Category Archives: Erotica

Bondage Birthday – Ancient Erotica In “Honor” of 50 Shades

In “celebration” of both the premiere of “50 Shades of Grey” and Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d offer a reprint of a piece of erotica I wrote over a decade ago. I hope it inspires a little passion in those of you who might be prone to such things. At the very least I hope it inspires comparison. I like to think that my smut is (was?) far superior to that of E.L. James. But then, she’s made millions. Can’t say the same myself. Ah, the world is full of injustices…(Forgive any typos, I posted this in a hurry!)

The invitation read “Come as you are. As you were. As we want you to be,” a slight variation on the lyrics of one of my favorite songs. The wood-cut on the cover pictured a woman, suggestively dressed and osed in shackels, and the piece of parchment was imprinted with the logo of the private dungeon I frequent on weekends. The time specified was 9:00 p.m.; the date, Friday May 27th, my birthday.

Since no particular costume was requested, I assumed that the interpretation of “As we want you to be” was completely up to me. I selected a full-body leather lattice-work affair that I’d had custom-made. Finally an occasion worthy of it! I slipped my limbs through the webbing, pulling the delicate, supple strings of lambskin until they crisscrossed my body evenly. My breasts were bound against my body by the outfit and I could already feel my pussy tightening in anticipation.

I pinned my hair up in an elaborate tangle of curls, rhinestone-studded bobby pins crisscrossing my hair, echoing the grid of leather on my body. I applied a thin stroke of eyeliner, pinched my cheeks until they pinkened and glossed my lips in sheer opalescence.

To prevent my being arrested en route to my destination, I needed some sort of wrap to conceal my leather-bound voluptuousness. From the hal closet I pulled a floor-pength black satin cape, lined in purple, with a grand gold tassel hanging from the point of the hood and sparkling gold frog closures. I carefully fastened each hook, enveloping my webbed body in the cool satin. Then I wiggled my toes into a pair of black pumps with high, steel stiletto heels.

When I arrived at the unmarked club door, a frail, dark woman let me in. I informed her that I was with the birthday group. As she glanced down the list and her finger came to my name, she whispered, “Ah, you’re the guest of honro? I envy you.” She appraised me with an almost imperceptible once-over, crossed my name off the list and gestured to a hooded man standing to the side of the door who stepped up and took me by the arm.
He led me through a darkened hallway and out into the crowded room, still draped in my satin cape, and up onto a raised platform. A familiar voice introduced me to the crowd as “the birthday girl,” and I received a polite round of applause. When the clapping faded the voice continued, saying that I was to follow every order, every instruction. I was to be submissive, under the complete control of my peers. I nodded in agreement and the disembodied voice ordered me to remove my cape. My hands were shaking as I unfastened the passementerie clasps, one by one, from the bottom, below my crotch, to the top, tight at my neck.

I stood for a second, sensing the anticipation of the audience. Then I gently pushed the slippery fabric off my shoulders and the cape slid to the floor. There were gasps and excited whispers of approbal. The voice commended my choice of apparel and invited the audience to inspect my garment more closely. People moved toward me, running their fingers along the lines of leather that wrapped around my body, the poking at my exposed flesh and tugging at the straps, as if trying to pull my body out through the spaces between the strips. The sensation of the tight suit digging into my skin, all over my body, and the man probing fingers was delicious. Soon there were seemingly a million mouths gnawing at the leather lattice work, saliva dripping between skin and straps, until one by one the connections holding the garment together were frayed and torn. Eventually the straps hung, cold and wet on my frame and soon there was nothing left but a pile of leather shreds at my feet. My skin tingled with the wetness of the audience’s accumulated drool.

The voice asked that the crowd step back and a small blonde woman emerged from behind them. She told me to knee, and as I obeyed, she pulled a dark velvet scarf from deep down in her overflowing cleavage. She placed it across my eyes and tied it tightly in a knot at the back of my head. She told me to stand, took me by the hand and assisted me down from the platform. I was led back through the crowd, following blindly, until I was told to stop. Disoriented and without eyesight, my other senses became heightened. I could smell everyone’s perfume and perspiration, and hear every little gasp of air each person took. The tiny bristles of the velvet fabric over my eyes tickled my eyelids. The air was warm, then cool, then warm again, as bodies brushed closely by me.
The voice said “Lift” and I was raised up into the air by a dozen strong hands and laid down on a cool, flat surface. I could feel the air stif overhead, from a fan or air duct, I assumed, but my body heat was warming the surface and I could feel tiny beads of sweat start to form at the small of my back. Simultaneously there was the quick tearing sound of Velcro and then my wrists and ankles were pulled in four directions and bound, securing me to the surface. This was such a vulnerable position, naked and prone beneath the stirring air. My cunt throbbed.

From there my heightened senses went into overload as fingers massaged me—my temples, the soles of my feet, the tense, elongated muscles of my neck. Warm palms caressed my belly, grazed my breasts. Light fingertips danced up and down my bound limbs, across my clean-shaven pussy, over my masked eyelids and through my hair, loosening my hairpins. Stiff, insistent tongues prodded my flesh, my ears, my nipples, still and cool in the breeze, then warmed by a sucking mouth, then hot between strong, pinching fingers. I writhed and moaned, feeling the juice escape my cunt and slide down between my slick asscheeks to the table, pooling into a wet spot.

I felt the table shift with the weight of someone at my feet. Two smooth, small hands gripped my ankles. How many seconds had passed as all the other lips and palms and pinching fingers left me? When the only contact was my body on the table and the smooth hands on my ankles, I held my breath, almost cringing. Then a silken face was rubbing, burying itself in the bald folds of my cunt, a sharp, slippery tongue jabbing into me, poking past my hard clit, sliding in the slick juices that were dripping out of me. I was practically singing with uncontrollable sighs and moans and shrieks as the face nudged into my crotch, again and again; a nose, a stiff protrusion from the silken face, sliding up and up, rubbing over and past my clit, each of my screams increasing in volume until the poking tongue started working my clit, working, and tiny teeth pulling and twisting it, and then just furious, repetitions lapping until I was sobbing and shaking in my pool of sweat and juices on the slippery table.

As my sobs softened and my tensed muscles telaxed and the singular tongue trailed from my gaping cunt down my quivering thigh, the fingers and mouths started up again, tweaking my nipples, kissing and licking the tears that had spilled from the corners of my eyes and out from under my blindfold. Someone placed their lips squarely upon mine and kissed me, sucking my tongue into their mouth until I was out of breath. Then, some sort of arrangement must have been made because, again, the disembodied mouths and hands pulled away, leaving me holding my breath as before.

From across the room I heard someone start to sing, and the bodies, still close around me, radiating heat and passion, joined in: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Evelyn. Happy birthday to you.”

I felt a round, cold object placed upon my stomach. Someone lifted my head up and instructed me to blow. I did as I was told, gathering up as much air as my tightened chest would allow in and expelling it in the direction of the object on my belly. The crowd cheered and applauded and my head was rested back onto the table.
Pressure was applied to my stomach every few seconds and I gathered that they were cutting and distributing cake. After the same movements were repeated a dozen times, my head was lifted up again. “Open your mouth and extend your tongue,” the voice ordered. Again, I did as I was told. A wonderful consistency of chocolate deliciousness was set upon my tongue. I waited for permission to chew it, saliva dripping from one corner of my mouth. “You may eat it,” the voice said. It was a creamy chocolate mousse with a thin, hard chocolate crust. It felt like every one of my taste buds was participating in this sensual experience.

When the plate was removed I waited, my head still being porpped up, as I felt the table shift again and wondered what delight would be next. The air around my waist stirred; I felt the warmth of someone near and movement above me. Then, at my waist, I felt skin against my skin, anklebones jutting into my sides. Hairy legs knelt on the tabletop, brushing my rib cage.

Someone leaned on me—a man. A farily large, heavy man. I could smell him, the scent of his groin, the faint sour smell of sweat and urine, and I detected an increase in the temperature of the air above my chest. Large, weathered hands grabbed at my tits, kneading them, twisting the nipples. I could smell the man’s breath, smell the gin he’d been drinking and the extra lime he’d demanded.

The voice told me, again, to open my mouth and extend my tongue, and I obeyed. Then, again, although nothing had been placed on my tongue, the voice said, “You may eat it.” And in a quick whisper another voice added, “Or should we say blow!” The crowd tittered and in the next second my entire mouth was stuff with the fat cock of the large, heavy man breathing lime and gin. Without my hands, I couldn’t work him in and out of my mouth, so I could only purse my lips as he filled and emptied and then refilled my mouth with this immense, throbbing hard-on.

The anonymity of this encounter had me turned on almost to the point of dementia. I gasped and wheezed, trying to breathe and suck off this huge man, performing blind fellatio for the murmuring audience, wanting so badly for him to spurt his come on me and in me and all over me. I heard him start to grunt and knew his orgasm was not far off, so I bobbed my ehad faster, sucking, sucking, trying to concentrated, then I felt something smooth and cold and hard penetrate my sweating cunt. Someone was working some sort of dildo in and out of me, mathing the thrusts of the huge man hulking over me, shoving the object deep inside me as the man rammed his cock into my throat.

My eyes rolled back in my head behind my velvet mask, and as the scent of sweat and lime and gin overpowered me, I was frantically shoving my pussy at the pumping dildo, trying to cry out in orgasm, even as the hulking man was spewing huge gobs of come down my throat, across my cheek, onto my tits, down my neac and back into my mouth, then pulling my head into his twitching, muscky groin. He was groaning and expelling that gin and lime scent as I lay there under him, my inner muscles clenching and spasming.

At some point the hulking man climbed off me and down from the table and I rested, panting, the entire surface a slip’n’slide of sweat. My heart was pounding so hard, as if amplified, and I believed I could hear the heartbeat of everyone in the room as they came intheir hands, their lover’s mouths, onto the floor, wherever they could find to release their juices and seed in a massive group orgasm. The air was close and heavy with the smell of come and sweat, and I swooned there in my table-size puddle. I could barely catch my breath.
And then it started again, the fingers poking and the palms sliding and skidding across my sweaty body, but there was something else, something different, a new texture. It was like mud—warm, gritless mud. And when the many tongues began moving over me, over the mixture of mud and sweat, I knew that the cool substance must’ve been the chocolate mousse. They spread it and rubbed it and licked and lapped it, a massage of many tongues, chocolate-coated tongues creeping in and out of my mouth, and I sucked the creamy mousse off them, my mouth gaping like a land-locked fish as I waited for the next mouth to meet mine.

The many sensations of touch and smell and sex were overpowering. I felt high and lightheaded. When the faceless touching and tonguing finally tapered off, someone freed my wrists and ankles from the restraints, with those quick tearing sounds of Velcro again. I was helped down from the table. My arms and feet felt as though they were floating beyond my control, and yet at the same time they felt immensely heavy. The voice said it was time for me to take off the blindfold and join the rest of the party guests, so I untied the strip of velvet and blinked, taking in the view of my surroundings.

My many friends stood around me, their faces smeared with chocolate mousse and they were smiling and holding sweaty glasses of champagne. “To Evelyn, on her birthday!” they cried in unison, and someone slipped a full bottle of champagne into my hand. I toasted myself along with the crowd, tipping the bottle back and taking a long chug of champagne.

We were in the basement of the dungeon, which is equipped not only with the usual SM stockades and shackles, but with a huge, round jacuzzi. People began shedding their chains and leather and garters and slipping into the hot bubbling water, and I joined them, happy to be rid of the sticky layers of saliva and chocolate mousse.
We drank and carried on late into the night, the many guests making good use of the available facilities. Couples shackled one another to the walls and submissives bent over leather hassocks awaiting the smart slap of passing dominants. A particularly attractive brunette woman was dangling blindfolded in a harness hung from the ceiling, her bared bottom being expertly pinkened at the hand of a brutish man in nothing but a series of heavy cock rings.

At one point, the festive bottles of champagne were replaced by icy cold beers served from jumbo coolers. Beer and bodies passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth, all property becoming community property. The room was a striking tableau of total carnal indulgence.

It was a truly joyous celebration of life—and lifestyle—and certainly my most memorable birthday ever.

Technicolor Nightmares

After Michael Perkins turned down “Quick Study” I needed to dredge up something much darker and more violent. This was the result. It was published in Coming Up: The World’s Best Erotic Writing (1996) under Richard Kasak’s imprint.

The glaring lights reflected off the pools of grease on my plate. I pushed my last pierogi around like a hockey puck and looked out the window. The sun had caught the sky a hazy green-grey. How had it gotten so late? All attempts to secure a buzz last night had been thwarted by the dull ache in my head. Now, having sent a combo plate of Polish dumplings splashing down into the Meisterbrau mire, I knew I could count on some serious Techncolor nightmares. It must be the mushroom gravy that expands my sleeping consciousness. Those little crescents of sauerkraut and dough look so innocent. I left that last one in its greasy puddle, shoved a grimy dollar half under my coffee cup and went to pay the cashier.

“Smoke, smoke. Sens, sens,” the disheveled black dude hissed under his breath. I wanted to backhand him, or at least bring it to his attention that I had passed by this corner, oh, about a million times before and not once had I been interested in any of his smoke, smoke or sens, sens. But why bother? No sense in wasting precious mental energy. I walked around him, giving him wide berth, to let him know I wanted nothing to do with him.

I nudged the rancid bum in my doorway with the toe of my boot. “Good morning! Excuse me.” I unlocked the door above his head and wearily climbed the stairs. Entering my little hovel, it was a nice change not to hear anyone breathing. It was bad enough living in a modified closet, but the ultimate drag was to share one’s coveted closet space with someone else. I had ultimately decided that I would rather eat Top Ramen three times a day than put up with Carla for another month, so, hoping to end our roommate relationship on a civil note, I had told her tactfully that I wanted my privacy.

Not one to let anyone off easily, Carla sneered at me. “Your privacy? For what? Or should I say who? I’m the only one who ever brings any guys home.” I had grunted in response to that particular jab. Ouch. She was right. “Or is that it?” she continued. “You’re jealous of Collin and me. You’ve had your eye on him ever since Danny’s party, haven’t you?”

Actually the thought had never crossed my mind. I mean, he was okay, but not entirely my thing. “Whatever,” I said flatly. No way was I going to let it turn into an argument. She would think what she wanted, regardless of what I said.

“Hmmph. I thought so.” And she started stuffing her belongings into her laundry bag. Then she was gone. That was last Tuesday and the past week had been heaven. I climbed into my loft, happy that there wouldn’t be any egg scrambling or MTV bellowing to wake me, pulled a pillow over my head and prayed that sleep would rescue me from my relentless headache.

I awoke, sans headache, around three in the afternoon. I could tell it was late the second I opened my eyes by the way the sun was slanting through my stained glass. All I had planned for the day was a stroll over to Kinko’s to run out a few more résumés and some strategically targeted cover letters. Shaking the remnants of the last snippet of a mushroom-gravy-and-sauerkraut-inspired nightmare, I stepped into the shower.

The steam accumulating in the low-ceilinged bathroom made it feel even closer than it was. It was hot. I was hot. I hadn’t gotten laid in ages. Maybe Carla had been right. I now had my privacy. And it was extremely private. Far more so than I would have liked. Ah, but there was tonight. People became rutting animals in heat like this. I know I certainly felt like I was in heat. I slid my soapy palm between my legs. I was hard down there under all the suds and sopping hair.

I rinsed off all traces of soap and conditioner and stepped onto the bath mat, not even bothering to towel myself dry. Why bother? I’d be dripping sweat in a few seconds anyway. Instead I stretched one leg up onto the edge of the sink and looked at my semi-obscured reflection in the steamed mirror. My nipples were already stiff, even in the heat. My body is always quick to pick up on impending masturbation vibes and this was no exception. I rolled my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, tweaking them gently, closing my eyes. I wanted to get good and wet. And not with dripping sweat or shower water. I wanted to be drooling cunt juice, go out into the tight, humid evening with my own scent smeared on me like war paint. To attract a rutting animal of my very own.

I slipped both my thumbs into my mouth, moistening them, and returned them to my nipples, sliding my fingers over the puckered areolae, gliding in the spit, pinching. Then I spat onto three fingers and slid them down to my pussy. I felt even hotter there. I stroked my clit, smearing the saliva around, arousing myself further. I pulled on it gently, urging it to become stiffer, and skidded into my steaming cunt. Mmm, I was wet—very wet. I plunged my fingers in as far as they would go and held them there, feeling the muscles clench. I pumped my hand a few strokes, pulling out far enough to brush my clit, then dragged my juicy fingers out and fingered my clit. It was ready. I was ready. I watched myself through squinted eyes as I rubbed frantically, drawing more lubricant up every few strokes. One hand pinched and rubbed at a nipple, the other was a blur between my legs. I could feel my climax just seconds—strokes—away and sucked in a last breath, tensing every muscle in my body, the leg I was standing on wobbling like a colt’s. I arched my back as I reached the last crest of the roller coaster ride and then down, down, I was flying, my fingers sliding and sloshing in the dribbling secretions, my orgasm caroming from my cunt through the rest of my shuddering body. I slid my fingers in through my slippery lips to feel my inner muscles clenching powerfully and I stood there, moving them just slightly, savoring the fading jolts of climax.

Before I rinsed my hands off, I smeared a bit of my juices behind each ear and ran my fingers through my pubic hair, distributing the scented hormones. This would surely trigger some horny guy’s subconscious, eh?

It had been the hottest day of the summer and, as the sun set, it felt as thought it would also be the hottest night. Forgoing sustenance in hopes of attaining the buzz that had eluded me the night before, I pulled on a pair of baggy drawstring shorts tight around my waist while I was still damp, partly from my second shower of the day and partly from nonstop sweat. The thought of actually putting on a shirt—even a tank top—was enough to make me pass out, so I rummaged in my drawer for a bathing suit, settling on a black bikini top. I pulled all my hair into an I Dream of Jeannie ponytail on top of my head—the coolest do I could come up with—and tried to decide which earrings would finish off my faux flygirl motif.

I met Lennie at Downtown Beirut for a couple of pitchers, grateful for their wheezing air conditioner. After about our third, I asked him if I could interest him in a trip crosstown to Jackie 60.

“I’ll pay your cover,” I volunteered, knowing his financial situation wasn’t a whole lot better than mine.

“Okay, sure,” Lennie replied, draining his glass. “Let’s go.”

The two of us worked up quite a sheen walking all the way from the East Village to the Meat Packing District. By the time we got there, I felt like I’d been for a swim in an overheated pool.

We pushed our way through the drag queens and night crawlers to the bar and ordered the cheapest beer available. Clutching our Rolling Rocks, we weighed the “dance or hang” question and decided that it was too hot for any unnecessary movement. Besides, downstairs it would be cooler.

And it was, if only slightly. I sipped my beer, scanned the crowd, and thought I saw Collin slouching in a doorway. Having seen the guy only once or twice, and even then not taking much notice of him since he was spoken for, I couldn’t be sure. If that was him, he had his hair pulled back. And where was Carla? Not here, I hoped. In any case, the situation required further investigation. I told Lennie he was on his own and slipped through the crowd.

“Collin?” I asked, startling him out of an apparent trance.

“Uh, yeah. Oh, hi Arielle.”

“I wasn’t sure if that was you. I’ve never seen you with your hair pulled back.”

“Well,” Collin said, flipping his ponytail self-consciously, “it’s hot.” I agreed.

“Where’s Carla?” I asked, not really caring, but curious.

“Got me. We had a fight. She’s still in a shitty mood about you kicking her out.” I weighed whether to pursue this line of conversation. If their fight lasted only till the morning, Collin would remember enough of anything I said well enough to repeat it. I shrugged, waiting for him to continue. “I’ve about had it with her.” That was enough for me.

We made small talk, yelling over the music and sipping our beers. When we both tired of standing, we sat side by side on the slightly vibrating pool table, leaning into each other conspiratorially to make ourselves heard. The seemingly innocent conversation became flirtation as we exchanged pleasant compliments and subtle body language, only to be answered by increasingly more pleasant compliments and decreasingly subtle body language.

After one particularly flattering comment from Collin, I blushed and sat staring into my lap, thinking that perhaps Carla had been right about my being attracted to him. True, he wasn’t exactly my type, kind of skinny and shy and bookwormish behind those John Lennon glasses of his. But he exuded a kind of warmth, a trait that chilly ol’ Carla had been in desperate need of and, when he overcame his shyness enough to speak, he had a clever, biting kind of wit. At that present moment, his wit was doing a bit of nibbling at me.

By the time he mumbled something about wanting to kiss me, I answered, “I was just thinking the exact same thing,” and we kissed a long, humid, tongue-tangling kiss that sent shivers through me. Between the vibration of the pool table we were sitting on and Collin’s thigh pressed against my own, I was experiencing that electric, hot-to-fuck feeling that summer nights were made for; his kiss sent me over the edge.

Flustered, I looked down at my empty beer, thinking I could use another. Collin read my mind and suggested a run upstairs to the bar. “I’ll come with you,” I offered. I felt light-headed climbing the stairs; most of my blood had traveled to my loins. I’ll burn in hell for this, I thought to myself, but the “fuck her” response came faster than even I could have anticipated. I was thoroughly damp, both inside and out, just thinking about Collin’s cock quivering in my mouth, as we stood leaning against the bar, touching and kissing, our hands reading the braille of each other’s bodies. The sentence I translated when Collin rubbed his crotch against my hip was clear. When he asked, “You live on Tenth Street, right?” I laughed at his oblique suggestion and, knowing precisely where this would lead, answered, “Yeah, let’s go.”

Out on the sticky city streets, I couldn’t help periodically pressing my moist flesh against Collin’s, cramming my tongue into his mouth and inhaling the smell of him. We pulled each other along in the direction of my apartment, eager to be horizontal but hungry for immediate bodily contact. I interrupted one particularly crotch-zapping kiss to say we’d probably both burn in hell, but Collin just shushed me and resumed the kiss.

Arriving at my apartment, slightly disheveled and completely aroused, I unlocked the door quickly and yanked Collin over to my sofa. I sat down, positioned him between my legs and went straight for his zipper. As I peeled off his black denim shorts, I gasped at his totally hairless crotch. Carla hadn’t mentioned anything about him being kinky or anything; this was an exciting discovery indeed. Feverishly, I ran my tongue across the cleanly shaven surface. I licked and fondled, rubbed and grabbed, and then enveloped his stiff cock with my wildly salivating mouth. I took a grab of his ass with both hands and pulled him into me, relishing the feel of his hard cock scraping the back of my throat.

“I knew it,” he said.

“Hmmm?” I mumbled around his cock, questioning the exact meaning of his comment.

“I knew you’d be good,” he continued, sliding himself smoothly in and out of me. “I knew it.” I laughed and released his dick, and pushed him down onto the sofa, on his back, his smooth, pale skin reflecting the glow of the streetlight outside my window, his erection casting a shadow across his belly. I admired his luminosity for a moment and plunged hungrily into his crotch, sucking his balls, slathering them with saliva, and then took his rigid cock into my mouth once more.

Collin continued to compliment me and marvel at his premonitions as I gripped his cock, slick with my saliva, and he rhythmically pumped in and out of my slobbering mouth. He pulled the tie from my hair and raked his fingers through as I licked and sucked, urging him toward orgasm. When he wondered aloud if he could come in my mouth, I paused, answered, “Please,” and stuffed his cock back in, anxiously anticipating his explosion. Moments later his cock stiffened in pre-orgasmic tumescence, his balls tightened and then he climaxed, his cock spasming and shooting a stream of sticky come down my throat.

We woke up in the same position, Collin on my couch, naked, and me on the floor, half-draped beside him, still dressed. It was glaringly early. He groped his way into his clothes and mumbled something about having work to do.

As he stood poised at the door, it didn’t even occur to me to offer him my phone number. I knew this was going to be another notch in my bedpost and I wondered why he had bothered making excuses about having to leave. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Places to go, people to see. Don’t get all overwrought. You came, you saw, you conquered. And you came. I’m satisfied. You can go now. Besides, he had the number. It had been his girlfriend’s number too, only days earlier. I held the door and as he slipped past me, he smiled wryly and said, “I hope I don’t see this little encounter written up on Downtown Beirut’s bathroom wall.” Hah! He should be so lucky.

I just smiled and said, “See you around.” Which was, really, what I meant. I mean, it hadn’t been bad, for a one-nighter. But then, of course, he called.

* * *

Thus Collin and I entered into our sexual relationship of mutual worship—of each other’s bodies, of each other’s talents. Although I’d certainly heard it before, he had me believing that I did, indeed, give the best head in the world. And, using my wildly checkered past to back me up, I managed to convine him that he was a cunnilinguist whose skills were equally unmatched. He read every word I bled onto paper and praised them. I matted his stark creations with black construction paper and put even the most insignificant shot on the wall proudly.

My writing gradually improved in the fluorescent Gro-Lite glow of Collin’s encouragement and he actually purchased a portfolio to store his prints properly. We both began to feel invincible. And our sex life was incredible. We challenged each other’s creativity sexually as well as artistically.

We bought cheap sex toys. Blow-up dolls. Edible underwear. We made use of food products. We fucked on the fire escape. Actually, we fucked just about everywhere. Then we started experimenting with fantasies. I was a hooker in a sleazy Times Square bar and he was my john. I was the virginal student to his college professor. It soon became evident that the next step would be to include a third party in our escapades.

Our first girl was a cute young punk squatter we found on a park bench in Tompkins Square, drinking a 40-ouncer. Half her head was shaved and the tribal tattoos winding up and down her arms were colored in with bright plaids. Tattered fishnets stuck up out of battered Docs, the requisite uniform, but what I loved were the bloomers she wore underneath her ass-grazing kilt. “So I can sit cross-legged without everyone getting a good muff shot,” she explained when I questioned her off choice of undergarments. Hmmf, a good muff shot was exactly what Collin and I were looking for.

We lured her back to my apartment with another 40-ouncer. Too easy. After she polished that off, she looked ready for anything. Collin and I certainly were. I reached to stroke her stubbly temples and she offered no resisitance. Soon I was rubbing her shoulders, nudging her layers of chopped-off tank tops out of the way, moving closer. I leaned in to take a lick of her cocoa skin. She tasted like beer and cigarettes and sweat and dirt. I liked it.

Her head lolled back as my tongue reached her tit and when I made contact with her nipples, so small and tight, she moaned like a porn starlet. No virgin this one, I thought. Ah, just as well. And I yanked down her shirts, one by one, as you would peel back the leaves of an artichoke, until I could see her heartbeat beneath her breast. I stopped to look at her, wondering for a second where this was going. Collin had gone for his camera. Without thinking any further, I knelt to unlace her boots and slid them off. I decided that leaving the holey fishnets on would be a nice touch, but the bloomers would have to go. The elastic at the waist was used up and crunchy and didn’t have much give. I had to tug to get the damn things down over her slim little teenage hips. But it was worth the work. When the grayed bloomers were in a heap on the floor, I got that muff shot she’d been covering up. The grey-pink outer lips of her cunt were pouting out beneath a healthy tuft of wiry black curls, crosscrossed by what was left of the threadbare fishnets. Obviously Collin and I weren’t the first to go spelunking here; the seam up the center of her crotch was about the only thing left holding the stockings together. I chewed through it like so much dental floss.

Her cunt smelled like her skin, only more tart, more pungent. I closed my eyes and slid my tongue into her, tasting piss and sweat and more dirt, earthy dirt, like you get under your fingernails playing in the mud. I started sucking and slurping, pressing my hands into her firm, muscled thighs, opening them wider, listening for her to gasp or something. I thought she’d passed out when she rested her hands on my head and began humping my mouth gently.

“Mmff, wait,” I panted, getting up off my knees to strip and spotting Collin, his cock in one hand, camera in the other, smiling slyly.

“Tasty?” he asked, nodding in the squatter’s direction. I strolled over to him, unhooking my overalls and stepping out of them, then kissing him hard on the mouth, making sure to smear a sheen of the squatter’s grease across his cheek. He jerked his cock once or twice and rolled his eyes and I returned to the task at hand, naked now, and hot for this kid’s twat.

Collin clicked off a couple rolls of film, catching flashes of cunt and tit, but he couldn’t capture her fabulous grunts and squeals. It was kinda nice that she was having as good a time as we were. Collin finally jerked off onto her, all over her training-bra tits and all over her face, and I licked some of it off before succumbing to a case of cotton mouth.

So that was my virgin foray into female territory. What I’d been fantasizing about for a long while, however, was slamming some cunt with a strap-on. I hadn’t had the nerve to try it on our little squatter, partially out of sheer lack of courage and partially out of some sort of respect for the tattered and shredded little cappucino nymphette. Shit, she was tasty. I didn’t feel the same respect for the next dumpling Collin and I carted home.

We decided to live life a little dangerously and journeyed to the Upper East Side, staking out a spot at a yuppie bar and waiting for just the right girl. I was all pumped up on adrenaline and a line of cheap street coke. Collin, knowing I wasn’t much for artificial stimulants but saying it was a special occasion, had brought home a few crumbs for me, wrapped in a tagboard band flier from Brownie’s. It made me feel hateful, especially among the so-called beautiful people, their expensive sweaters draped so uncasually across their gym-toned shoulders, their AmEx numbers being scanned and approved in a swipe of plastic. I wanted to hurt someone.

And Sally turned out to be that someone. She strode in confidently with a friend and sat a few bar stools down from us. We watched as she talked to her friend out of the side of her mouth while surveying the prospects at the bar. Every so often someone would appeal to her and her eyes would brighten, but it wouldn’t take her long to find something wrong with her prospective pickup and turn her attentions elsewhere. Her pal wasn’t quite so particular; within a half-dozen frozen drinks, she was out of there on the arm of a somewhat pudgy frat boy-type. Instead of leaving, however, our mark simply scooted down a few stools and kept up her search.

Collin struck up a conversation with her and, although I could tell he was not at all her type, she was intrigued. We plied her with another foo-foo drink and started talking about our recent ménage à trois and Sally, as she had introduced herself, stopped her scanning and started warming up—to Collin and to me. She had her hands all over him and kept shooting what I’m sure she thought were meaningful glances my way. I just wanted to get the hell out of yuppieville. She looked primed.

“Whaddya say we take this little party to my place?” I suggested, certain that I had stolen that line from some bad James Bond movie.

Sally about slid right off her seat. “Sure!” she squealed. And we practically had to chase her to the curb, where merely half-raising her arm brought a taxi screeching to a stop at her feet.

Sally had a slightly green expression when the taxi pulled up in front of my building. “I hear this neighborhood has gotten really popular,” she offered weakly. Shit, she had seemed like such a willing participant uptown. I hoped she wasn’t losing her, uh, curiosity. She relaxed a bit upon enterting my apartment. It may be a tenement, but over the years I’ve managed to make it look respectable. I left Collin to charm her and slipped into the bathroom. The plan was for me to get into my robe, which would conceal my male appendage, while Collin got her comfortable. I rifled under the sink, behind my vibrator and old hotel shampoo bottles, for the strap-on. I had yet to try it out, or even take it out of the packaging. My clit throbbed.

I pulled off the shrink wrap and opened the box, smelling that fresh rubber new-car smell mixed with cheap leather. I peeled off my jeans and underpants and got a good whiff of how exciting the prospect of fucking Sally with this little apparatus was to me. I dragged my thumb slowly through the viscous liquid lubricating my cunt and groaned. The tiny buckle tinkled as I stepped into the strap-on and pulled it up, the thong slipping between the cheeks of my ass and sinking into the slick moistness of my slit. I slid the strap through the buckle and looped it back, pulling it snug around my hips. The rubber cock lolled and I pushed down on it, letting it spring back in an almost lifelike motion. I closed my robe and went out.

Collin and Sally were in a tangle on the couch. I watched for a moment, stroking my rubber cock through my robe. Sally was wearing velvety soft black Ann Taylor jeans and a silk button-down blouse. I knew her panties would match her bra, Victoria’s Secret, no doubt, and I couldn’t wait to see the set. I moved in closer and could smell their excitement, Collin’s testosterone-laden scent mingling with Sally’s piña colada and Eternity stench. I hated her. I had to have her.

“Take her clothes off,” I said to Collin. “I want to see her tits first.” Sally giggled and sat up, facing Collin, and pushed her breasts at him. He struggled with the first button, but the rest went smoothly, eventually revealing a lavender lace push-up bra with silky thin straps. My mouth watered at the thought of her pussy, pressed smooth beneath a thin layer of the same lavender lace. Sally shrugged out of her silk blouse and it slid off the couch to the floor. She oblingingly reached behind her back to unsnap the bra and her tiny tits tumbled out. They were freckled—a bit of a surprise, since her coloring had appeared so pale and flawless. Collin clumsily cupped her breasts and started to slurp at a nipple. “Now her pants,” I gurgled. Sally leaned back on her hands and poked her pelvis into Collin’s face. She sure was cooperative. He unbuckled her heavy sterling concha belt and slid it out of its belt loops, no doubt envisioning a more useful use for it than decorating her designer jeans. She giggled again and wriggled a bit, almost teasing him to hurry and finish undressing her. I was still stroking my cock and groaning softly, eager to see her pussy.

The sound of her zipper going down was practially deafening. I was so turned on, and so incredibly tuned in to the whole act, that all I could focus on was this chick’s body. I could practically feel the soft denim on my own skin as it slid down over Sally’s slightly rounded hips; the tiny triangle of lavender lace made me gulp. Her pubic hair looked thick and it poked out between the lace, above it and at the sides in a mad scramble to escape bondage. I ached to liberate it.

She wiggled her ass while Collin pulled the jeans all the way down and, as soon as they were off, she pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged, apparently pleased with herself. Her nipples were tight and shriveled and I wondered for a second if she was cold.

“Okay, now fuck her,” I rasped, pulling on the rubber cock, causing it to chafe against my clit. I was only a few strokes away from a cirppling orgasm and I wasn’t sure what to do next. When Collin ripped the little Victoria’s Secret panties off Sally’s sorority-girl tush, I yanked harder and felt a flash of heat spread through my loins. He didn’t even take his pants off. He just ripped open the button fly and shoved his cock into her. Her giggling stopped. It was replaced by sharp little gasps and her eyes were opened unusually wide. She no longer looked so eager. He slammed into her for a few strokes, then pulled out and spewed his load all over her tits. I thought she had stopped breathing.

“All yours, babe,” Collin panted as he climbed off the couch. Sally’s eyes opened even wider.

I untied my robe and let it fall to the floor, right beside Sally’s lovely silk blouse. She let out a nervous giggle that sounded more like a hiccup and eyed the strap-on curiously, apparently unsure as to how she should react. “Stand up,” I told her, and she scrambled up from her slightly crunched position. I grabbed her by the shoulders—her skin felt soft, with decent muscles underneath—and spun her around. “Bend over,” I whispered, so hot and horny I thought I’d burst. Sally bent over, leaning her hands on the arm of the couch. I lined the dildo up with the puffy lips of her cunt and slid in, feeding her the entire length of the dildo, pressing the cheap leather against the cheeks of her ass as I held them apart. I heard another one of her little hiccups and I moaned. The butt of the dildo was jutting into me, stimulating my stiff, throbbing clit. I knew that with a few well-positioned thrusts I would come. I gripped Sally’s hips and pulled the dildo out a few inches, then slammed it back in. As the cock sank in deep, the rubber bumped into me again, and again I groaned. I pulled out once more, slowly, but that was it. I pumped the rubber cock into Sally’s tight little hole in a mad frenzy, leaning a bit to get just the right pressure on my clit, and climaxed, crying out and thrusting feverishly, feeling the dampness of my juices seep around the cheap leather strap and down my sweaty thighs. My heart was hammering in my chest. I draped myself onto Sally’s back, my tits spreading against her supple flesh, and panted. Another nervous hiccup-giggle.

I’d forgotten about Collin completely. When he “ahemed,” I noticed his cock was a bit purple and raw. “What’s the matter? That wasn’t enough? You wanna get off?” I asked, still lodged in Sally’s little twat.

“Mm, I wanna spill this inside her,” and he gestured in Sally’s general direction with his hard-on.

“Well then?” I replied, making no moves to pull out of her.

Collin just grunted and strolled over, climbing up onto the couch and propping himself on the back of it, leaning against the wall, his feet sinking into the cushions. His prick was inches from Sally’s face. I thought it might be cool to see her snotty little Upper East Side face get sprayed with his spunk, but Collin had other ideas. He pushed his thumb into her mouth and then followed his thumb with his cock. Yet another hiccup-giggle from Sally, slightly muffled this time due to the mouthful she had. I watched as Collin gripped the sides of her head and rammed himself into her throat. It didn’t sound like she was enjoying this little part of our games.

She made small choking noises, but I held her body still while Collin kept his grip on her head. He’d gotten plenty hopped up watching my scene, I suppose, because he shot his load after only a few frenzied thrusts, groaning deeply. Sally emitted a few snorting noises and I wondered if she’d be snarfing Collin’s come out through her nose.

But she took it like a trooper, swallowing down the mouthful before gasping for air.

“Thanks, you’ve been a sport,” I said to Sally as aI slid my eternal hard-on out of her. It was shiny and slick. She must’ve been really digging that mouth rape Collin had given her; her cunt was drooling. By the time sweet Sally was stepping into her expensive jeans, Collin and I were rutting away on the couch, panting like a couple of teenagers at a drive-in. I didn’t hear her leave.

* * *

Every few nights we would bring home another girl and each time I’d enjoy it more, fucking and slurping them, making sure Collin got some, preferring to see his come splash their bodies, but not minding the times he felt the need to deposit his load inside them. Sooner or later, though, I knew I’d have to broach the subject. And I knew Collin wouldn’t like it.

“Ya know, all thses chicks are entertainint and shit, but whaddya say we try a guy?”

Collin glanced sideways at me from the opposite side of the couch. On the TV, Pat and Vanna were admiring each other’s outfits.

“Not a guy, really, but a kid. A young guy. Someone virginal. Wouldn’t that be hot? Maybe fuck some kid in the ass? I’d love to deflower a virgin.” “Song Title and Artist” was the category. Collin looked preoccupied. “Come on, whaddya think?”

He never said a word in response, but he was fairly cooperative when we went out. I put the moves on a frail, young-looking blond kid at Sophie’s and all I had to say was that I had cable before he was agreeing to go home with us. But as soon as I’d maneuvered him onto the couch and was negotiating the removal of his baggy jeans, Collin lost it.

“Get the fuck out of her, you queer,” he cracked at the kid. And he didn’t have to ask twice. The kid was out the door and down the stairs before I could even ask what the trouble was.

“No guys. I can’t handle guys,” was all he said. Which was the end of my attempt to get guys into the action.

Somehow weeks passed by without any more “guests,” male or female. Our sex, when we managed to work up the energy, lacked its usual enthusiasm. It was mechanical and uninspired. And fast. I wondered if we were losing interest in each other. I felt so out of touch with my feelings that I couldn’t even say. Nothing seemed to have changed, really. A muted, slow-motion effect just seemed to have taken hold. I waited for it to pass.

But it didn’t. And I attributed our boredom to our lack of extracurricular sexual partners. I brought this up with Collin one evening when Vanna was wearing a particularly unbecoming ensemble. Still absorbed in her silver dress with matching silver pumps, Collin agreed with me and suggested we go out on the prowl that very evening. While he watched the Wheel, I slipped out the door for a six of Bud talls.

At the store I thought better and bought two six-packs, supplementing our beverage selection with a tube of Pringles and some peanut M&Ms. By the time I got back, the 300-pound woman from Arizona had won a powerboat, which meant that Collin and I could concentrate on sucking down our beers and contemplate the evening’s festivities.

“Where d’ya wanna go?” I asi,ed, coming up for air after a long swig.

“Let’s find ourselves somebody truly vile. Someone we can really hate—from the word go.”

The thought intrigued me. I had hated most everybody we’d brought home for some reason or other, if only that they could afford to drink better beer than I could. Except for the squatter. I still had some warm feelings about her. Then the hazy newsprint memory of Screw’s story about cheap hookers trolling Eleventh Street fluttered behind my eyelids. Used-up crack addicts. Human pollution. Truly vile, indeed. And so convenient! We could chug a few equally cheap pitchers on the way.

It took us a while to distract the bartender from her scrawny rock ‘n’ roll boyfriend. “Pitcher of Bud,” I yelled over the blaring jukebox. “Touch Me, I’m Sick.” How appropriate. The lifeless beer went down easy. We sat propped up by the greasy window, seemingly miles away from any air. Just a soupy fog of cigarette smoke. Collin fought off the advances of the five-dollar blowjob girl and I briefly entertained the idea of taking her home and drowning her in my bathtub, but I knew she’d be way too much trouble. Flower Man presented me with a flaccid rose and Collin pled poverty when he asked for monetary compensation. “No, man. All our money’s for beer.” And Flower Man moved deeper into the bar. “Orgasm Addict” came on and I mused that if they ever made a movie of my life, this particular jukebox would provide the perfect soundtrack.

By “Venus in Furs” we were on our third pitcher and I was feeling primed. “Let’s down this piss and get on with it,” I slurred to Collin. I could feel the beer molecules bonding with my DNA, becoming an elemental building block of my very being. With the sour aftertaste of stale Budweiser stinging my tongue, we exited Beirut to the strains of “Rape Me.” Indeed.

It was only a short three-block walk to the local cheap hooker district. And there they were, just as promised. Collin and I slunk along, eyeballing each one. “So, what’s the plan?” he whispered to me furtively.

“Let’s go to the deli at the corner and buys us a couple beers—for you, me and our guest. We can decide which one to purchase while we’re making our purchase.” I giggled at what I thought was a clever turn of phrase. I had a good buzz on.

“Mm,” Collin responded, apparently oblivious to my wit.

Standing in the glaring fluorescent lights of the deli, I squinted into the beer cooler, seeking some serious shit beer. “So, any of them catch your fancy?” I asked Collin, who was behind me rubbing his hard-on into my shoulder blades. I reached deep into the cooler to get a cold one and handed it up to him.

“Colt 45, a fine vintage,” he giggled, still rubbing. “I kinda liked the looks of the black chick. She looked kinda kinky. You?”

I passed him another 40-ouncer and leaned into his grinding crotch, wavering slightly, feeling woozy for just a second. “I don’t know. She looked awful…aware…to me. I had someone more, um, out of it in mind.” I passed up a third bottle and stood up, grabbing Collin in the crotch, squeezing his cock. He had his hands full; he was defenseless. “I thought that weasely little blonde was kinda appealing,” I said, still squeezing.

“Ugh,” was Collin’s response. He mashed himself into my groping palm.

“Fuck it. I don’t care. Let’s do the black chick,” I grumbled, glancing up at the Big Brother mirror in the corner. The cashier was watching us. “Let’s get out of here.”

At the counter, I pulled a strangled wad of singles out of my pocket. The guy rang in our purchase and squirreled away the cash. “You lovebirds have a good night, now!” He grinned. His teeth were brown and grey and frightening.

Back on the hooker block, we spotted the black chick leaning limply in a doorway. “Maybe she’s already high,” I whispered to Collin. It was practically a squeal. “That should make things easier.” My heart was rising in my throat. I wanted this one to be extra special.

Collin approached her first while I hung back with our bag of beers. He negotiated with her silently, rubbing his cock for effect. I wished my hands were free so I could rub myself, too. I wanted her to know what we had in mind, so there wouldn’t be a need for renegotiating later. Collin gestured in my direction and the chick nodded. I took that as my cue and joined them. “Okay, let’s go,” was all Collin said.

We walked the three blocks back to my apartment silently. My heartbeat was knocking the bottles together rhythmically, or so it felt. My cunt was aching. When I handed the bag to Collin so I could unlock the door, I saw a peculiar look of fright in his eyes. God knows what he saw in mine.

The second we walked in the door, the cat slid under the couch. Never a good sign. I wondered what sort of strange vibes we were emanating. I cracked open the Colts and suggested we all have a seat on the couch. Collin and I sat on either side of the hooker, who swilled her beer like she’d just been rescued from the desert. I started stroking her thigh. No sense in wasting time. Time is money, I thought fuzzily, and giggled.

Quickly bored with her thigh, I shoved her skirt up a bit and wormed my hand into her crotch. She had panties on. How very unhookerlike. I wiggled my fingers around them and poked at her cunt. Dry as a bone. “Get those clothes off,” I rasped. “You too, Collin. Why don’t you two put on a little show for me?” I didn’t want anything to do with that parched cunt of hers. Collin would fix it. While they peeled off their clothes, I did the same, shrugging out of my T-shirt and shoving my jeans to my ankles. Underneath her K-Mart special, the hooker’s skin looked hard and shiny, like a cocoa bean. “Suck his cock,” I instructed. “Make him hard.” Collin was already hard, if only halfway. He didn’t appear to be as excited about the current situation as I was. I spread my legs and started stroking myself, hoping that would help him out.

The black chick popped the head of Collin’s cock into her mouth like a cherry and sucked joylessly. “That’s enough. Fuck her.” She opened her legs with a sigh. Ah, the ennui. I’d hated her back on the hooker block. She was making it worse. I was getting juiced. Collin moved forward awkwardly and placed his cock at her opening, waiting for encouragement that I knew he wasn’t going to get. “Spread those crusty cuntlips for him, honey,” I said sweetly. She sighed again and did as she was told. I stood behind Collin and leaned into him, watching as his prick edged into her. “Spit on him.  You’re so fucking dry you’re gonna give him rug burn,” I ordered. “Shit!” She leaned up, drooled over Collin’s hard-on and gave it a few pumps to spread her lubricant. This time he slid in. Their coupling was nothing more than the fusion of two slabs of flesh. I stayed behind him, dry-humping his ass in sync with his thrusts, feeling as though we were both fucking her. “Come in her face,” I whispered. “Spray all over her. Get some in her hair. She’ll wear it for a week.” I reached between Collin’s sweaty ass and my pressing body to rub myself. God, I was hot. I could tell that Collin’s enthusiasm level was tentative, so I continued urging him on. “Close your eyes if you have to,” I whispered, thinking he was the one who picked up this cunt. Soon his breathing hitched and I waited to see him shoot. He leaned back into me, pulling his cock out of her, pulled her head around and yanked on his cock once or twice before his come splattered her shiny little cocoa-bean face. The first glob  splashed her cheek, the second the corner of her eye and the third, thankfully, fell thickly in the hair above her ear. Her hair was the color of shit after a night of too much drinking. “Perfect!” I groaned. “Don’t move.”

I stumbled to the bathroom, almost tripping over my shorts, and groped under the sink for my strap-on. I had myself buckled up in seconds and hurried back to the couch, the stiff rubber bobbing in front of me. “Move!” I barked at Collin. “My turn.” I positioned the strap-on at her cuntlips, hoping Collin’s cock had at least gotten her a little damp. Just in case, I spat on my palm and gave the cock a couple of jerks, then rammed it in. It didn’t slide as easily as I’d hoped, but it went in. Then I was close to her. She smelled like chemicals. Not like a person at all. This wouldn’t work.

“Stand up,” I gurgled. I didn’t want to be so close. She stood up mechanically and waited for my next request. “Bend over.” She did. I lubed the cock again and pushed into her. She braced herself against the couch and I started really slamming her. The friction had me coming after only a few thrusts, but I wanted to hammer this chick forever. Forever. I hammered. After a while, Collin put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“No! Sit down! Jerk off or something.” And I continued slamming the dildo deep into the hooker cunt’s pussy. She seemed completely unfazed and I almost offered her a nail file so she could make more efficient use of her time. That set me off. “Get me a knife!” I rasped at Collin. “From the kitchen.” Like we had them anywhere else. The whore’s flanks tensed, her ass clenched a bit, but she didn’t say a word.

Without question, he returned with the knife I use to chop vegetables. When we eat vegetables. I slid the sticky strap-on from the hooker’s cunt and replaced it with the knife, blade in. She didn’t even have time to protest before it was in her, deep. She yelped, but I slapped her ass hard and pushed her down onto the couch. “Shut up, cunt!” I shoved the knife in again, twisting it a bit, trying to fill up her sapless twat with the stainless-steel blade. She was making little grunting noises, almost as though she liked it. Collin was silent. I increased the tempo of my fuck-motion and saw the first few dribbles of her blood daubing my knuckles. “Okay,” I said, feeling like I’d finally accomplished an impossible task. “Now she’s wet! Fuck her again, Collin.” I looked over and he had sunk to the floor. He didn’t look well. “Fine then, I will,” and I climbed onto the couch, climbed on top of the stuck pig, and shoved the strap-on into her liquid gash.

I couldn’t say for sure, but I think she actually got off when I fucked her that time. She moaned and wailed like she was coming, anyway. And I came about a million times, orgasm after orgasm rocketing through me, each one stronger than the last. I had found the perfect rhythm, the perfect angle, the perfect juicy wet cunt.

When finally my clit was numb, I pulled out of her. Blood oozed down her special select thighs. She still didn’t say a word. No “thank you,” no “that was my best fuck ever”—nothing.

“Shit! I need a shower,” I gasped and, in a bit of a daze, I climbed into the shower, bloody cock and all. By the time I’d had enough of the therapeutic steam and pounding stream of water, the two of them were gone. The cat was on the couch, licking the droplets of blood the hooker had left behind. I picked up a bottle and took a long swig, feeling hungry, thinking that a little visit to Veselka would be just the thing to take the sour edge off. And maybe the paper. The crossword puzzle.

I spread the Times out like a place mat and started in. Deciphering the secret little clues and squares always made me feel so superior. I sure did miss Eugene T., though. These new ones were too easy. I took a sip of my coffee. No special select here. Soon my steaming plate arrived. I positioned it so it wouldn’t obscure my little squares. As I popped the last pierogi into my mouth, a blob of sour cream dribble out the side. I wiped it away with the crumpled corner of a sandpapery napkin. Nap time, I thought to myself, somehow certain that the yummy little dumplings would no longer disturb my sleep.

His Wife’s Big Surprise

This little piece of cuckoldry was spun for the July 1998 issue of Hustler’s Leg World. It even got a cover blurb: “Tied & Cuckholded – A Husband’s Exciting Shame.” I’d had plenty of experience at Penthouse, where “Watching My Wife” was one of the most popular letters section.

“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?”

Quick Study

I’m not sure which outlet I had in mind when I wrote this but I know it was turned down by my Penthouse editor as “too rough” and by Michael Perkins as “not rough enough.” So I don’t think it was ever published. But it was written while I was at Penthouse, so sometime in the 1993-1995 neighborhood.

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.”

Late Night with Lace

This flowery little piece ran in the April 1994 issue of Penthouse Variations under the Transvestism “theme.” I prefer crossdressing, personally, but that wasn’t my decision…then! 

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.