So in our cavalcade of sexual edification, i.e. sharing moments in our co-mingled search for new sexual self-definition and revelation, we come together for pointedly semi-specific "though" decidedly fun sexual encounters (consciously avoiding the "lab rat" syndrome where we'd feel poked and prodded for no reason other than "SCIENCE!" as Thomas Dolby would scream).
The very nature of the beast seems to be sitting refreshingly and comfortably thus far...or as comfortable as you can be when having our nether regions explored by some sexy Ponce de Leon/Amelia Earhart adventurer...
Session #3 found MY wishes, or as Mary likes to call them "demands", on tap for the evening. Things went swingingly...well, not literally, since there were no other couples or ceiling hung devices involved...
The plan was to fool a bit with the master/slave role-play (new to me, and fairly new to Mary). Being so used to sexual relations where all is based more on spontaneity of the moment and not excessive planning other than, "You around?" so much semi-choreographed scenario planning was interesting as hell…
Mary, as I am, is always one to slobber on about motives, rationale and such explanatory bemusements, so for her I add the following to the stew before continuing the ribald tale: Miss Mary, I want to travel with your thorough the burn, embrace our suffering and push you through our pain, look you in the eye as the tears fall. I want to lather my cock and your wet crotch with our mingled tears, sweat and cry for each other's ecstasy, cry for the pain, the life and the twisted calm that this sharing brings...closer to who we are as individuals, what we share as sentient beings, what we find as microcosms of all in orgasmic blissfulness. Through the pain to better understand the joy.
Saddle up, my beautiful friend...and so we did:
Instead of concentrating on cut-and-dried S-and-M wordplay, we skirted around its edges to lessen the severity for us naughty novices but tried not to be complete pantywaists.
She asked me three days before for a script. She wanted to be dominated and suggested I throw in anything I was intereste din trying. If she was hesitant about anything she'd let me know and we'd amend the script. I'm a writer and a chronic fantasizer so I figured I could rise th the occasion. For three days, I (to coin a phrase) slaved over my task at hand. Sending it off to her not knowing if I'd overstepped my boundaries or if I hadn't gone far enough. It came back to me with the reply, "All good."
A few minutes before the proposed time for her to step onto my porch, Mary pulled into my driveway and as instructed, knocked three times on my door ("9:30pm, not a minute before, not a minute after") and undressed to panties and bra only there in the chilly night. I had placed a blindfold in a wooden box on the bench next to the door and she opened it and put it on as she'd been instructed. She had also found and wore her black leather and chain dog collar, at my insistence.
She was instructed to again knock on the door ("and I will answer it when I'm ready") and I took a few moments thinking of her on the porch feeling the night air on her porcelain skin. Of course, I was jumping out of my own skin dying to throw that door open but I made her wait. I was getting the hang of this.
When I finally opened the door there she stood, one leg raised slightly, a bit of a nervous posture and her shy, sweet smile peeking out from under the blindfold. Taking her hand, I led her a couple of feet into the foyer and closed the door with a bang behind her.
Mary's skin was glowing in the low light of the room, her ample bosom round and held firmly by her black lace brassiere. I have been enamored of the handful of dark moles on her chest since I first noticed them on our second date as I tried to peek glances at her cleavage, which she had hidden well on our initial G rated dinner date. I welcomed her, circling, taking her in. Her straw-colored hair poked out from underneath the blindfold and hid her face. She continued to try to keep from smiling and answered quietly or with the small shake of her head when I asked her question. "Do you find this funny?" she shook her head side to side but the corners of her mouth told me she was enjoying every moment.
Sticking my finger under the front of her collar, I slowly raised her head and lightly kissed her lips. Perhaps a wimpy move in such a scenario but I wanted to instill at least a modicum of trust as well as confusion in the first few minutes. She let out a long breath when I was through and jumped when I slapped hard on her robust and waiting ass. I walked behind her and pulled first left and then right wrists behind her back quickly slipping on my uncle's old police handcuffs, the key hanging from a cord around my neck. Her hands glanced my hard cock as it pushed anxiously against my silk short pants. I'd opted for comfortable wear since she wouldn't be seeing much of me until later in the evening.
In my written instructions I'd stated the evening's basic premise and possible activities, saving specific details for her imagination to fill in. Part of it read, "At the top of the steps, I will ask you one question, 'Right,' or 'Left'. If you choose 'left', some of the possibilities may include: you being tied to the headboard, pain play (possible leather flogging, nipple work, temperature variation, etc.), mutual simultaneous penetration with a new toy (mmmm), etc.
Choosing “Right” may find you experience being bent over a special piece of “leather furniture” that I think you may enjoy; possible spanking, flogging, anal play etc.
Neither left or right has exclusivity nor dedication to any of these activities so be ready for anything within limits. Either choice will involve some pain play, toys of some sort, some role-playing and perhaps safe sex fucking. She'd approved the menu.
After walking around her and squeezing her breasts hard for a moment I slipped my finger under her collar, or was it around the cuffs on her wrist...it's a bit blurry now as of this writing...and guided her carefully up the carpeted steps to the landing. I turned her around a couple of times and asked, "So you must decide...left or right?" She replied quickly and coyly, "Maybe right, or...perhaps, left."
"Don't play games with me. Since you seem unable to decide you will wait here until you make up your mind," and I turned her around and bent her over the thick, log rail her head hanging out over the living room below. I stepped up behind her and pressed my cock into her cuffed hands and slipped my hands around to first cup her breasts and the slide up to her neck. She squeezed my hard rod briefly and tightly. I whispered into her ear, "Do not move, I don't want you falling down the stairs."
I backed away and left her to consider the expanse below her for a moment...from under her blindfold...
...to be continued
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
SHE'S A LITTLE HDD
She’s a little Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Leather, whips and chains there in her toybox
With her Mala beads, her crystals, and her bongs
She’s got a Gibson Firebird in some Chinese tuning
And she’ll tie you down if you can’t play along
She’s a little Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
In her world, Ship of Fools is just a song.
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Her house is very comfy, very peaceful
Filled with candles, shrines and waterfalls and such
She’ll fondly wax your nipples while the Dead is playing Ripple
You don’t take her to dinner, but she might just have you for lunch
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Not sure what makes her spin, I’ve got a hunch
“Yes, please Mistress Mary” is my mantra
We talk about our favorite shows and when
She teaches me of love and peace and Tantra
And spanks me on the ass yet once again
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Tie-dyed, faux fur handcuffs, wears a collar
She is honest and she won’t play tricks on you
That is unless she’s asked to make you holler
Slap out “Iko” on your backside with her shoe
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
A spike heel or a Birkenstock will do.
Note: - OK so she doesn't have bongs and prefers black leather and cold metal to tie-dye restraints but one must take a bit of poetic license...I'll work on some music to this...this is a first draft and will change, I'm sure.
Leather, whips and chains there in her toybox
With her Mala beads, her crystals, and her bongs
She’s got a Gibson Firebird in some Chinese tuning
And she’ll tie you down if you can’t play along
She’s a little Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
In her world, Ship of Fools is just a song.
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Her house is very comfy, very peaceful
Filled with candles, shrines and waterfalls and such
She’ll fondly wax your nipples while the Dead is playing Ripple
You don’t take her to dinner, but she might just have you for lunch
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Not sure what makes her spin, I’ve got a hunch
“Yes, please Mistress Mary” is my mantra
We talk about our favorite shows and when
She teaches me of love and peace and Tantra
And spanks me on the ass yet once again
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
Tie-dyed, faux fur handcuffs, wears a collar
She is honest and she won’t play tricks on you
That is unless she’s asked to make you holler
Slap out “Iko” on your backside with her shoe
She’s a little, Hindu, Deadhead, dominatrix
A spike heel or a Birkenstock will do.
Note: - OK so she doesn't have bongs and prefers black leather and cold metal to tie-dye restraints but one must take a bit of poetic license...I'll work on some music to this...this is a first draft and will change, I'm sure.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
I'VE GOT A ROCKET IN MY POCKET
Men. We are an obsessive lot. Boobs, sports, beer, food…all right, I’ll vouch for the boobs and food thang…but the thing that makes us most crazy, the thing we can’t get enough of is our own penises. Size, shape, usefulness, angle, and of course most frequently, getting the little guy some action…any kind of action.
But size…here is the thing…we need to be reassured…no matter how much trim we get, how many hard-ons, morning, evening, afternoon wood we muster…it still has to pass certain criteria. It has to be functional and it has to be bigger. I know not all guys want their dicks to be bigger, and many will even lie to your face and say they are totally pleased being “slightly above average in size”. These men are either pole-vaulters, high singers in the locker room choir or just plain fibbers.
Ok, so I have always had a thing about the inadequacy of my cock. And truthfully, all but the hugest guys I know seem to want something more…longer, thicker, smoother, harder, smarter…we all somehow want something we don’t have. But then, I repeat myself.
Of course, I never thought about it ONCE until I saw my first porn film. Some old dusty 8mm flick with a guy we called “Quartz McGee”, the precursor to the fluid Peter North, he of copious quantities of copulative goo…And then there are the ever present surveys which seem to all claim that the average guy is somewhere between 5.5” and 6.5”. Ok, so the majority of us all caught our breath and felt a little better.
But in my own survey of approx. 20 friends, when asked what one thing they would change about their body if they could do so without surgery, the results were fairly one-sided: 7 of 10 men listed cock size in their top 2 answers. Of the other top responses such as weight, height, hair; only weight or “to be in better shape” had an equal rating in top 2 answers. Of the three whose penis didn’t factor into the upper echelon of their “change” graph, 2 of the three mentioned they’d change their penis size if they could although it was not a large a priority as other things.
So without extracting measurements from the guys, it looks as if most of us want what we can’t have.
Having always been a chunky fellow (body-wise), I always saw my third arm as looking a bit on the puny side. I got no comments from the first couple of women I was with but, yeah it was dark and we were young enough not to be so open in our sexual conversation back in those days. I really had not much to judge it against. Flesh magazines back then, at least the ones that I had access to, never showed hard cock or even soft ones. Penthouse hadn’t gone engorged yet and I wouldn’t have known where to find anything more risqué.
Now I didn’t frequent nude beaches not because of penis size but because I felt I was fat and, oh yeah, might become visibly bonorific at the sight of all of the perfect bodies that were there. When I finally went I realized that there are no perfect bodies and realized that if indeed there were “growers and show-ers” then I was distinctly in the first category.
Then suddenly, the video revolution launched porn into the stratosphere. In a short time everyone knew of the pre-bludgeoning John C. Holmes whether they’d had the chance to marvel at his donkeyness or not. Little did we know that in a few short years guys like Ron Jeremy would become MTV celebrities known for nothing more than the hip company they keep and the huge members they strap to their leg before hitting the Hollywood/Malibu party circuit.
So having seen the first glimmerings of bad scripts, worse hairstyles and clothes, horrid camerawork, forests of public hair and humongous dongs in the first round of 70s porn films, I was a bit pissed at my gene pool for dealing me the average card.
Then I met an amazing girl and on the day after our first meeting, (which also happened to be the first time either of us tried acid), we got together at my house and she showed me the joys of real oral pleasure. She said on unleashing my young throbbing fella, “Nice big head on you, Pierce.” News to me, but he rose to the compliment and I somehow felt better about things. Hard not to when you are down the throat of a thrill seeking woman who would date bullfighters for the next two years. She’d leave in a month for Spain but we spent a lot of time unleashing that beast wherever we could. But I’ll write about her in depth later.
My ex never once commented on the size of my cock other than saying, “How should I know?” Granted she was a virgin when I met her and she never watched porn so I guess I was barking up the wrong tree.
The first girl I dated post-divorce loved my cock. No complaints there and always said that I was “the biggest she’d ever had”. Now I know she’d only been with a half dozen men before me but I was pleased anyway. She loved what I did with it and we had some incredibly transcendent sex. In retrospect, she had a tendency to twist the truth to her own means and her ex-husband was a habitual, professional liar so I was never quite sure what to fucking believe.
I’m dating two women right now who both seem enamored by my cock. One says that she’s been with some endowed men but that I fill her mouth and pussy better than any of them (what ever that means…does it mean less painful and not gagging? I choose to concentrate on the word “fill”).
The other is a more experienced woman and I wouldn’t dare ask her about size comparisons BUT she did say “WOW” when she unleashed him for the first time and has called my winking pole-tergeist, “beautiful” and she’s been coming back for more so I must not be too laughable.
There’s a great book out there TALKING COCK, by a Brit stand-up comedian whose name I forget. It’s his answer to THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES and is a funny expose into the Man-think about their hamsticks. Not much on yambags but we’ll have to wait for THE SCROTAL PAPERS or some such thing. So I know I'm not alone in my questioning obsessions. If I were then there wouldn't be this hugely lucrative market in penis pumps, exercisers, miracle cream, ancient Indian dick grower herbs and such that seem to festoon the back of every men's magazine on the planet.
Even though he has his temperamental moments, my Wonder Boy is still always willing to great me and shake my hand each morning and still thrills at the prospect of more exercise and spelunking.
So I’m feeling pretty good about the little fella. Seeing my fancy-go-to-meetin’ cane in the small fist and grinning mouth of my new lady friend inspired this gibberish talk. Maybe it’s just that my hands are too big…yeah, that’s it.
It's all in the head...get it?
But size…here is the thing…we need to be reassured…no matter how much trim we get, how many hard-ons, morning, evening, afternoon wood we muster…it still has to pass certain criteria. It has to be functional and it has to be bigger. I know not all guys want their dicks to be bigger, and many will even lie to your face and say they are totally pleased being “slightly above average in size”. These men are either pole-vaulters, high singers in the locker room choir or just plain fibbers.
Ok, so I have always had a thing about the inadequacy of my cock. And truthfully, all but the hugest guys I know seem to want something more…longer, thicker, smoother, harder, smarter…we all somehow want something we don’t have. But then, I repeat myself.
Of course, I never thought about it ONCE until I saw my first porn film. Some old dusty 8mm flick with a guy we called “Quartz McGee”, the precursor to the fluid Peter North, he of copious quantities of copulative goo…And then there are the ever present surveys which seem to all claim that the average guy is somewhere between 5.5” and 6.5”. Ok, so the majority of us all caught our breath and felt a little better.
But in my own survey of approx. 20 friends, when asked what one thing they would change about their body if they could do so without surgery, the results were fairly one-sided: 7 of 10 men listed cock size in their top 2 answers. Of the other top responses such as weight, height, hair; only weight or “to be in better shape” had an equal rating in top 2 answers. Of the three whose penis didn’t factor into the upper echelon of their “change” graph, 2 of the three mentioned they’d change their penis size if they could although it was not a large a priority as other things.
So without extracting measurements from the guys, it looks as if most of us want what we can’t have.
Having always been a chunky fellow (body-wise), I always saw my third arm as looking a bit on the puny side. I got no comments from the first couple of women I was with but, yeah it was dark and we were young enough not to be so open in our sexual conversation back in those days. I really had not much to judge it against. Flesh magazines back then, at least the ones that I had access to, never showed hard cock or even soft ones. Penthouse hadn’t gone engorged yet and I wouldn’t have known where to find anything more risqué.
Now I didn’t frequent nude beaches not because of penis size but because I felt I was fat and, oh yeah, might become visibly bonorific at the sight of all of the perfect bodies that were there. When I finally went I realized that there are no perfect bodies and realized that if indeed there were “growers and show-ers” then I was distinctly in the first category.
Then suddenly, the video revolution launched porn into the stratosphere. In a short time everyone knew of the pre-bludgeoning John C. Holmes whether they’d had the chance to marvel at his donkeyness or not. Little did we know that in a few short years guys like Ron Jeremy would become MTV celebrities known for nothing more than the hip company they keep and the huge members they strap to their leg before hitting the Hollywood/Malibu party circuit.
So having seen the first glimmerings of bad scripts, worse hairstyles and clothes, horrid camerawork, forests of public hair and humongous dongs in the first round of 70s porn films, I was a bit pissed at my gene pool for dealing me the average card.
Then I met an amazing girl and on the day after our first meeting, (which also happened to be the first time either of us tried acid), we got together at my house and she showed me the joys of real oral pleasure. She said on unleashing my young throbbing fella, “Nice big head on you, Pierce.” News to me, but he rose to the compliment and I somehow felt better about things. Hard not to when you are down the throat of a thrill seeking woman who would date bullfighters for the next two years. She’d leave in a month for Spain but we spent a lot of time unleashing that beast wherever we could. But I’ll write about her in depth later.
My ex never once commented on the size of my cock other than saying, “How should I know?” Granted she was a virgin when I met her and she never watched porn so I guess I was barking up the wrong tree.
The first girl I dated post-divorce loved my cock. No complaints there and always said that I was “the biggest she’d ever had”. Now I know she’d only been with a half dozen men before me but I was pleased anyway. She loved what I did with it and we had some incredibly transcendent sex. In retrospect, she had a tendency to twist the truth to her own means and her ex-husband was a habitual, professional liar so I was never quite sure what to fucking believe.
I’m dating two women right now who both seem enamored by my cock. One says that she’s been with some endowed men but that I fill her mouth and pussy better than any of them (what ever that means…does it mean less painful and not gagging? I choose to concentrate on the word “fill”).
The other is a more experienced woman and I wouldn’t dare ask her about size comparisons BUT she did say “WOW” when she unleashed him for the first time and has called my winking pole-tergeist, “beautiful” and she’s been coming back for more so I must not be too laughable.
There’s a great book out there TALKING COCK, by a Brit stand-up comedian whose name I forget. It’s his answer to THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES and is a funny expose into the Man-think about their hamsticks. Not much on yambags but we’ll have to wait for THE SCROTAL PAPERS or some such thing. So I know I'm not alone in my questioning obsessions. If I were then there wouldn't be this hugely lucrative market in penis pumps, exercisers, miracle cream, ancient Indian dick grower herbs and such that seem to festoon the back of every men's magazine on the planet.
Even though he has his temperamental moments, my Wonder Boy is still always willing to great me and shake my hand each morning and still thrills at the prospect of more exercise and spelunking.
So I’m feeling pretty good about the little fella. Seeing my fancy-go-to-meetin’ cane in the small fist and grinning mouth of my new lady friend inspired this gibberish talk. Maybe it’s just that my hands are too big…yeah, that’s it.
It's all in the head...get it?
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
XXXPLORATORY SESSION #2: THE LONG RIDE HOME
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Tuesday, August 7, 2007
HEREDITARY (part one)
She walked in just as her mother was feeling the head of my cock slide into her asshole. Her timing could’ve been worse, I suppose. She missed all of the begging and whimpering that led up to this moment. She’d missed her mom tied to the wooden chair her legs spread wide, her large pink nipples misshapen by 15 rubber-tipped clothespins. But, I digress.
This was actually, the second time I’d fucked her mother, uh and her…though it would be the first night I’d fuck her and her mother together. Again, I apologize for my digression… Let’s be a bit clichéd and start at the beginning…I’d had a thing for Ashley since she was a young girl. I just knew she’d grow up to be a beautiful woman since her father was a good looking guy and her mother, Kim, a stunning Rubenesque beauty. I’d known Kim since she was 18 and sneaking into the bars with her new boyfriend Jim, to watch me play music. He’d been coming to hear me play for a couple of years and was a good 8 years older than she was.
Kim was something else—a raven-haired, hippie chick wearing nearly see-through peasant blouses and tight, denim bell-bottoms. Even at 18, Kim's breasts were a force of nature. I’d have to guess they were 42DD, but I had never been a breast man until I laid eyes on her so what do I know. She had a bubbly personality to match her bouncy body and all of the guys were not so secretly enamored of her youthful radiance and jealous of Jim’s good fortune.
Once Ashley was born, we saw less and less of them but whenever they’d come around the girls would stop the room with their laughter and good looks. Young Ashley was a dimpled little blond Pixie and such a little flirt; even back then, taking after her mother. As she grew up, she just got prettier and prettier, and in spite of a brief awkward tomboy stage as she reached puberty, she matured into a stunning blonde version of her mom. She never quite developed the mammoth breasts or wide-assed voluptuous, earth-mama thing that her mom has but was in possession of a mysterious, melancholy entwined with her giggly, mischievous side that accentuated her seriously beautiful smile and solid, athletic build. And a big plus: she always IDOLIZED me.
I’d often fantasized over the years about ravenously making love to one or the other of them. They both have long been very fond of me and I always tried to keep my enthusiasm at a sane level when in my head and my pants was throbbing a world of perverse scenarios starring the three of us. Now, that Ashley was 18, I was practically speechless every time I saw her, reciting the line-up of the 1961 Yankees to keep my lustful fantasies at bay.
Surprisingly, after years of being the model family, Jim got caught up in work and somehow bored with domestic life at home. He had to be away from the girls for long periods of time, traveling internationally for his business. When I’d see the three of them around town, Kim always got very sad when Jim would talk excitedly about his impending trips abroad. She'd mention how, now that Ashley was driving and out all of the time with her friends that the house seemed so empty when he was gone. Jim even suggested at one point that Kim and I go to a movie or something since I was freshly divorced and living close by. We did a couple of times but I felt so tempted that I went much less often than I was asked. Jim didn’t know the doors he was opening.
Kim and I had always flirted a bit and as much as she loved Jim back in the early days, she was just naturally flirty in a very innocent way. Hard to not lust after when she’d lean into you with her ample softness and giggle in your ear. I was never of the mind to be a home wrecker but my fantasies naturally ran wild and in her loneliness she seemed to adore the attention.
While Jim was on one of these trips, Kim called me. She asked if I had any gigs while he was out of town. She was bored and needed an excuse to pull herself out of her doldrums.
“Ashley is never around, always out with her girlfriends and I get so tired hanging out here all alone. I miss seeing you guys play.”
I told her I, in fact, had a gig on the other side of town that night. She was free but a little sketchy about going by herself to a place she’d never been before. I offered her a ride and picked her up early since I had to do the dreaded “stage set up.” She was ready for fun and started in on the whiskey sours as soon as we got there.
The gig was fun. Not crowded but enough people showed up so that Kim was out on the dance floor most of the night. I found it so hard to concentrate on playing as she danced for a bit with some hippie girls and later, a string of college boys taking turns swirling her around the parquet.
By the end of the night, she was fighting off a couple of suitors who were taking turns chatting her up and buying her drinks. As I was walking the gear out to the car, she grabbed my arm on the way to the bathroom and said, “Don’t go too far. You’re my excuse to get away from these two knuckleheads.”
Once everything was done, I did one last look-see at the stage to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything and then walked towards the bar to rescue her from the hounds.
“Here comes my date now,” she says, slipping clumsily off the stool. Waltzing up to me, she planted a deep wet kiss on my mouth, grabbing a handful of my cock and balls with her left hand. She tilted her head back and laughed her sexy, growling purr.
We walked back towards the guys, who are both sitting there with their eyes wide and their beers stalled half way to their chins.
“Great meeting you fellas, but I may have my hands full with this one,” and she grabs her Manhattan, swills down the remnants, laughs and pulls me by the hand towards the front door. By this time, I can’t even remember that Jim exists; I’m ashamed to say.
As I pull the door open for her, she spins back around and looks at the two startled boys. Suddenly, Kim strides back their way. They were stunned, I guess, but I was more interested in watching her ass sway as she walked back toward them. She leaned over and planted a lingering kiss on the short, skinny, curly, headed blond and then the knock-out, buff, Hawaiian-looking kid as well. She turns back towards me, at once grabbing their hands and pulling them off the barstools behind her.
“I've changed my mind. Maybe it’s time we teach you boys, a few things.”
They followed us back to her place in their separate cars, a caravan of raging hormones. En route, I wandered out loud, “What about Jim?”
“Fuck him. He’s probably shacking up with a 12-year old Thai girl in a hotel on the Champs d’Elysess,” she slurred, laughing. I asked her what she had in mind but she didn’t answer since her mouth was already full of my hard cock.
Once back at her place, we were soon doing tequila shots with Tsing-Tao chasers and all naked in her lush hot tub. The boys were both initially a bit taken aback by her balls out demeanor but not particularly shy when forced into action. We all took turns fondling her bobbing breasts in the water, while some other of us stuck a tongue into her ear or mouth but she had something else in mind. She pushed between us and ran across the grass into the house and upstairs. Me, oddly being the least intimidated, was the first to leap out of the swirling water and into her wet footprints.
“Don’t wait too long boys, she might change her mind.”
They were right behind me.
When we got up to the bedroom, she was nowhere to be found but I could hear her attempting to sing the tune she’d requested earlier at the gig, David Crosby’s “Triad”. From behind the bedroom door, her girlish giggling mixed with the out-of-pitch crooning.
We all kind of paced around a bit, cocks and cocktails in our hands when she strolled out as if it was not an out-of-the-norm event to find a naked, drunken boner patrol circling her king-sized bed.
Laughing, she scurried onto the gold silk sheets and in a flash, she was lying on her back, legs spread alternating licks off an orange popsicle and slugs from an iced bottle of Patron, she’d somehow found in the loo. “The roller coaster is officially open, boys. Gimme some DICK!”
She was plastered and having a wonderful time. The Hawaiian kid, Nat, dove onto the bed like he was paddling out into the big surf. Before we could stop laughing he was astride her pumping away. Pete and I walked to either side of the bed and took the Popsicle and Patron out of her grasp, replacing them with two hot treats of our own. Her eyes were glazed over in ecstasy as she pulled both of our cocks together sucking as much of us into her mouth as she could. To keep from falling, Pete’s arm went around my back and my hand to his shoulder.
We heard humming from Nat whose face was buried in her mammoth chest. The sensation of another man’s smooth cock rubbing against mine with her anxious lips wrapped around them was unbelievable. She had a firm hold of us, one in each hand and began to alternate us into her wide mouth, sucking one then the other all the way down her throat. I heard Pete getting more and more vocal and his legs began to quiver. She pulled him out of her mouth and pulling us roughly into one two-handed grip, holding both of our pulsing poles together in her fists, squeezing hard until he burst. A huge load of hot, white cum flew across her face, eyes, and splattered her beautiful black curls. Nat was pumping away hard by now up with her legs up over her shoulders. Pete fell backwards onto the floor as if out cold but his heavy breathing told us he was okay. Every few breaths, he muttered, "fuck...fuck..."
I slid down a bit to where her tits were soaked with Nat’s kisses and pushed my hardness between them. The incredible slick softness had me coming quickly with such a force that I not only soaked her chest and neck but shot a massive gob onto her lips and her head flew back onto the pillow in whiplash surprise. She and I both laughed hysterically.
From the floor, Pete gasped, “What did I miss?”
I kissed some cum off of her bottom lip. “Hahaha. I always thought you were probably a filthy fuck,” she howled, shaking her head tossing cum all over the room. Pete rolled out of the way of the flying spooge knocking over a chair, cursing through the laughs.
And Nat never missed a stroke. Quite the athlete, this guy. As I slid down farther lapping my sticky spunk off her mounds, I took quick, hard bites of her prodigious silver dollar nipples that got her back arching off the sweat drenched sheets.
This was too much for Nat. He pulled out of her, shooting streams of hot schmutz all over my ass and balls. Coming around the side of the bed, he plopped his wet, fat cock across Kim’s wide smile. Watching this got my magic wand stiff as a board again and I slipped down into her soaked, pink folds and ground my hips slowly into her hot box where he had just been.
A second wind hit him and Pete leapt to his feet, cock in hand and came up behind me and slapped my ass hard a dozen times, and just as I was feeling a sweet burn and my balls tightening up with the exhilaration, he bent over and laid his tongue up the crack of my ass, pushing it into my puckered hole and I shot this howling gal full of all I had.
I rolled over, off the bed and onto the beautiful Afghani rug where I laid with a comatose grin across my slimy face. Whew.
Needing some rejuvenating fresh air, I left the room with Pete balls deep in Kim’s ass and Nat underneath her, his Pepsi can-sized cock regaining its form between her tits as she swayed back and forth over him.
I stumbled outside and slipped back into the hot tub, ready to collapse. As I was staring up at the stars in post-coital afterglow, Pete came running out of the house, whisper-screaming something I couldn’t quite decipher through the persistent gurgle of the water. He was waving his arms at me to get out of the tub, in a hurry, his cock still sticking out, swaying like a Bobby Bonds home run swing.
I climbed out of the tub, the chill night air creating gooseflesh all up and down my body. “Calm down man, what is it?”
“Someone just pulled into the garage…fuck. I don’t wanna get shot, man,” he was manic. “Whadda we do? Whadda we do?”
I didn’t know about him, but I was looking around the yard; trying to remember where the gate was. At least, Jim didn’t know who they were. He knew where I LIVED! Then I remembered…there wasn’t a gate. The only way out was through the garage and the only way into the garage was through a door in the kitchen. Shit!
Just then Nat came running out, his magnificent cock scared itty-bitty. He had a pile of clothes in his arms, ran right by me and in a semi-Fosbury flop, high-jumped the fence and the next sound I heard was his car speeding away.
Pete and I looked at each other; our mouths open almost as wide as Kim’s had been when she had us both for simultaneous dessert. Polite hunk that he was, Pete reached out, shook my hand and said, “Great time, man,” and in a flash the last I saw of him was his white ass plopping clumsily over the same fence.
There was only one thing for me to do, there in the well-kept backyard, my clothes across the patio right by the back door where I’d left them hours ago…I slipped into the tub and drank what was left of someone’s beer.
I must have been drunker than I thought for in spite of my racing heart, I found myself becoming quickly more and more relaxed, the stars spinning a bit and just laid my head back and fell into a sound sleep.
My snoring woke me, which is funny since I never knew I snored before. I laughed and opened my eyes to see sitting there in the tub across from me, Ashley. Her blue eyes squinting with glee, her dimpled cheeks in a big, sexy, crooked smile.
“What a surprise to find you here.”
“I was about to say the same,” she giggled. “Mom must’ve been shit-faced. She’s in there spread-eagled snoring away…kind of like you just were.”
“Very funny.” I tried not to look guilty.
“Was it you that was fucking her?”
“Uh, well…”
She cracked up at my stuttering non-confession. “She’s wanted to fuck you for years.”
I was speechless and that rarely happens to old, long-winded me.
“So have I…” she giggled.
I thought I would never speak again. Luckily, she continued after gauging the ridiculous look on my face.
“Once when I was in the 7th grade, I told my mom that I wanted you to be my boyfriend and she said, ‘I know, Honey, you told me that when your were 6.’”
Is it any surprise that I still sat there with my mouth hanging open, my brain slowly frying and my cock hard as a stick shift in a teeager’s first car?
“You know I’d never tell my dad you fucked mom…I know he fucks around on these fucking trips of his, she’s lonely and I’m sure she knows he’s a dog, too. I’ve checked out his e-mails when he’s not around. His password is my birthday... predictable, huh?”
I managed a grunted, “I guess.”
She’s on a roll. A rambling, teen-aged monolog, not expecting much response from me, though she pauses for a glance occasionally to see my reaction or to look down through the water to make sure her words are still having the same effect on me. It’s then I notice she is fully clothed, shoes and all. Was I this spontaneous at 18? Doubt it.
“I’ve never been with a man before…a couple boys have poked around down there but they always spew before they get even close to me…I like boys but they are always such dickwads…Are you okay?”…
Before I even acknowledge that a question has been asked she rolls on, with a sly smile… "I’ve hooked up with more girls than boys, actually. Girls are cool. They like to kiss more.”
She pauses for what seems like forever, looks up into the trees behind the fence as if just now realizing they were there. She’s somewhere else.
“So will you make love to me?” and as my lips part, not knowing what will come out, I feel her slide over and put her lips to mine. I have never felt anything so soft in my 45 years. I can feel her smiling.
She rises, silently taking my hand and I follow her through the sliding glass doors. Her wet clothes soak the carpet beneath us.
We peek into her mother’s room as we pass the open door and Kim is now curled up on her side, the sheets pulled up to her chin. She is still smiling.
Just as Ashley pulls her bedroom door closed behind me, I hear her mom, softly humming that same Crosby song from down the hall.
This was actually, the second time I’d fucked her mother, uh and her…though it would be the first night I’d fuck her and her mother together. Again, I apologize for my digression… Let’s be a bit clichéd and start at the beginning…I’d had a thing for Ashley since she was a young girl. I just knew she’d grow up to be a beautiful woman since her father was a good looking guy and her mother, Kim, a stunning Rubenesque beauty. I’d known Kim since she was 18 and sneaking into the bars with her new boyfriend Jim, to watch me play music. He’d been coming to hear me play for a couple of years and was a good 8 years older than she was.
Kim was something else—a raven-haired, hippie chick wearing nearly see-through peasant blouses and tight, denim bell-bottoms. Even at 18, Kim's breasts were a force of nature. I’d have to guess they were 42DD, but I had never been a breast man until I laid eyes on her so what do I know. She had a bubbly personality to match her bouncy body and all of the guys were not so secretly enamored of her youthful radiance and jealous of Jim’s good fortune.
Once Ashley was born, we saw less and less of them but whenever they’d come around the girls would stop the room with their laughter and good looks. Young Ashley was a dimpled little blond Pixie and such a little flirt; even back then, taking after her mother. As she grew up, she just got prettier and prettier, and in spite of a brief awkward tomboy stage as she reached puberty, she matured into a stunning blonde version of her mom. She never quite developed the mammoth breasts or wide-assed voluptuous, earth-mama thing that her mom has but was in possession of a mysterious, melancholy entwined with her giggly, mischievous side that accentuated her seriously beautiful smile and solid, athletic build. And a big plus: she always IDOLIZED me.
I’d often fantasized over the years about ravenously making love to one or the other of them. They both have long been very fond of me and I always tried to keep my enthusiasm at a sane level when in my head and my pants was throbbing a world of perverse scenarios starring the three of us. Now, that Ashley was 18, I was practically speechless every time I saw her, reciting the line-up of the 1961 Yankees to keep my lustful fantasies at bay.
Surprisingly, after years of being the model family, Jim got caught up in work and somehow bored with domestic life at home. He had to be away from the girls for long periods of time, traveling internationally for his business. When I’d see the three of them around town, Kim always got very sad when Jim would talk excitedly about his impending trips abroad. She'd mention how, now that Ashley was driving and out all of the time with her friends that the house seemed so empty when he was gone. Jim even suggested at one point that Kim and I go to a movie or something since I was freshly divorced and living close by. We did a couple of times but I felt so tempted that I went much less often than I was asked. Jim didn’t know the doors he was opening.
Kim and I had always flirted a bit and as much as she loved Jim back in the early days, she was just naturally flirty in a very innocent way. Hard to not lust after when she’d lean into you with her ample softness and giggle in your ear. I was never of the mind to be a home wrecker but my fantasies naturally ran wild and in her loneliness she seemed to adore the attention.
While Jim was on one of these trips, Kim called me. She asked if I had any gigs while he was out of town. She was bored and needed an excuse to pull herself out of her doldrums.
“Ashley is never around, always out with her girlfriends and I get so tired hanging out here all alone. I miss seeing you guys play.”
I told her I, in fact, had a gig on the other side of town that night. She was free but a little sketchy about going by herself to a place she’d never been before. I offered her a ride and picked her up early since I had to do the dreaded “stage set up.” She was ready for fun and started in on the whiskey sours as soon as we got there.
The gig was fun. Not crowded but enough people showed up so that Kim was out on the dance floor most of the night. I found it so hard to concentrate on playing as she danced for a bit with some hippie girls and later, a string of college boys taking turns swirling her around the parquet.
By the end of the night, she was fighting off a couple of suitors who were taking turns chatting her up and buying her drinks. As I was walking the gear out to the car, she grabbed my arm on the way to the bathroom and said, “Don’t go too far. You’re my excuse to get away from these two knuckleheads.”
Once everything was done, I did one last look-see at the stage to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything and then walked towards the bar to rescue her from the hounds.
“Here comes my date now,” she says, slipping clumsily off the stool. Waltzing up to me, she planted a deep wet kiss on my mouth, grabbing a handful of my cock and balls with her left hand. She tilted her head back and laughed her sexy, growling purr.
We walked back towards the guys, who are both sitting there with their eyes wide and their beers stalled half way to their chins.
“Great meeting you fellas, but I may have my hands full with this one,” and she grabs her Manhattan, swills down the remnants, laughs and pulls me by the hand towards the front door. By this time, I can’t even remember that Jim exists; I’m ashamed to say.
As I pull the door open for her, she spins back around and looks at the two startled boys. Suddenly, Kim strides back their way. They were stunned, I guess, but I was more interested in watching her ass sway as she walked back toward them. She leaned over and planted a lingering kiss on the short, skinny, curly, headed blond and then the knock-out, buff, Hawaiian-looking kid as well. She turns back towards me, at once grabbing their hands and pulling them off the barstools behind her.
“I've changed my mind. Maybe it’s time we teach you boys, a few things.”
They followed us back to her place in their separate cars, a caravan of raging hormones. En route, I wandered out loud, “What about Jim?”
“Fuck him. He’s probably shacking up with a 12-year old Thai girl in a hotel on the Champs d’Elysess,” she slurred, laughing. I asked her what she had in mind but she didn’t answer since her mouth was already full of my hard cock.
Once back at her place, we were soon doing tequila shots with Tsing-Tao chasers and all naked in her lush hot tub. The boys were both initially a bit taken aback by her balls out demeanor but not particularly shy when forced into action. We all took turns fondling her bobbing breasts in the water, while some other of us stuck a tongue into her ear or mouth but she had something else in mind. She pushed between us and ran across the grass into the house and upstairs. Me, oddly being the least intimidated, was the first to leap out of the swirling water and into her wet footprints.
“Don’t wait too long boys, she might change her mind.”
They were right behind me.
When we got up to the bedroom, she was nowhere to be found but I could hear her attempting to sing the tune she’d requested earlier at the gig, David Crosby’s “Triad”. From behind the bedroom door, her girlish giggling mixed with the out-of-pitch crooning.
We all kind of paced around a bit, cocks and cocktails in our hands when she strolled out as if it was not an out-of-the-norm event to find a naked, drunken boner patrol circling her king-sized bed.
Laughing, she scurried onto the gold silk sheets and in a flash, she was lying on her back, legs spread alternating licks off an orange popsicle and slugs from an iced bottle of Patron, she’d somehow found in the loo. “The roller coaster is officially open, boys. Gimme some DICK!”
She was plastered and having a wonderful time. The Hawaiian kid, Nat, dove onto the bed like he was paddling out into the big surf. Before we could stop laughing he was astride her pumping away. Pete and I walked to either side of the bed and took the Popsicle and Patron out of her grasp, replacing them with two hot treats of our own. Her eyes were glazed over in ecstasy as she pulled both of our cocks together sucking as much of us into her mouth as she could. To keep from falling, Pete’s arm went around my back and my hand to his shoulder.
We heard humming from Nat whose face was buried in her mammoth chest. The sensation of another man’s smooth cock rubbing against mine with her anxious lips wrapped around them was unbelievable. She had a firm hold of us, one in each hand and began to alternate us into her wide mouth, sucking one then the other all the way down her throat. I heard Pete getting more and more vocal and his legs began to quiver. She pulled him out of her mouth and pulling us roughly into one two-handed grip, holding both of our pulsing poles together in her fists, squeezing hard until he burst. A huge load of hot, white cum flew across her face, eyes, and splattered her beautiful black curls. Nat was pumping away hard by now up with her legs up over her shoulders. Pete fell backwards onto the floor as if out cold but his heavy breathing told us he was okay. Every few breaths, he muttered, "fuck...fuck..."
I slid down a bit to where her tits were soaked with Nat’s kisses and pushed my hardness between them. The incredible slick softness had me coming quickly with such a force that I not only soaked her chest and neck but shot a massive gob onto her lips and her head flew back onto the pillow in whiplash surprise. She and I both laughed hysterically.
From the floor, Pete gasped, “What did I miss?”
I kissed some cum off of her bottom lip. “Hahaha. I always thought you were probably a filthy fuck,” she howled, shaking her head tossing cum all over the room. Pete rolled out of the way of the flying spooge knocking over a chair, cursing through the laughs.
And Nat never missed a stroke. Quite the athlete, this guy. As I slid down farther lapping my sticky spunk off her mounds, I took quick, hard bites of her prodigious silver dollar nipples that got her back arching off the sweat drenched sheets.
This was too much for Nat. He pulled out of her, shooting streams of hot schmutz all over my ass and balls. Coming around the side of the bed, he plopped his wet, fat cock across Kim’s wide smile. Watching this got my magic wand stiff as a board again and I slipped down into her soaked, pink folds and ground my hips slowly into her hot box where he had just been.
A second wind hit him and Pete leapt to his feet, cock in hand and came up behind me and slapped my ass hard a dozen times, and just as I was feeling a sweet burn and my balls tightening up with the exhilaration, he bent over and laid his tongue up the crack of my ass, pushing it into my puckered hole and I shot this howling gal full of all I had.
I rolled over, off the bed and onto the beautiful Afghani rug where I laid with a comatose grin across my slimy face. Whew.
Needing some rejuvenating fresh air, I left the room with Pete balls deep in Kim’s ass and Nat underneath her, his Pepsi can-sized cock regaining its form between her tits as she swayed back and forth over him.
I stumbled outside and slipped back into the hot tub, ready to collapse. As I was staring up at the stars in post-coital afterglow, Pete came running out of the house, whisper-screaming something I couldn’t quite decipher through the persistent gurgle of the water. He was waving his arms at me to get out of the tub, in a hurry, his cock still sticking out, swaying like a Bobby Bonds home run swing.
I climbed out of the tub, the chill night air creating gooseflesh all up and down my body. “Calm down man, what is it?”
“Someone just pulled into the garage…fuck. I don’t wanna get shot, man,” he was manic. “Whadda we do? Whadda we do?”
I didn’t know about him, but I was looking around the yard; trying to remember where the gate was. At least, Jim didn’t know who they were. He knew where I LIVED! Then I remembered…there wasn’t a gate. The only way out was through the garage and the only way into the garage was through a door in the kitchen. Shit!
Just then Nat came running out, his magnificent cock scared itty-bitty. He had a pile of clothes in his arms, ran right by me and in a semi-Fosbury flop, high-jumped the fence and the next sound I heard was his car speeding away.
Pete and I looked at each other; our mouths open almost as wide as Kim’s had been when she had us both for simultaneous dessert. Polite hunk that he was, Pete reached out, shook my hand and said, “Great time, man,” and in a flash the last I saw of him was his white ass plopping clumsily over the same fence.
There was only one thing for me to do, there in the well-kept backyard, my clothes across the patio right by the back door where I’d left them hours ago…I slipped into the tub and drank what was left of someone’s beer.
I must have been drunker than I thought for in spite of my racing heart, I found myself becoming quickly more and more relaxed, the stars spinning a bit and just laid my head back and fell into a sound sleep.
My snoring woke me, which is funny since I never knew I snored before. I laughed and opened my eyes to see sitting there in the tub across from me, Ashley. Her blue eyes squinting with glee, her dimpled cheeks in a big, sexy, crooked smile.
“What a surprise to find you here.”
“I was about to say the same,” she giggled. “Mom must’ve been shit-faced. She’s in there spread-eagled snoring away…kind of like you just were.”
“Very funny.” I tried not to look guilty.
“Was it you that was fucking her?”
“Uh, well…”
She cracked up at my stuttering non-confession. “She’s wanted to fuck you for years.”
I was speechless and that rarely happens to old, long-winded me.
“So have I…” she giggled.
I thought I would never speak again. Luckily, she continued after gauging the ridiculous look on my face.
“Once when I was in the 7th grade, I told my mom that I wanted you to be my boyfriend and she said, ‘I know, Honey, you told me that when your were 6.’”
Is it any surprise that I still sat there with my mouth hanging open, my brain slowly frying and my cock hard as a stick shift in a teeager’s first car?
“You know I’d never tell my dad you fucked mom…I know he fucks around on these fucking trips of his, she’s lonely and I’m sure she knows he’s a dog, too. I’ve checked out his e-mails when he’s not around. His password is my birthday... predictable, huh?”
I managed a grunted, “I guess.”
She’s on a roll. A rambling, teen-aged monolog, not expecting much response from me, though she pauses for a glance occasionally to see my reaction or to look down through the water to make sure her words are still having the same effect on me. It’s then I notice she is fully clothed, shoes and all. Was I this spontaneous at 18? Doubt it.
“I’ve never been with a man before…a couple boys have poked around down there but they always spew before they get even close to me…I like boys but they are always such dickwads…Are you okay?”…
Before I even acknowledge that a question has been asked she rolls on, with a sly smile… "I’ve hooked up with more girls than boys, actually. Girls are cool. They like to kiss more.”
She pauses for what seems like forever, looks up into the trees behind the fence as if just now realizing they were there. She’s somewhere else.
“So will you make love to me?” and as my lips part, not knowing what will come out, I feel her slide over and put her lips to mine. I have never felt anything so soft in my 45 years. I can feel her smiling.
She rises, silently taking my hand and I follow her through the sliding glass doors. Her wet clothes soak the carpet beneath us.
We peek into her mother’s room as we pass the open door and Kim is now curled up on her side, the sheets pulled up to her chin. She is still smiling.
Just as Ashley pulls her bedroom door closed behind me, I hear her mom, softly humming that same Crosby song from down the hall.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
XXXPLORATORY SESSION #1: THE GRIP
So Mary has mastered The Grip. Not only is her mouth extraordinary but she is not afraid to hold a cock tightly while she lathers it up between her lips.
Most women in my limited experience, just never get it, that when they are blowing you or jerking you off that they are competing with one's own masturbatory grip. The honed, polished, fine-tuned way by which you have hung onto yourself for X amount of years. Watch gay porn or gangbang porn where you can see men taking themselves into hand for the big finale and every guy has a different technique, style, grip, and speed.
Some hold their hard dangle between two fingers and speed pump, but most have some form of full hand around themselves varying the speed until they find their groove...some do the old "reverse genie shine" using their hand thumb down towards the body then up and over with a quick twist on top...most mix it up a bit but have one particular "kung-fu grip" that they call home. I guarantee all of these guys know their particular groove like the back, er, palm of their hand. You settle in and lose track of all reality once your particular grip has found its hold.
For my particular A-zone, I like a strong tight grip which helps keep you as hard as possible while also engorging the head to its most sensitive fullness. And being a guy who doesn't cum easily from oral, the grip is a key element for my focus and pleasure when someone's goal is to get me to geyser.
Now, some lovers may just go to town on you, keeping their hand down at the base of your dick, cupping your balls lightly; more interested in just keeping the rod pointing skyward and into their waiting mouths and that's nice but I love a grip that, while not painful, is tight and strong like my own hands.
Sometimes an overly zealous lover might really jerk you hard up and down and for some guys, this is the key. Personally, I am not a fan of having the skin ripped off my cock. Just me. Mary did a little quick tugging but it was just the right mix of strength and speed. Ah, the foibles of a picky penis. Or as we like to call it, a "Honky Tonk Penis." Never a fan of the supper aggro speed pump, I like a bit more titillation and variety and I love to see what's going on. The visual is SO important. Nothing more exciting than seeing my big head being caressed and enveloped while I look into my lover's eyes.
The thing about variety is really to try a lot of moves/techniques but to stick with each one a bit and see how your partner reacts. You very likely will stumble on a few things that float his particular boat.
For me, if the goal is to finish me off to orgasm, after a bucket load of foreplay and hours of wild teasing and fucking (or if we're shooting for a speedy shooting, as they say) I'm all about repetitive, rhythmic firm hold squeezing hardest on the up strokes and release a bit of pressure on the down stroke. Slow and rhythmic. The key is the slight variance of the two. Take the same amount of time going up and down just decrease the pressure a bit. Wetness is a big factor too. The fine line between the perfect amount of lubrication and a painful experience is to be paid attention. Stopping and licking the shaft, balls, etc (which if we have gotten to the near explosion stage should have already been a wondrous part of things), is good at this near orgasmic place (but don't stray from that grip for too long) and try to come back with the same rhythm and pressure. And if I say, "That's it, that's it," or "Don't change". DON'T, I'm almost there. Many a hard earned orgasm has been waylaid by disregard for this particular bit of advice. Let me go off, PLEASE. I'm no quick-draw artist. I love to take my time but when I'm about ready my lover, should be as ready to share my ecstatic moment as well.
I digress, get used to it...Now, back to Mary. A new lover in my life. She of the EXPLORATORY PARTNER coinage in the previous blog. She needs no advice; the girl is on it. She had mentioned in a letter that she'd been told she had a talented mouth. I will vouch for that. She is delicate and attentive and there were moments in this, our first sexual encounter, that were incredibly unique to her and memorable for me. She hadn't been with a man for 5 years and the smile on her face when she pulled out my cock was wide and endearing. She looked as if she was seeing something spectacular for the first time. I can go with that. Pumped up my self-esteem and tumescent yearning, that's for sure. "Wow." Wow? Not something I hear often enough :) "It's beautiful," she said later. I've never quite seen my cock that way. Of course, like most guys I want somebody else's bigger, longer, thicker, more reliable dick but then again who am I to argue with these smart women who like what they see or even feel kind enough to give me that angle for my own edification. Thanks ad infinitum.
At any rate, one thing she did that was particularly distinctive and gratifying to me, was that after holding and sucking and caressing my hardness for a while she slid up and laid my throbbing, warm shaft next to her neck. I could feel her heart beating and I'm sure she could feel the pumping of mine as well. She'd turn her head away from me, kiss my belly, turn back toward my cock and give it a very light pinch of a squeeze with her small fingers or a soft nibble. I could feel my balls warm against her chest. This was a wonderful moment as if she were honing in on the pounding fella, getting to know him, feeling his pulse with her own. I liked this tremendously. I would have loved it if her soft, ample breasts had been exposed and skin to skin with my upper legs but can't have it all at once now can we.
I am very excited to get to know this fascinating woman. Her mind draws me in and she exposes herself easily. Not in spewing waterfalls of words (she's a bit shy about just letting loose with personal details about herself but when asked she really seems open to discuss anything and comfortable and very sexually open). Now, her writing on the other hand, seems completely free flowing, not shy in the least. One of the most articulate and self-exposing bloggers in my limited experience and she is very much unafraid to let it all out on the written page.
I've never really thought in such detail about the intricacies of what gets me into the spew zone, just sort of let it rip as it does. This was fun. Maybe next I'll try to figure out why I love to watch sexual action so much. Voyeuristic circus acts and people smooching and discreet hands on asses, viewed from the nearest corner are all way good things.
...But I digress...After 25 years with the same partner, these new lips against mine, new differences of style, body, approach and mind in the last three women I have had the joy of sharing sexual moments with, has been just wondrously fascinating, exhilarating and intense. Unlocking the sexual me is something I'd long wondered if I'd ever get the chance to do...yeeeeehaw.
Most women in my limited experience, just never get it, that when they are blowing you or jerking you off that they are competing with one's own masturbatory grip. The honed, polished, fine-tuned way by which you have hung onto yourself for X amount of years. Watch gay porn or gangbang porn where you can see men taking themselves into hand for the big finale and every guy has a different technique, style, grip, and speed.
Some hold their hard dangle between two fingers and speed pump, but most have some form of full hand around themselves varying the speed until they find their groove...some do the old "reverse genie shine" using their hand thumb down towards the body then up and over with a quick twist on top...most mix it up a bit but have one particular "kung-fu grip" that they call home. I guarantee all of these guys know their particular groove like the back, er, palm of their hand. You settle in and lose track of all reality once your particular grip has found its hold.
For my particular A-zone, I like a strong tight grip which helps keep you as hard as possible while also engorging the head to its most sensitive fullness. And being a guy who doesn't cum easily from oral, the grip is a key element for my focus and pleasure when someone's goal is to get me to geyser.
Now, some lovers may just go to town on you, keeping their hand down at the base of your dick, cupping your balls lightly; more interested in just keeping the rod pointing skyward and into their waiting mouths and that's nice but I love a grip that, while not painful, is tight and strong like my own hands.
Sometimes an overly zealous lover might really jerk you hard up and down and for some guys, this is the key. Personally, I am not a fan of having the skin ripped off my cock. Just me. Mary did a little quick tugging but it was just the right mix of strength and speed. Ah, the foibles of a picky penis. Or as we like to call it, a "Honky Tonk Penis." Never a fan of the supper aggro speed pump, I like a bit more titillation and variety and I love to see what's going on. The visual is SO important. Nothing more exciting than seeing my big head being caressed and enveloped while I look into my lover's eyes.
The thing about variety is really to try a lot of moves/techniques but to stick with each one a bit and see how your partner reacts. You very likely will stumble on a few things that float his particular boat.
For me, if the goal is to finish me off to orgasm, after a bucket load of foreplay and hours of wild teasing and fucking (or if we're shooting for a speedy shooting, as they say) I'm all about repetitive, rhythmic firm hold squeezing hardest on the up strokes and release a bit of pressure on the down stroke. Slow and rhythmic. The key is the slight variance of the two. Take the same amount of time going up and down just decrease the pressure a bit. Wetness is a big factor too. The fine line between the perfect amount of lubrication and a painful experience is to be paid attention. Stopping and licking the shaft, balls, etc (which if we have gotten to the near explosion stage should have already been a wondrous part of things), is good at this near orgasmic place (but don't stray from that grip for too long) and try to come back with the same rhythm and pressure. And if I say, "That's it, that's it," or "Don't change". DON'T, I'm almost there. Many a hard earned orgasm has been waylaid by disregard for this particular bit of advice. Let me go off, PLEASE. I'm no quick-draw artist. I love to take my time but when I'm about ready my lover, should be as ready to share my ecstatic moment as well.
I digress, get used to it...Now, back to Mary. A new lover in my life. She of the EXPLORATORY PARTNER coinage in the previous blog. She needs no advice; the girl is on it. She had mentioned in a letter that she'd been told she had a talented mouth. I will vouch for that. She is delicate and attentive and there were moments in this, our first sexual encounter, that were incredibly unique to her and memorable for me. She hadn't been with a man for 5 years and the smile on her face when she pulled out my cock was wide and endearing. She looked as if she was seeing something spectacular for the first time. I can go with that. Pumped up my self-esteem and tumescent yearning, that's for sure. "Wow." Wow? Not something I hear often enough :) "It's beautiful," she said later. I've never quite seen my cock that way. Of course, like most guys I want somebody else's bigger, longer, thicker, more reliable dick but then again who am I to argue with these smart women who like what they see or even feel kind enough to give me that angle for my own edification. Thanks ad infinitum.
At any rate, one thing she did that was particularly distinctive and gratifying to me, was that after holding and sucking and caressing my hardness for a while she slid up and laid my throbbing, warm shaft next to her neck. I could feel her heart beating and I'm sure she could feel the pumping of mine as well. She'd turn her head away from me, kiss my belly, turn back toward my cock and give it a very light pinch of a squeeze with her small fingers or a soft nibble. I could feel my balls warm against her chest. This was a wonderful moment as if she were honing in on the pounding fella, getting to know him, feeling his pulse with her own. I liked this tremendously. I would have loved it if her soft, ample breasts had been exposed and skin to skin with my upper legs but can't have it all at once now can we.
I am very excited to get to know this fascinating woman. Her mind draws me in and she exposes herself easily. Not in spewing waterfalls of words (she's a bit shy about just letting loose with personal details about herself but when asked she really seems open to discuss anything and comfortable and very sexually open). Now, her writing on the other hand, seems completely free flowing, not shy in the least. One of the most articulate and self-exposing bloggers in my limited experience and she is very much unafraid to let it all out on the written page.
I've never really thought in such detail about the intricacies of what gets me into the spew zone, just sort of let it rip as it does. This was fun. Maybe next I'll try to figure out why I love to watch sexual action so much. Voyeuristic circus acts and people smooching and discreet hands on asses, viewed from the nearest corner are all way good things.
...But I digress...After 25 years with the same partner, these new lips against mine, new differences of style, body, approach and mind in the last three women I have had the joy of sharing sexual moments with, has been just wondrously fascinating, exhilarating and intense. Unlocking the sexual me is something I'd long wondered if I'd ever get the chance to do...yeeeeehaw.
EXPLORATORY PARTNERS
I had never really heard this term until yesterday. An interesting woman who I had just gotten to know had said the word in our short goodnight after a second long evening of chat together. I was my usual cryptically hestitant self, not giving up any signs of stirring up some passion and she said to me, "Are you at ALL interested in me?" I garbled some scrambled answer meaning to say, "Fuck yes," to which she said something I sort of half heard that included something like "Everybody needs a friend" and "exploratory partner." Huh? What is that?
Of course, being my dense self, I was never quite sure if she was interested in me or how or for what either. So I spun scenarios, fantasies, and questions on my 10 minute ride home and ran into the house to type her a letter trying to clarify my throbbing interest (sorry, such a graphic image for such a more wonderfully complex attraction). Basically, the gist of my letter was...I'm open, what you got?
This morning I got a letter from her (let's call her "Mary" for fun) which spelled things out...distinctly. She thought she and I had similar sexual interests and were in a position to "switch off" when things got too clingy or "traditional". She sounded particularly interested in exploring some pain based scenarios, some S&M fantasy, some interaction based on pushing the sexual envelope a bit, some group stuff.
Uh, I'm in. What else you got? Where do we start. What, has she been reading my journals? Is this an intellectual approach to the age-old "fuck buddy"? I always hated that term but always wanted to have one. My proclivity was always sex=love=relationship and not always in that order. More recently it has been sex=touching god=humanity's oneness with all. More realistically, it could be equated as sex=fun=self-renewal=discovery. More than likely it is something a kin to how much exposure can one's sexual psyche take without exploding in a blissful quagmire of ecstatic NOW. Or as my friend Lars likes to say, sex=ok, I'll be Carlos the Pool Boy and you be the rich dowager.
What I'm trying to say, before I continually interrupt myself, is that this woman hit the nail on the head. I wrote the song "Why Waste Time" years ago and my, how it applies now.
On the one side is fear, on the other side love
and you stand alone in between
and in a shimmering orbit we fly
in a shimmering orbit we fly.
One day we're low and the next we're above
In the middle: the world that we've seen
And in a shivering moment we die
in a shivering moment we die.
so why waste time, why waste time
so why waste time, why waste time
On one side is weakness, on the other side strength
And everything else is a dream
And it's a glimmering tear that we cry
It's a glimmering tear that we cry.
So why waste time, why waste time
Why waste time, why waste time
One side says "No" and the other says "Go"
Chances blow by on the wind
Just a quivering instant gone by
A quivering instant gone by.
So why waste time, why waste time
Why waste time, why waste time*
Mary picked me out of the proverbial line-up and saw "spiritual, sexual, kama sutra, music boy" in the town where she had found little connection at a time when she was re-evaluating celibacy as a part of her spiritual practice and I walk into the door with a Tantric manual tied to my throbbing manhood like a talisman of silly import. Welcome to the high country where the altitude strafes your endurance and the rednecks push your buttons with their elbows so as not to dirty their hands with your fevers. So we are rebels here without applause (unless you call the sound of a paddle slapping a fresh pink ass applause)
As I was trying to say, it is time to allow my sexual proclivities some breathing room; to unbutton their straight-jacket but leave the cuffs on. All good.
I'm looking forward into some role switching with Mary, allowing her aggressor tendencies to slap around my passive side and in exchange give her a bit of her own medicine. I'd love to blindfold her, tie her to a chair and have her listen to Randi and I make love, getting up to tighten the nipple clips on her magnificent breasts, to slide my damp cock across her lips while Randi brushes Mary's face with her flowing hair. This of course would lead to both of them slicking up my hard rod simultaneously before I flip Randi over and slide into her while Mary greases up my anxious ass and enters me with a slippery strap-on, her breasts dangling precariously over my back...for starters...
Of course, being my dense self, I was never quite sure if she was interested in me or how or for what either. So I spun scenarios, fantasies, and questions on my 10 minute ride home and ran into the house to type her a letter trying to clarify my throbbing interest (sorry, such a graphic image for such a more wonderfully complex attraction). Basically, the gist of my letter was...I'm open, what you got?
This morning I got a letter from her (let's call her "Mary" for fun) which spelled things out...distinctly. She thought she and I had similar sexual interests and were in a position to "switch off" when things got too clingy or "traditional". She sounded particularly interested in exploring some pain based scenarios, some S&M fantasy, some interaction based on pushing the sexual envelope a bit, some group stuff.
Uh, I'm in. What else you got? Where do we start. What, has she been reading my journals? Is this an intellectual approach to the age-old "fuck buddy"? I always hated that term but always wanted to have one. My proclivity was always sex=love=relationship and not always in that order. More recently it has been sex=touching god=humanity's oneness with all. More realistically, it could be equated as sex=fun=self-renewal=discovery. More than likely it is something a kin to how much exposure can one's sexual psyche take without exploding in a blissful quagmire of ecstatic NOW. Or as my friend Lars likes to say, sex=ok, I'll be Carlos the Pool Boy and you be the rich dowager.
What I'm trying to say, before I continually interrupt myself, is that this woman hit the nail on the head. I wrote the song "Why Waste Time" years ago and my, how it applies now.
On the one side is fear, on the other side love
and you stand alone in between
and in a shimmering orbit we fly
in a shimmering orbit we fly.
One day we're low and the next we're above
In the middle: the world that we've seen
And in a shivering moment we die
in a shivering moment we die.
so why waste time, why waste time
so why waste time, why waste time
On one side is weakness, on the other side strength
And everything else is a dream
And it's a glimmering tear that we cry
It's a glimmering tear that we cry.
So why waste time, why waste time
Why waste time, why waste time
One side says "No" and the other says "Go"
Chances blow by on the wind
Just a quivering instant gone by
A quivering instant gone by.
So why waste time, why waste time
Why waste time, why waste time*
Mary picked me out of the proverbial line-up and saw "spiritual, sexual, kama sutra, music boy" in the town where she had found little connection at a time when she was re-evaluating celibacy as a part of her spiritual practice and I walk into the door with a Tantric manual tied to my throbbing manhood like a talisman of silly import. Welcome to the high country where the altitude strafes your endurance and the rednecks push your buttons with their elbows so as not to dirty their hands with your fevers. So we are rebels here without applause (unless you call the sound of a paddle slapping a fresh pink ass applause)
As I was trying to say, it is time to allow my sexual proclivities some breathing room; to unbutton their straight-jacket but leave the cuffs on. All good.
I'm looking forward into some role switching with Mary, allowing her aggressor tendencies to slap around my passive side and in exchange give her a bit of her own medicine. I'd love to blindfold her, tie her to a chair and have her listen to Randi and I make love, getting up to tighten the nipple clips on her magnificent breasts, to slide my damp cock across her lips while Randi brushes Mary's face with her flowing hair. This of course would lead to both of them slicking up my hard rod simultaneously before I flip Randi over and slide into her while Mary greases up my anxious ass and enters me with a slippery strap-on, her breasts dangling precariously over my back...for starters...
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