thing to do was place a personal ad. The “candidates” would have to try to sell themselves over the phone and I figured I could perhaps work a few dirty bits into our fiber-optic interview.

I placed the ad, describing myself in generic yet attractive terms—“Slender and Sane” was my lead-in—and I didn’t ask anything more of my would-be dates other than that they have a sexy voice and a vivid imagination. When the ad had been on the street for a full day, I called to retrieve my messages, armed with a pen and notepad. After pressing all the proper buttons to access my personal mailbox, I pressed 1 to hear my first response.

“Uh, hi, Slender and Sane. Slender certainly sounds appealing but I’m hoping you’re not too sane. Anyway, I liked the sound of your ad. I hate those people who have a million demands. Or who say they’re 35 but look 32.” He chuckled. “Give me a call and I’ll tell you what else I like. My name is Stan and you can reach me in the evenings. I’ll be looking forward to your call. Bye!” I scribbled down Stan’s number. He hadn’t given me much to go on but he sounded friendly enough, and I loved his gravelly voice. The next message began.

“Yo, Slender! My name is Evan and I’m answering your ad because you don’t sound as picky as all the other girls out there. Gotta love that, someone with reasonable expectations! Well, look, I’d rather talk to you than to this machine, so, hmmm, let’s see…I’m pretty cute, a lotta fun and, well, you decide if you like my voice. Oh, and I have a great imagination! Talk to ya soon!” He sounded awfully young, but he certainly had a lot of energy. And I would need both youth and spirit on my service, no? On to the next message.

Stan, Chris, Evan and Dave got jotted down. Harold was a born-again Christian, Larry was married, three more sounded like Munchkins and a few just got nixed for lack of enthusiasm. And that was just one day’s worth. By the end of the week, I’d culled about a dozen candidates and tried to decide which to call first. I worked myself into a masturbatory frenzy going over the voices and ultimately decided on Stan.

As I toyed with my clitoris, I propped the phone against my shoulder and punched in Stan’s number. I was hot for some serious verbal stimulation. Brrrrt. Brrrrt. Brrrrt. The phone rang with my rapid heartbeat playing rhythm.

“Hello?” His voice was like velvet.

“Is Stan there, please?”

“This is Stan,” he answered, sounding curious. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Melody, Stan. You responded to my personal ad. And you do have a sexy voice.”

“Thank you, Melody.” Heavens, the mere sound of him speaking my name was almost enough to make me come. I wasted no time getting to the point.

“Stan, I love to hear a man’s sexy voice while I masturbate. It helps me come.” Silence. “Would you like to hear me come, Stan?” Another lapse of silence.  And then…”If it would make you happy, Melody, I would love to.” When he said my name again, my thighs twitched.

“I’m running my fingers up and down my pussy, Stan. I’ve been thinking about you…how you would sound. It’s made me really wet, Stan. Oooh, I’m sliding my fingers into my cunt. It’s unbelievably slippery in there. Just right for a big cock. Do you have a big hard cock, Stan?” There were a few empty seconds, then…

“Oh, you would love my cock, Melody. You’d love it, um, slipping inside you, pushing and pressing…”

“Oh, yes, Stan! That’s right, pressing into me…”

“Hot and hard…insistently pushing into you. Mmm, your pussy is so wet. God, you’re making my cock hard!”

“Oh, Stan! I’m so hot right now! I’m just on the edge.”

“Come on, come for me. Suck me in, it feels so good, sliding inside you.”

“I’m flicking my clitoris now, Stan. Faster, oh! Faster! Oooh!” I was shaking, slamming my fingers into my cunt, secreting lubrication like crazy and drooling onto the receiver. When it was over, completely over, and my fingers rested deep inside my pussy, feeling the weakening spasms, I whispered, “Stan?”

“How was it, honey?” he inquired.

“Oh, God, Stan. It was great!”

There were a few more empty seconds and I wondered if I should hang up, give him some time to let my call sink in before offering him a job. Better yet, maybe I should explain my business proposition to him in person. He certainly seemed to be a prime candidate.

* * *

The physical attraction was immediate. You know, I may have to keep this one for my personal use, I thought the second I laid eyes on him. He wore a leathered black motorcycle jacket slung loosely across his broad shoulders. He wasn’t markedly tall or short, just average, but he filled out his faded Silver Tabs to perfection. I made a note of his footwear—scuffed, very expensive looking wingtips. I’ve always believed that shoes are a reflection of a man’s personality. He had a black thermal shirt tucked tightly into his heans, showing off the slight shadows of well-developed pecs. Hmm, he takes care of his body, lifts weights or something. Another mental note.

I took all this in as he approached me, his hand extended.

“Melody? Excuse me, is that you?” I nodded, shaking his hand, and said, “Stan? Pleased to meet you,” and we found ourselves a secluded booth. The second we sat down, he looked me right in the eye.

“That was one helluva phone call.” I blushed and almost apologized, but when he reached across the table and took my hands in his, I could tell that he had no problem—with me or my phone manner.

We sat in that booth for hours, spilling our life stories and secret desires, building up the tension that we both knew would fuel a wild night of sexual experimentation. At one point I excused myself to go to the women’s room and was shocked at just how damp my panties had become. When I returned to the table, Stan had paid the check and slipped on his motorcycle jacket.

“What do you say we get some air?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. Who was he kidding? We would be making a bee-line for whoever’s bed was closest.

“Sounds wonderful,” I smled, returning his playful expression.

We strolled along the storefronts, stopping occasionally, first to ostensibly ogle the boutiques and their wares and then, gradually, to kiss. His tongue flicked suggestively at the edge of my lip, and I could imagine what it would feel like teasing my clitoris the same way. The damp spot in my panties had spread. I wanted to get him home.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered once we got to my place. I already trusted this man implicitly. I wanted to surrender to him completely. I closed my eyes.

“I’m rubbing myself,” he continued. “The smell of you, the feel of you, has made me incredibly hard.” His hands caressed my face. “Your skin is so soft. I want to rub my cock against your silken cheek.” He pressed gently on my shoulders, easing me to the floor. I heard the clinking of his belt buckle as I knelt, my eyes still closed, and waited anxiously to feel him touch me.

“My cock is ready to burst. I’ve been thinking about those tender lips wrapped around my cock for hours.” I felt the soft bulb of his cockhead brush against my cheek. Then it caressed my chin and dragged across my other cheek.

“Mmmm, you are so soft,” he purred. “I want to feel your warm, wet mouth around me.” I licked my lips and parted them ever so slightly. Stan ran his cock back and forth along them and I tasted the tang of his pre-come. I gave him a quick lick and he groaned. Then I moistened my lips again, made them into an O and pulled him toward me, my eyes still shut tightly. His cock slid in gently, bumping the roof of my mouth, and I heard a long, rattling sigh.

“Oh, baby, your mouth feels amazing.” My tongue wrapped around his cock, poked his hole and felt his distended veins. I let saliva dribble from my mouth and reached up, gripping the base of Stan’s cock. Working up a rhythm and a lather, I pumped him and listened, with my eyes still closed, as he simulated the phone sex that he knew excited me.

“Your hand is wrapped around my prick. I’m sliding in and out of your mouth, it’s silky smooth inside you.” I answered with a muffled moan. “Go faster, please. Make me shoot down your throat, across your face, over your tits.”

My eyes flew open and I pushed his cock out of my mouth. “Make love…we must make love like this, with you telling me everything you feel.” I was panting and standing up now, and I ripped off my skirt, yanked down my panties, turned away and bent over, presenting my ass to him, to his engorged cock.

He gripped my hips and pulled me into him, his cock bumping up against my ass. Then, holding me, he tried again and slid easily into my yearning cunt.

“Oh, my God,” Stan sighed, and he began slamming into me, powerfully, his balls slapping into my thigh every few thrusts. “Your pussy is so tight, so hot and tight. It’s clamped around my cock. Oh, I want you to come. I want to feel you bucking against me in the throes of ecstasy.” He poked into the furthest reaches of my cunt until I began to whimper. When he found the angle that I knew would make me come, I cried out and he held me still, ramming me again and again, driving me over the edge.

“That’s it, baby, come on my cock. Let me feel your cunt go crazy.” I knew that at any second that was exactly what he would feel. I could scarcely control my sobs, but I wanted to hear his every word. My orgasm was about to crescendo. “Wow, you’re so wet all of a sudden. So slippery and warm. And I can feel your muscles contracting and…Stan’s thrusts quickened and his fingers dug into my hips. He was drilling away, ramming my cunt in a frenzy. I sank my teeth into my arm, determined not to drown out the sounds of his orgasm. Then the pain and the pleasure blurred and I was coming, writhing on Stan’s cock and whimpering into my arm.

And then his voice lowered, his thrusts slowed to long, deliberate shoves, and he let loose an explosive stream of semen that I could actually feel fill me up.

Today, I’m making an impressive living with my “Phone Fun for Frisky Females” serice. I have 18 full- and part-time gentlemen working for me and Stan is my star employee. We’re always trying new scenarios on each other, first over the phone to gauge our levels of excitement, and then live, to see just how orgasmic the sex is in reality. Although our live sex is out of this world, sometimes I just don’t know…a ringing telephone still makes my clit twitch.

“It’d be an opportunity to meet some new people.” Carole was doing her best to convince Marlene to join her reading group. “It’s only once a month. It’s not like it’s a big commitment.”

Okay,” Marlene acceded. “I’ll think about it.”

Rather than push harder, Carole left it at that, hoping Marlene would come around eventually.

“I can’t believe tomorrow’s Friday already,” Marlene sighed. “Another week.” And she moved off in the direction of her cubicle.

* * *

“When does your reading group meet?” Marlene asked, sipping coffee that smelled like toasted almonds.

“The first Monday of every month,” Carole answered, trying not to sound too eager.

“Hmm, that’s next week…”

Before she could stop herself, Carole burbled, “We’re starting a new book. It’d be a perfect time to join!”

“Okay,” Marlene said, and she drifted off to the ladies’ room.

“Yes!” Carole whispered, feeling triumphant.

* * *

“Everybody, this is Marlene,” Carole announced to the circle of women. “We work together.” The women nodded hello and introduced themselves, extending well-manicured hands jangling with gold bracelets: Claire, in PR; Beatta, advertising exec; Harper was in law school; Mia was a high school friend of Claire’s. Sara-from-Penn’s handshake was more tender and lasted longer than the others’ and when she spoke, she looked directly into Marlene’s eyes. “I’m a caterer,” she said. Marlene felt an unfamiliar tingling at the base of her spine and pulled her hand back. When the women raked the last novel they’d read over the coals, Marlene felt a bit left out, but then they began discussing the new book and she actually felt slightly excited. And before long it was time to leave.

* * *

Shuffling her morning papers, Marlene thought about Sara. She’d certainly stood out from the crowd. Her voice had a cadence to it that Marlene found soothing. And she was definitely the best looking of the bunch. Her not-quite-brown locks were long and thick and wavy. On anyone else, her hair color might’ve been called mousey, but it complemented her transluscent skin. She’d worn a long, fluid dress in a fragile pastel green that draped over her small breasts so suggestively it had been distracting. Marlene had had to consciously avert her gaze so as not to stare. And Sara’s ankles had been crossed beneath the coffee table so gracefully. Marlene couldn’t stop thinkiing about her. “And a woman!” she thought to herself, screwing up her face. Carole was constantly trying to fix her up with guys, but Marlene simply didn’t think she could muster the enthusiasm necessary to make it through an evening with another guy. They were all so tiresome. That is, all those she’d been fixed up with. Perhaps a woman would be less tiresome. Sara. Sara would be less tiresome. Clicking onto her “To Do” folder and watched the long list appear on her computer screen, Marlene sighed, already looking forward to the next first Monday of the month.

* * *

Pressing the button for the elevator, she could feel her heart somersaulting as she thought about tonight’s meeting. She had worn her favorite slacks and a soft silk blouse. She wanted to look her absolute best for Sara. No one else seemed to be worth getting dressed for at all, much less dressed up.

The scent of her flavored coffee preceded Marlene’s entrance by a few seconds. “Good morning,” Carole said, peering over her cubicle. “You look nice today.”

“Thanks,” Marlene mumbled. “Now that you’ve talked me into having a social life, I decided to make an effort.”

“I sure wish you’d made that effort for the last blind date I sent you on.”

* * *

The day dragged by more slowly than any Marlene could remember. She took her lunch late so the afternoon would seem shorter. Thank God they’d decided to add dinner to the meetings. It meant that the evening would begin that much sooner. At 5:30 she clocked off her computer and headed for the ladies’ room to make sure she looked presentable. Carole was there already, rinsing out her coffee mug.

“Y’wanna walk over?” Carole asked, looking up from the sink. Marlene peered into the mirror and rubbed the pad across her nose. She wasn’t much for makeup ordinarily, but she’d resurrected her Lancome powder compact to combat the sheen caused by the unrelenting humidity.

“Ugh, no. It’s too damn hot. Let’s split a cab,” she said, clicking the compact shut. “I’d be a sweaty mess if we walked. Not that I’m not anyway.”

“No, you look fantastic!” Carole contradicted. “In fact, I think this is the best you’ve looked. If you keep this up, you won’t be needing me to fix you up with dates much longer.” Carole winced and quickly looked back into the sink, realizing too late how awful that sounded, but Marlene didn’t seem to notice. She was busy pursing her freshly-painted lips in a provocative pout. Carole wondered if perhaps she’d already found herself a beau and was keeping it to herself. Why else would she be bothering with lipstick?

“Let’s get out of here,” Marlene said, throwing her bag over her shoulder.

“Mm-hmm,” was Carole’s response.

Dinner was cold pasta salad with a tangy Italian dressing, the perfect thing in the heat. The women sat in Claire’s living room, balancing plates on their knees, and talked about everything but the book. Marlene had made sure to position herself as close to Sara as possible. She sat crosslegged on the floor across the coffee table from Sara, who was comfortably perched on the couch. Looking up at her felt natural, and Marlene imagined herself a lady in waiting to Sara and her royal throne. Oh, how she wanted to stroke Sara’shair, to hold her hand and pet it softly, softly.

Marlene excused herself and found the bathroom, closing the door silently. As her slacks and panties dropped to the floor, she noticed the dark, damp spot. Apparently she was interested in stroking more than just Sara’s hair. She tried to pee and couldn’t, instead running her fingers through her pubic hair, enjoying the jolt that shot through her cunt. She slipped a finger down further, testing to see how wet she was; she was very wet indeed. With only a few strokes of her slick fingers, her thighs were quivering and her cunt was clenching spasmodically. Her climax was brief and intense. Shit, hadn’t she just masturbated earlier that day? Fixing her hair, Marlene popped her fingers into her mouth and licked them clean, shocking herself.

Returning to her spot on the floor, Marlene smirked with her secret. The conversation had turned to men and Marlene was curious to hear about Sara’s personal life. She hadn’t had the nerve to ask Carole, thinking it would be smarter to wait. And she didn’t want to appear disappointed upon hearing about pending wedding plans. It turned out to be better than she’d hoped for. Sara was single, and had been for some time, with every intention of remaining that way.

“I don’t know where I’d fit a man into my life,” Sara stated airly, scooping a tendril of pasta into her mouth. “They demand so much of your time.” The women nodded knowingly. “Although, a lover wouldn’t be bad,” she continued. “But definitely none of that dating stuff. I just don’t have the patience to sit through a meal making believe I’m interested in some guy’s workout regime.” She speared a flower of broccoli for emphasis.

“That’s exactly how I feel,” Marlene blurted, her first words since joining the group. The women looked at her as though she’d shouted. Undaunted, she added, “I suppose it would be different it I were actually interested in the person.”

“You mean if the person were actually interesting,” Sara corrected, laughing.

Marlene looked up at her and felt that tingle at the base of her spine again. This woman was so captivating. She couldn’t imagine any man droning on about his sorry life while seated across the dinner table from Sara. Certainly any guy with half a brain would listen attentively to everything she had to say, hanging on each musical word she uttered. Marlene wanted to be the one across the dinner table, listening appreciatively. She wanted it more than anything. And she wondered if Sara could ever want the same thing.

The women laughed along with Sara, and then they began reviewing the few chapters they’d read.

* * *

Marlene had gone home after the meeting and masturbated frantically, the third time that day, fantasizing about Sara: Sara seated across a candlelit dinner table, making casual conversation while Marlene fingered herself to orgasm; Sara wearing a glittering crown, an ermine cloak and nothing else, her breasts peeking out from behind the regal fur, and Marlene on the floor at her knee, gazing longingly at the intersection of her slightly parted thighs. Marlene finally passed out from exhaustion and awoke the next morning sore and cranky.

Sitting at her computer, groggily sipping her coffee, Marlene splashed her keyboard when the phone’s ring startled her out of her haze. “This is Marlene,” she announced, answering the phone.

“Marlene, hi, it’s Sara.” The remainder of Marlene’s coffee dribbled onto her desk. “Marlene?”

“Yes, hi!” she answered, unable to say anything more.

“I’m not catching you at a bad time, am I?” Sara sang.

“Oh, no. No,” Marlene recovered. “I was just, um, thinking.” Thinking about you, she wanted to say.

“I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I’m going to be in your neighborhood later. There’s a new restaurant around the corner from your office and I want to check out the chef.”

“Oh?” It was all Marlene could muster.

“I tried Carole, but she’s busy tonight.” Marlene’s heart sank at the thought of being second string. “Anyway, she transferred me to you. So, would you like to have dinner? On me.”

Marlene momentarily believed that dreams really do come true. “That’d be great.”

And before she could say more, Sara said, “Great. Yes. Listen, the name of the place is Martini’s, on Fifty-ninth and Second. I’ll meet you there at seven. Okay?”

“Okay. Yes. Sure,” Marlene answered.

“See ya then, hon,” Sara said. “Bye!” By the time Marlene managed a goodbye, Sara had hung up.

As sore as she was, Marlene went straight to the ladies’ room and jerked off, the fourth time in 24 hours. A new record.

“So, you having dinner with Sara?” Carole asked, leaning against the faux doorway of Marlene’s faux office.

Doing her best to sound nonchalant, Marlene answered without looking up. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, it’s a free meal,” Carole said, still leaning.

“And we like free,” Marlene responded, glancing up casually.

“That we do,” Carole laughed. “And the place has gotten great write-ups.”

“I’ll tell you what you missed,” Marlene said conspiratorially.

* * *

Nervous and slightly uncomfortable, Marlene waited at the bar, which was full of anonymous-looking banker types in expensive suits drinking cocktails on the rocks. She felt conspicuous in her pastel dress amidst all the blacks and blues. When she saw Sara through the window, she smiled broadly.

“Hi, hi. Great color! How was your day?” Sara asked, kissing the air beside Marlene’s cheek.

“Oh, not too bad,” Marlene answered automatically. “How was yours?”

“I spent the whole day trying to find masks for a party I’m working on. Every shop only had a few, so I wound up hitting every costume and party place in the city. Shall we get a table?”

Marlene nodded and Sara approached the maitre’d, softly giving him her name. He shook her hand warmly and showed them to a secluded table toward the back of the restaurant. The dark colors and muted oil paintings made the place feel like a men’s club, but it was soothing and cool. They settled in and ordered drinks. “White wine,” Sara told the waiter.

“I’ll have the same,” Marlene said, wanting to make things as easy as possible.

The meal progressed almost without Marlene noticing. She ate the assortment of dishes Sara ordered, barely tasting them. It was all very good, of course, but she was more interested in listening to Sara’s descriptions of her best parties. Then she cringed through Sara’s reminiscenses of the few men she’d been with. “I could almost say I’ve had it with men,” Sara mused. Marlene held her breath, waiting to hear what came next. “Have you ever been with a woman, Marlene?”

Flustered, Marlene blushed hotly. “No. Oh, no.” Then she was afraid her answer had sounded too dismissive.

“I haven’t either,” Sara filled the silence. “But I can’t say I haven’t thought about it.” More silence, this time unfilled. The pause dragged on. “What about you, Marlene?” When Sara said her name, Marlene felt a twinge in her cunt.

“Mmm?”

“Have you ever thought about being with a woman?” Sara asked, leaning over the table, her sparkling hazel eyes round and questioning.

Marlene knew the answer. The answer was yes. But she was afraid of spilling out more. “Lately, yes, I have,” she finally admitted.

“It would probably be a vast improvement,” Sara opined, ignoring Marlene’s qualifier. “Just the fact that it was another woman, I’d think you’d know better what to do, since you already know what feels good.” Marlene nodded and dessert was served. The coffee was strong. It made her sweat a bit. Her cheeks felt too warm.

Sara finally broke the silence that had hung on the words “feels good” by reaching across the table and touching Marlene’s hand. “I have some really great coffee at home. Would you like to join me?”

Sara raised her delicate arm and a taxi pulled to a stop. “Seventy-third between Columbus and Amsterdam,” she instructed the driver. They rode in silence, knowing that coffee was only an excuse, the oldest and most clichéd of excuses, at that. Marlene felt her heartbeat throbbing in her ears and wondered what Sara’s skin would taste like.

They bickered over who would pay for the cab ride, with Sara eventually winning by saying the evening had, after all, been her treat. Marlene stood behind Sara as she unlocked the series of bolts on her apartment door. Sara’s hair smelled wonderful. Marlene was eager to find out what it felt like.

The door opened onto the living room, a huge square space with very high ceilings. It was decorated like a lawn party: a round, white laquered picnic table with a bright canvas umbrella, director’s chairs and colorful tiki lamps. Along the ceiling, white Christmas lights twinkled. A fan stirred the flaps on the umbrella. Marlene felt like she was at an Easthampton beach club. She could almost hear the waves lapping against the living room walls.

“Maybe coffee isn’t the best thing in this heat,” Sara called from the kitchen. Marlene had been so taken with the décor, she’d allowed Sara to escape her gaze. She crossed the living room in the direction of the voice and found Sara rummaging through an overstocked refrigerator. “How ’bout seltzer instead?” she called out, starting when she looked up and saw Marlene standing on the other side of the fridge door.

“Seltzer’s just fine,” Marlene practically whispered. Sara’s cheeks were flushed from bending over and her eyes were wide and glittering. With the bottle of seltzer in her hand, Sara leaned over the fridge door and pressed her lips against Marlene’s. They felt as cool as the air emanating from the fridge. Marlene closed her eyes and pressed back. It wasn’t quite a kiss, more like a test. After a few seconds, they parted, both of them smiling. It seemed they had passed.

Sara filled two frosted mugs with ice cubs and poured the seltzer. The ice cubes crackled in the silence that hovered between them. When Sara picked the mugs up and started down the hall, Marlene followed her. The bedroom was on the small side, a good portion of it taken up by a magnificent mahogany sleigh bed and a large mirrored armoire. Other antiques and interesting collectibles cluttered the corners, making the room feel cozy and familiar. The whole apartment was just perfect, exactly the way Marlene had imagined Sara’s world would be, like something out of a Martha Stewart book.

They stood staring at each other, Sara still holding the seltzers, the mugs sweating. Marlene moved toward her and took one. As she raised in a toast, Sara provided the words. “To trying new things.” Marlene smiled and they each took a sip.

From there, things seemed to progress like the dream sequence of a movie. After Sara set her mug down and flipped on the air conditioner, Marlene sat on the bed. Sara sat beside her and the two of them moved together awkwardly until their arms were wrapped around each other. They didn’t kiss at first. Instead they pressed their faces together, rubbing each other’s cheeks, and moved their hands over each other, exploring. Both were careful not to touch too intimately, but when they had turned enough to be facing each other, their breasts brushing, Sara extended her tongue and caressed Marlene’s mouth. Marlene parted her lips and Sara slipped her tongue inside.

Marlene felt dizzy. She couldn’t believe how amazing it all felt. And smelled. She ran her fingers through Sara’s hair. It was softer than anything she’d every touched. Sara’s skin smelled like clean laundry and the beach, such a warm, happy smell that Marlene almost wept. Instead she circled her arms around Sara’s slender waist.

Soon they were a tangle of limbs, Marlene fighting off feelings of self-consciousness. Sara was so much more feminine, more delicate. She felt thick and ungainly in comparison. Marlene desperately wanted Sara to make the first move.

Her heart was pounding. Her breath was coming in short little gasps. All she could think of was Sara’s delicate fingers, stroking her pubic hair, entering her pussy, probing deep inside, making her come. Sara moved her hands from Marlene’s shoulders to the nape of her neck and fumbled with the zipper of her dress. Marlene shivered as she felt the air conditioning blow on her back. She leaned forward, letting her dress fall, and waited to see what Sara would do next.

Sara stood and gracefully slipped out of her sueded silk suit, letting each flimsy article fall to the floor, revealing her braless breasts and an almost transparent pair of panties. Hooking her thumbs into them, she slipped them off quickly, stepped out of them and sat down again before Marlene had enough time to completely take in her nakedness. Between Sara’s thighs, though, Marlene could see the pale taupe of tufts of her pubic hair.

Sara reached for Marlene’s breasts with both hands and carefully ran her thumbs over her nipples. They poked stiffly through the nylon of Marlene’s bra. Sara hefted Marlene’s breasts out of the bra and stroked Marlene’s bared nipples. Her areola contracted in the cold like shrink-wrap. Sara leaned down and sucked a nipple into her mouth, sliding her warm tongue over its stiffness. Marlene groaned and her eyes fluttered closed.

Sara’s deft fingers unclasped Marlene’s bra. Her tits hung heavily; Sara cressed them while she suckled, moving fingers and mouth, fingers and tongue, over and around, heightening Marlene’s excitement. Soon she was leaning back on the bed watching Sara nuzzle her tummy and pushing her dress down further with each motion, eventually sliding it off. Marlene could feel Sara’s hot breath on the crotch of her nylons, the only thing left between her body and Sara’s tantalizing touch. Raising her hips up, Marlene felt Sara ease the taut fabric down over her hips, rolling it down her legs, licking the inside of her thighs on her way down.

For a moment, Sara’s fingers weren’t on her body and Marlene almost opened her eyes, but then she felt a warm wetness envelope the toes of her left foot and she half-moaned, half-giggled. Sara moved to her other foot and Marlene sighed. After nibbling each toe gently, Sara lapped at Marlene’s instep and anklebone. Then, as Sara’s mouth moved up her legs, Marlene parted her thighs and waited impatiently for this beautiful woman to reach the core of her being.

Sara took each inch of Marlene’s legs slowly, licking and nuzzling along lovingly. Marlene wondered if it was true that Sara had never been with a woman before; she certainly appeared knowledgeable. Small moans escaped her lips with each of Sara’s tiny nibbles, and when Sara slid her tongue along the last few centimeters of her thigh to her outer labia, sucking them into her mouth, Marlene arched up off the bed and gasped.

Sara’s mouth closed over Marlene’s mound, her tongue lapping away at Marlene’s stiff clitoris. A flick, then a nibble, then a long, painterly stroke, each movement different from the previous one, each designed to excite further but not quite finish things off. Marlene felt she might go mad with desire and heard herself growl, “Your fingers. Use…your fingers!” Sara complied, sliding her fingers into Marlene’s seeping pussy, plunging in deeply, then pulling out, pumping rhythmically.

“Oh! Yes! Right there! Right…there…” Marlene cried out and Sara flicked her tongue against Marlene’s clit relentlessly. Marlene continued to cry out, her voice thick with passion, until every muscle tightened, her breath caught in a rasp and she finally collapsed, groaning, her climax overwhelming her, her body shaking, her juices coating Sara’s frantically pumping fingers.

Marlene could feel Sara’s fingers deep inside her, motionless. “My God,” she rasped, “I haven’t come like that in…” Sara’s cheek caressed her thigh. “…mmm ages,” Marlene finished. Immobilized by her climax, Marlene felt Sara carefully pull her fingers out. Then Sara’s lithe body was beside her. In the dim light of the bedroom, Marlene watched as Sara’s fingers returned to her breasts, dancing across her nipples, and she whispered, “I have wanted to do that since the first night we met.” Her face was in the hollow of Marlene’s neck. “You know, I always figured I’d be good at it.”

“Good would be an understatement,” Marlene croaked, and they laughed together. Marlene felt so comfortable. Sara’s thinness wound around her, her heavy breasts providing Sara with a fleshy pillow and Sara’s small breasts pressed against her rib cage. As she nodded off to sleep, Marlene wondered if Sara would be interested in more than just a once-a-month commitment.

Anyway, I couldn’t let the day go by without a few heartfelt Valentine’s sentiments for you. First, I’d like to share a friend’s encapsulations of her most horrific dates. Enjoy!

Bad dates I have gone out with:
• a guy who wanted to take me to something called the Black and Blue Ball dressed mostly in a collar and a leash.
• a professional trumpet player who produced so much spit when we kissed that I had to continually swallow (or risk drowning).
• a guy who positioned friends of his at a table nearby to judge me and register an up or down vote.
•  a coke addict, whose tooth fell out while eating a burrito.
• a guy who had ADD so badly that when I walked into his house it was like walking into Willy Wonka’s office—walls half painted, projects half finished all over.
• a Satanist; we got all the way through a long conversation about ritual without me realizing that we were not on the same page.
• a guy who stole my video camera after telling me he was using me to cheat on his girlfriend.
• a guy who had to stop in the middle of intercourse to masturbate for half an hour, before returning to me to come.
• an ex-Marine who is phobic about butter.
• a guy who seemed normal until I went home with him; he was sleeping on a pile of cardboard in his bedroom.
• a guy who said he was running a hydroponic farm in his loft, turned out to be six sick pepper plants in a bucket.
• a male prostitute who invited me to go into business with him.
• a guy who said he is anti-Semitic, then later claimed to have misrepresented himself.
• a guy who lives in a studio apartment with his mother.
• someone who is the kept man of a woman in New Jersey; she is helping him put his kids through school.

There were others, if you can believe it, but she deleted them for fear I might recognize the guys. Yes, indeed, this woman attracts all the freaks, just like I seem to! And some of them are friends of mine! Which goes to show you that, even in the biggest city in America, it’s really a small town. All my friends and I wind up being “matched” with the same guys on the online dating sites. At least we can compare hilarious notes!

And another single-and-dating friend alerted me to this little gem on Craigslist:

lets watch each other letting one out – 50 (queens)
in shape guy, d/d free, s/p hair with athletic build, looking for women only who want to watch me crank one out while I watch you do same. prefer asian ladies but all are welcome. am for real and you should be too…no pic no response….thanks

Bwah-ha-ha-ha! Oh my! There’s just SO much to love about this! LOVE his stance! Love that he “prefers asian ladies but all are welcome.” Yay! He prefers semi-petite, probably-dark-haired (and pale skinned) women but, hey, sign me up anyway! And did anyone else think something entirely different when they read “letting one out”?! I envisioned a whole different fetishy scenario!

So, happy Day of Love to you all! I hope you’re enjoying my erotica and that your life is filled with lust, love and happiness! MWAH!