Bite me. HARDER!

The holidays aren’t all that conducive to sex for us.  Family stress, close quarters, etc.

We had a nice French meal together and caught up on a week’s worth of family neurosis, having not had a moment to ourselves since Christmas Eve.  Most of our conversation was chaste, but as we got in the car, we turned to what lay before us.

“If nothing else, I’m looking forward to fucking you tonight,” I said.

“Me too,” said T.

Date night

On our way to see the "First Kiss" couple. The holidays have conspired to keep T and me chaste for too long, so, if nothing else, we will renew our memories of one another's bodies. But this is in the category of a "Sure Thing."

Except that I'm not Joel. And neither of the women I hope to fuck tonight is a babysitter.

[postscript:  I'm mortified.  I thought the allusion was to The Sure Thing, but in fact, it was to "Risky Business."  Some Gen-X'er I am.]

My greatest fantasy

This is pretty much my core fantasy - it gives me almost everything I crave sexually.

It involves me and a number of women too large to count.  The women need not be models, or porn stars, or young - in fact, if they were a random sampling of women in a place that skewed toward the attractive (say, a trendy bar or restaurant) but included some outliers, that would be perfect.  And the women should be dressed as they would be in the trendy bar or restaurant - dressed to attract, and maybe with the confidence (or hope) that they would attract....

New Year's resolutions?

Or maybe wishes? Or fantasies? I reserve the right to add more, but here are my top seven:

7. High-concept swinging

Our dinner party fantasy has never happened. Yet. I really liked the fantasy, though, and I'm disappointed both that our friends ultimately weren't interested in the most extreme version of the fantasy and that CraigsList (and Kasidie, and SLS) never succeeded in identifying suitable guests. I like the idea of a high-concept swingers' event. And I LOVE the idea of conjuring and convening such an event. May 2012 be the year.


6. Multiples (couples)

My wife is no huge fan of the sex club or swingers' party scene. Neither is L (though she's less averse than T). I have a hunger - to go to a couple of the wilder, more sensual events and really throw myself into the scrum.

5. Multiples (women)

I'm the kind of insatiable that gets off hugely on being with more than one woman at a time. One of my fondest sexual memories involves three women and me. That was in a different time, and if I'm not ashamed or embarrassed, I'm slightly sad to say that it took a lot of money to bring about that situation - it wasn't me and three women who wanted to be with me (although I genuinely believe they enjoyed themselves - work can be fun) - it was me and three women who were excited to be making some good money and having a good time. I'm in a different sexual place now, and I'd really like to be in a sexual encounter with two, three or more women.

4. Get pegged

I've never been fucked in the ass by a woman. I don't know that I'd enjoy it, but I'd like to try it once or twice.

3. Re-visit my experience of gay sex

I've had a few sexual experiences with men, but not in twenty years. I know I'm straight - there ain't no missing it. And I have zero interest in anal sex, on either end, with a man. Nor in receiving oral from a guy. But I love giving pleasure. And I think it might be fun both to go down on a guy and to dominate a guy. I'm not sure 2012 will hold this particular experience for me (and I don't know how pleasurable it would be), but I'm eager to (re-)visit it.

2. Increase my appetite for straight, aggressive, hard, doggie-style, or up-against-the-wall, or bent-over-the-bed, or what have you, fucking

I didn't really enjoy or crave fucking until relatively recently in my sexual life. I never hated it, but I always thought of myself as an oral guy. If there were ONLY oral, I'd be quite content. If there were only fucking, I've long said, I'd be miserable. Alternately, I've analogized fucking to salad, and oral to meat. In recent years, I've developed more of an appetite to fuck, and I've gotten better at it. But it remains true that I can go down on a woman for hours, or be gone down on for hours. And happily. And fucking just isn't that way: generally, after some time, I lose interest. That might manifest in a loss of erection, or it might just be that I'm ready to move on/back to oral. I'd like to develop my taste for simple fucking in 2012.

1. Deepen my communication and bliss with T

A friend has characterized this path we're on as “grenadulent.” Maybe that's a mixed weapons metaphor. But it’s apt: every day we continue down the path, we court misunderstandings and hurt. It wouldn't at all be worth doing, if... if the rewards weren't so damned awesome (and if the alternative weren't so much harder/less satisfying). That said, what makes this path so fun, so rewarding, is NOT all the sex I get to have with people other than my wife. (Don't get me wrong - that IS fun, rewarding, awesome, etc. It's just not what MAKES it all so fun.) What makes it all so fun is how great it is for US - how much better our sex is, how much closer our relationship is, how much better we get to know one another (and ourselves). But it takes both effort and skill. In 2012, I pledge to get better, to try harder. May T and I both benefit for it.

Instructions

1.  Please wear a skirt that's just a little shorter than you're usually comfortable in, thigh-highs, and heels.  Wear a tight top, and no bra.  Pull your hair back, tightly, into a pony-tail.

2.  At 6:00 p.m., please be at the clock in the center of Grand Central Station.  Have your phone in your hand. Await instructions.

See you later!

Christmas is fun(ny)

Turns out, a brief perusal of L's Facebook stream reveals that her entire family was dressed in matching elven pajamas last night.

Me? I was in my usual boxer briefs.

And no, I'm not feeling better. But thanks for asking.

I can't breathe

Once again, T and I found ourselves sitting across from S and the Dude, once again in a bar with pretentious bartenders and ridiculously named drinks.  This bar has character, though - no sign outside, other than the ancient neon "BAR" sign that gives no indication of the ornate wooden interior, the chalkboards listing wines and drinks and beers and prices, the high-backed deep booths that provide privacy for every party.  The music was eclectic - Vince Guaraldi playing the Peanuts theme song, Elvis (the first one) singing "Blue Christmas."  T had some sort of drink involving vodka and blackberry (a "Bramble," I believe); S had a "Cat's Meow."  The Dude drank beer.  I drank cider.

T was dressed to kill - a skin-tight black dress with pink baubles she had bought to wear to a Chemistry party, black stockings, the Agent Provocateur lingerie I gave her two nights ago, black pumps.  She was eminently, infinitely, fuckable.  S looked hot too, in tight black slacks and a black satin top that draped over her breasts delightfully.

Unfortunately, tonight was not to be.  The mucous level in my skull was high to begin with, and by the time we were on our second drinks, my "m"s sounded like "b"s, my "n"s like "d"s.  S asked, "So what are you guys thinking?"

I sneezed, blew my nose in my napkin, and said, "I have two thoughts."  I hesitated, and the Dude asked if it would be easier if I wrote my answer down.  "No," I said, "but charades might be fun."  I pictured myself poking one index finger through a circle formed by my other thumb and index finger, and interrupting myself to blow my nose and sneeze.


"First," I began, "and I think I can comfortably say that I imagine I speak for T when I say this, we REALLY want to fuck you guys."

And I continued, "But second, I think we want to do that on a night that isn't tonight."

S was inscrutable, but the Dude was visibly crestfallen.

I looked at S and said, "The thing is, if I imagine kissing you, or going down on you, I fear I'd suffocate, as I can't breathe through my nose."

We hurriedly planned a date (for next Friday, so stay tuned) and bid our farewells.  T and I drove home, and I'm now about to go use a Neti pot before crashing.

First kiss - a week ago

We sat next to each other while her boyfriend and my wife chatted. The chemistry seemed a little... spark-i-er... between her and me than between the two of them. Or maybe I just wasn't paying that much attention to T and the Dude (though no Lebowski he), instead, sliding my hand up S's thigh. The conversation was terrific - lots of points of connection, lots of stuff in common, etc. But as is the case when these things are best, that was gravy: it was like good background music. When it came time to say good night (this was a first date, after all, and we're not often the kind of couple who puts out on a first date), he abruptly was off to the bathroom, leaving the three of us on the street. First I kissed S - pulled her head toward me, kissed hard, opening my mouth, and finding her mouth open and ready. Moments later, she and T shared the briefest of open-mouthed kisses. And T and I were off, headed home....

Merry Christmas

Not my holiday, but still....

L sent a ridiculous picture, of her in some sort of elven pajamas, hand in her crotch.  It would be hot if it weren't so silly.  In any event - Merry Christmas.

Last-minute gifts

This looks fun.

Privacy revisited

It just occurred to me that our Liberator wedge is VERY tough to hide....  That's gonna raise some questions.

2011 firsts

Here are just a few of the things I did for the first time in 2011:

1)  Watched my wife give another man a blowjob.
2)  Watched my wife fuck another man.
3)  Watched another man make my wife cum.
4)  Helped another man make my wife cum.
5)  Ditto to all, but in reverse....
6)  Got in trouble for NOT keeping a sexual secret.
7)  Got a blowjob from a woman whose name I never learned, within 60 seconds of saying "hi."
8)  Fucked a (different) woman whose name I never learned, within 60 seconds of saying "hi."
9)  Referred to a woman as my "girlfriend."
10)  Used a blindfold given to my wife by my girlfriend on my girlfriend.  After using it on my wife.
11)  Fucked a woman other than my wife in my house.  Moments after my wife had finished with her.  And moments before I fucked my wife.
12)  Did NOT have sex with a woman who wanted to with me.
13)  Spent more money on a bra than on a fancy dinner for two (I don't drink wine).  And it was totally worth it.
14)  Received, by e-mail, a picture of my wife kissing my girlfriend in a restaurant bathroom while I was on a family trip.
15)  Enjoyed receiving a picture of my wife, nude, texting me, taken and sent by her boyfriend.
16)  Went on a week-long silent meditation retreat.  During which I did not have sex or masturbate.

That's all for now.  More to come - tell me some of yours....

You can run, but you can't hide

I remember snooping around a lot when I was a kid.  I found my Mom's underwear, some sexy letters she'd received, some weed, and a few things I didn't understand at the time, but later understood were a vibrator and a diaphragm.  I didn't find a thing in my Dad's house.  I found my uncle's Playboys.  In my friend Marc's house, we found his parents' more confusing and shocking hardcore porn (I'll never forget those copies of "Color Climax").  And in the houses of those for whom I babysitted as a teenager, I found all sorts of things.  Somehow, I integrated the knowledge of what I found without difficulty:  I wasn't particularly traumatized by the knowledge that my Mom was a sexual being (though I was most certainly grossed out).  If anything, the disgust I felt at some of what I found was almost punishment enough to make me stop.  (Almost....)

At the time, I knew there was something up with my father's invulnerability.  It just didn't seem right somehow.  It wasn't until my late teens that he finally told me that he is gay.  (He'd told my Mom when I was just a toddler, and their marriage had ruptured.)  Somehow, my father telegraphed to me very effectively that his sexuality was, at best, secret, and more accurately, shameful.  The things I found in all the other places I looked - in my Mom's house and in those of my friends and charges - none of it really shocked me.  What it did was educate me:  there were people who liked Color Climax, men who wrote of their ardor.

As our son reaches snooping age, I'm starting to think about these questions.  We have never been at all secretive.  If anything, the opposite - we've been almost exhibitionistic:  we often have sex toys out in the open in our bedroom (I'm thinking of the rarely used, graphically purple, silicone dildo - perfectly penis-shaped, that sat for a while on the headboard, only to be secreted more recently to the area protected by a sliding door in that headboard).  L recently told me of seeing a pair of handcuffs next to the bed of an acquaintance.

As I think about it, I think this all is relatively straightforward:  our obligation - to our son, to our friends - isn't to hide things.  Hiding, after all, is something one does for that which is secret, and I don't (want to) have secrets.  Our obligation is to respect his, our friends', freedom not to be exposed to my, to our sexuality.  If he wants to look behind closed doors, if he wants to find dildos, lube, paddles, vibrators, porn, what have you - if he wants that stuff, it won't be hard to find.  (And, unlike for me growing up, he won't be dependent on his uncle, or his friends' parents, for access both to porn and to the information about desire other than one's own that available porn provides - the internet has fixed all that.)

But he'll have to want to know.

Win-win

She invited herself into my life.  And I'm grateful.

First, she invited my family to her family's second home for a weekend party.  We couldn't make it (and it would, honestly, have been a bit awkward - we/I hardly knew her at the time, other than as the cute chick I saw all the time).  A month or so later, after we'd both taken multiple opportunities to put ourselves in the same place at the same time (me, with my wife's knowledge and encouragement), it was almost socially appropriate when she invited herself and her family over to our place for a couple of days.

Almost.  But not quite.

But still:  I wanted her.  I was prepared to overlook social niceties if it meant I'd get to see her in a bathing suit.

So out they came.  Midday, watching the kids frolic in the water (and after getting a text from T telling me to "bed her"), I laid out my life story - my history as a CPOS, my "recovery," my recovery from recovery, and my current, dissolute ways.  And T's relationship to it all.  She saw me and, if not raising me one, at least called:  she told me her story, breaking down in tears as she did it.  And it became clear:  I wasn't going to fuck her.  She wasn't in the place I'd hoped.  She wasn't going to be honest with her husband, and what I represented was more complexity, more secrets, not more fun.  I texted my wife midday:  "I'm in the friend zone, alas."

A few hours later, the kids watching TV, we went for a walk on the beach.  "Why did you tell me all that?" she asked.

"Well....  I like you," I said.  "I'm attracted to you, and, at the time, I hoped you were in a similar place in your relationship to the one I'm in in mine.  Why'd you tell me all you told me?" I asked.

"Well... I like you, too," she said.  "And I feel comfortable with you, and I've only told one other person the things I told you, and it just feels good to talk about them."

Later that night, after putting the kids to bed, I sat on the couch, miserable that she seemed to have fallen asleep with her kids.  Damn, I thought.  I guess I really am in the friend zone.  But then, at about 10:15, she emerged from the bedroom to go to the bathroom, and stopped in the living room, where I was, on her way back to the bedroom.  She sat down, and we began talking.  And talking.  And talking.

It was one of those nights I can't remember since my 20s - when the urgency of getting to know someone, together with the exquisite torture of not fucking them - can keep you going forever.  It kept us going.  We established early in the evening that we weren't even going to kiss - I took the high road.  "I just don't want to be a problem in your life."

Toward the end of the evening (or really, the end of the night - it was well after 3 a.m., if memory serves), I made a suggestion:  "Tell your husband you like me a lot, that you respect my marriage, that talking with me opened your eyes to some... intriguing possibilities.  Tell him that you're attracted to me, that I'm attracted to you, but that ain't nothing gonna happen without his blessing and knowledge."

We hugged good-night.  Not quite chastely (I was hard, and it's hard to hug hard chastely).  But close to chastely.  And we didn't kiss.  At all, as I remember.  Or maybe just on the cheek.

Whatever - that was a Tuesday night.  Wednesday morning she took her kids and left.  And then, Friday, I got an e-mail: she'd gotten the "all-clear" from her husband.  Holy shit!  I never imagined it would happen, or that it would be that easy, or that quick.

I think it was all of a few days from then before our first date.  And since then, it's been a ball.  L is a great addition to my life, unlike any other woman I've ever known, and I'm grateful.  She pushes me places I'm not even sure I want to go, but I'm better for being pushed there; and she allows me to push her further than she wants to go.

Life is good....

How do YOU handle jealousy?

I was drinking with a friend - one of the select few from my "real life" whom I've let "under the tent" with regard to knowledge about my wife's and my... peregrinations.  "But how do you handle jealousy?" he asked.

"How do you handle jealousy?" I asked him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, is your wife the only woman you want to fuck?"

"No."

"Are you the only man she wants to fuck?"

"I assume not, but we never talk about it."

"So the deal is, rather than expose yourself to the possibility of feeling jealousy for a moment, you shut off a large portion of your erotic imagination from your wife.  And how do you handle your relationships - and your relationship to those relationships - with women you'd like to fuck but don't because you're married?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you ever feel resentment, or regret, or sadness, or the sense of loss, or opportunity missed, or whatever?"

"Sure.  But that's just the price of marriage."

This is the point for me.  I know so many people who treat jealousy as a sort of must-avoid emotion - they'll go to enormous lengths to avoid it, and in service of avoiding it, will expose themselves to all sorts of other negative emotions without batting an eye.

I'm not saying this is unwise - only that it's mostly unthinking.  We privilege jealousy, and the dangers that come along with it, over all other emotions, no matter how painful.  And in so doing, we think we are doing something natural, something inevitable.

I feel none of the loss or resentment or repression that my friend does.  In exchange, yes, I do have to contend with the complexities of jealousy (and envy, for what it's worth, which is at least as salient for me in all this), but for today at least, I like that trade-off just fine.

Palmistry

She had curly blonde hair, piercing green eyes, a killer body, and she looked maybe fifteen years younger than I knew she had to be, given the presence of her fifteen-year-old son in the room.  She was one of those rare women who has such a presence that I find it a challenge to maintain basic decorum, to uphold my end of a conversation, with her in the room, let alone with her in the conversation.

"Would you read my palm?" I asked her?

I'm hyper-rational.  I don't believe in claptrap like palm reading.  But this woman is a professional palm-reader - she makes a living doing it.  And the thought of spending some significant chunk of time with my hand resting in hers, our bodies close, our eyes gazing at one another, was enormously compelling.  So I wanted my palm read, dammit.

"You should be prepared," she warned me.  "It can be really intense.  We'll need about forty-five minutes to ourselves, and we'll do it away from others.  I don't want others hearing what we're saying, because this is a highly personal interaction."

It was sounding better and better.

We went to a private room and sat, my hand resting in hers.  Just as I'd imagined, she looked deeply into my eyes.  She looked at my hand.  She caressed it, softly, firmly.  This was about as good as sex, as far as I was concerned, and we hadn't even started.

I'll cut to the chase here, without giving you my palm reading.  This woman told me things about myself that no one other than I knew.  She told me things that only my wife and I knew.  She told me obscure truths about my past, secretive facts about my current existence, and made improbable predictions.  As she went on, I was totally seduced.  Not just by her ethereal beauty, but by the sense that this woman was somehow inside of me, that she had access to me in a way I didn't imagine I could grant access.  The most disturbing thing she said was this:  "You are about to embark on a second secret life."

Now here's the thing.  It's a true statement that I had just at that time finished my first secret life.  It was, in part, her accuracy in detailing the contours and characteristics of that first secret life that so impressed me.  So her prediction of a second one was haunting, particularly given how painful my emergence from the first had been.  I didn't want to lead a secret life - I was resolved never to do that again.  This couldn't possibly be right.

I walked out and called T.  "I don't believe in palm-reading," I complained.  "But she totally read my palm."

"No she didn't," corrected T.  "She read your mind."

Fast forward two years....

My wife and I are occasional "swingers," occasional "polyamorists."  We fuck people other than one another, and to great effect.  This is a secret from all but a very few of our closest friends.  I have a blog - one that I'm finding enormously rewarding to build.  My "girfriend," if it's possible for a married guy to have a married girlfriend, has just started her blog.  In short... I have a secret life.

I still don't believe in palmistry, but god DAMN....

Magic

It's remarkable that it took until this year for so many things to enter our life. 2011 surely will (ahem) go down as the year of sexual firsts for us.

Tonight,  the first freshest in my mind is the aptly named Hitachi Magic Wand.

"Sometimes I worry you'll resent the Magic Wand," my wife said to me apologetically.

"Are you kidding? Any man who complains that his wife likes to rub her ass against his cock while squeezing a Magic Wand between her legs, resisting, enhancing the pressure is INSANE."

Thank you, Hitachi.

Ratchet

She does as I ask.

Some days, I select her underwear.

A few days ago, I asked her to send me pictures of her wearing a variety of clothes in which she feels sexy.  Within an hour, the stream of photos began arriving - in a corporate skirt, in yoga pants, in a summer robe, a winter robe, a cute tight top, a denim skirt, a casual dress, a summer dress.

She is hot - beautiful eyes and lips, in particular.  Her body has had some work.  This is, to my mind, unfortunate.  She sent me one tantalizing "before" picture of her nude, on her knees, looking up at the camera.  Her breasts were so delicious-looking.  Not that there's anything wrong with them now:  they look great, particularly when straining against fabric.  But I'll take what God gave over what money can buy any day when it comes to the body.  Plus, the scars....  She has a meaty, yummy ass.  She has some freckles.  I want her.

Alas, I'll never meet her.  She's a thousand miles away.

After the stream of photos, I wrote, "Such fucking hot pictures last night."

"I liked taking them for you."

"You make a delicious remote sub. I'm inclined to push further with you, to give you assignments that are harder, but that might be more fun."

And her response - the sort that makes a dom like me - a tentative, polite, respectful dom, one who enjoys dominating but still hasn't quite gotten over the whole "I'm a sensitive guy" thing - go weak in the knees:

"I'd be willing to do anything that turned you on."

I believe she means it.

L starts a blog

The experience of blogging is odd, especially in these early days. I crave readers, know in my heart they will come (and come) if I build it, but for now, I'm writing for an audience that ranges from 1 to 3, including myself. And yet... I'm still compelled urgently to do so.
And now that L has a blog, even more so....

21

This post was featured in E-Lust #32.  Thanks, E-Lust, and welcome, E-Lust readers.

"Hop in," I said. As she sat down, wearing jeans and a soft sweater, I looked at her: "Where's your skirt?"

"Oh shit," she said. "It's been a REALLY bad day."

"You just want me to beat you."

"That would be nice."

As we started the short drive to the hotel, I reached between her legs and rubbed her pussy through her jeans. I pinched her nipples just a little. "Sounds like you need a good fucking."

"Yes."

"I'm going to give that to you."

"Good."

I asked her to play with herself a bit in the car as we drove - she was happy to oblige me, unbuttoning her jeans, sliding down on the chair, and pushing her hand down into her panties. "How's it going?" I asked. "Good," she muttered.

It wasn't long before we parked the car and asked the hotel if they had hourly rooms. "$50, plus $20 deposit. And your ID," said the Chinese woman behind the counter. The whole place was Chinese - and had a sign laying out the rules for short-stay visitors in that bad translated English familiar to anyone who's ever bought a Chinese appliance. My favorite rule: "Guests must be greeted in lobby. Not in room." She handed me a key card and the remote control for a TV, and we headed to our room. The key seemed not to work, which was unfortunate, because even more than I wanted to fuck L., I needed to pee. We went back down to the desk. The woman looked at the key, looked at me, and made the universal, "You're a total idiot" sign with her hands, as she indicated the correct way to insert the key. Embarrassingly to me, this was helpful.

We got to the room. I successfully navigated the door. I asked L. to shuffle the deck of cards I'd asked her to bring while I peed. I came out and asked her to change into a dress. I had asked her to bring a bunch of clothes so she could put on a little show for me. "And lingerie?" she asked. "Yes, please."

She emerged from the bathroom in a red silk (?) dress, slinky and sexy, a bit Asian-themed (appropriate for the hotel). I kissed her, squeezed her ass, and brought a hand up under her dress, pressing it against her cunt. On the way, I could feel that she was wearing thigh-highs and a garter belt, in addition to the grey boyshorts I'd asked her to wear. I removed my hand, suggested she change one more time. She emerged from the bathroom in a skirt and top.

"Lie on the bed face-down." I dealt a card down and a card up to each of us. "What are we playing?" she said. And she looked, and realized. "Oh." She turned over her card, and said, "Hit me."

I hadn't thought about this particular (inevitable) joke, but as she lay there on the bed, I followed instructions well. The "thwack" of my hand was satisfying. "You're a moron," she said.

She won the first hand. "Take an item of my clothing off," I instructed her. She reached down and unbuckled my belt, pulling it off with a swift pull. Another hand. Another win for her. This time, she took my jeans off, generously stroking my cock more than absolutely necessary (at least, more than was absolutely necessary to remove my jeans). And then it was my turn to win a few hands. Off came her black heels, and then the skirt, and the top. And then my top. I was down to my black boxer briefs, she, to her grey panties, white stockings and garters, and the wife-beater I so enjoyed the last time I saw her.

I told her we'd be flipping a coin to determine who was in control. I wanted her in control - I've been in control pretty much all along, and I welcomed the opportunity to relinquish just a little. "Heads, you drive; tails, I do." The coin cooperated - heads. "Show me your bag of tricks," she said. Out came the under-the-bed restraints, the blindfold (a blindfold she had given my wife as a gift), the paddle and the condoms. "Put this on," she said, handing me the blindfold.

Not a bad start, I thought. I could see a trace of light through the bottom of the blindfold - a lovely silken thing, with wrist restraints on the ends of the straps - but I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see anything. As I lay back, her lips, her tongue, her teeth, traced their way down my body. She nibbled my nipples. Her hands found my cock, holding it, squeezing it, as her tongue licked, flicked the head. I love the way she plays with my cock, treating it as if it were a toy - a fun, strange, unfamiliar toy, but one with which she has a preternatural aptitude. She stood me up, turned me around, and whacked my ass just a few times (but HARD) with the paddle. I can't say that the whole spanking thing is MY thing - a little sting is invigorating, fun, but once the threshold of pain is crossed, I'm less compelled. Not turned off - just not turned on. Which isn't to say I don't enjoy whacking HER ass....

Things start to grow hazy here. She sat on my face, instructing me to slide her panties to the side (or maybe she slid them to the side for me). I sucked and licked her clit for a bit. She asked me to put the blindfold on her. I lay her on her back, climbed up alongside her and slid my cock along her cheek, in front of her mouth, teasing her. I slid into her mouth, fucking it just a little. I grabbed a condom and put it on (quietly) while tapping the inside of her thighs with the paddle, tracing a path with the leather loop of the paddle, tapping her nipples through the wifebeater. I slid, slowly, gently into her, and rocked back and forth, allowing us to press against one another as my cock slid gently, slowly - not so much in and out as deeper and less deep. Then, the fucking began in earnest: I pounded, back and forth, in and out, her head hitting against the headboard as I pushed her down by her neck into the bed. More of the same. (One of the nice things about an hourly hotel: I lose any self-consciousness I might otherwise have about noise. I once had sex with the Secretary in a room on the ground floor of a NOT-hourly hotel, and when we emerged, the hotel staff applauded. Or maybe they only communicated applause with their eyes - I'm not sure. In my memory, they applauded. And once with the Artist, I went down on her in her bedroom on an airshaft in a tenement, and when she came, there was applause. In that instance, I'm certain it was real applause.)

L. asked me if I would go down on her. I love going down on her. I love her fragility, the tenderness with which she prefers to receive oral. It's always hard for me to remember to go softer, slower with her. I know (or I think I know) that this is her preference, but it goes against all my instincts - instincts which have served me well over the years. ("You lick good," the Russian once told me.) So down I went - licking, slurping, sucking, gently - then more urgently. Her cunt is delicious - sweet but pungent, fresh tasting. And as I slid a couple of fingers in, pumping them in and out, stroking her g-spot from below, I felt her come just a bit closer to cumming. And closer. And closer. And then - with a shudder, I could feel her cunt close around my fingers, spasming back and forth, tighter and looser, as her tiny, but REALLY strong thighs crushed my head.

Every time I go down on her, I vow to myself that I'll make her beg me to stop. But every time, I become distracted by the idea of fucking her - her face, her cunt, whatever. This is what happened today. As I was pondering making her beg me to stop, I had her, instead, put on another dress - a slutty, black dress, the designer of which she knows (but about whom I couldn't possibly care less). This dress looked particularly delicious hiked up over her ass as I pressed her against the window and rocked back and forth. "Is this the first time you've ever looked north out a window while being fucked in this dress?" I asked. "Yes," she breathed. "Well," I said. "There's a first time for everything."

Soon, she decided (I decided? who can remember?) that she should kneel and take my cock in her mouth once again. First I stood, then she pushed me back on the bed. I asked, "Do you have a preference as to where I cum?"

"Preferences just create disappointment."

"But I can grant your preference."

"I like it when you cum in my mouth."

"What, you don't like it when I cum in your pussy?"

"Asshole."

Another costume change, this time, into a flouncy sort of teddy ensemble a girlfriend had given her but, inexplicably, she had never worn. More sucking, more fucking. I asked her to play with her vibrator - a Jimmyjane Little Chroma. I took a dozen pictures, all with her face obscured. I showed them to her. And finally, with her rocking on top of me, pushing her hips violently, grinding her down on me, I came deep inside her.

A little post-coital cuddling, talking, and then we returned the remote for $20, after I signed my name in a tiny box on a form in Chinese. The box was big enough for two ideograms, perhaps. I squeezed in the initials "JBF" - they seemed appropriate. And we headed out.... 

Anticipation

There's something about not having something, about anticipating getting it, that's even better than actually getting (or for that matter, having) it. It's delicate, though. The deliciousness of anticipation is so fragile, so vulnerable: it so easily can become craving in the absence of what is anticipated, or disappointment in its arrival, and passing.

For me, though, I'm inhabiting a delicious anticipation, at least today.

Reverie, inspired by a photo

My hand lifts you by your crotch; my other hand pushes you down. You hinge forward at the hips, ready for whatever may come next.

And the university administrator is no more

Just like that, she's evaporated.

My wife, you see, has seen pictures of her (because she sent them to me, to an account I had told her my wife reads).  She wanted to see pictures of my wife in return.  ("It's only fair," she said.)

I refused.  For a bunch of reasons, some practical/privacy-related, others simply principled.  The bottom line, I guess, is that life ISN'T fair.  So she's gone....

I do love me some anticipation

Thursday, I'll fuck L. Between now and then is one of the best parts of our relationship: the hard-on I can conjure almost instantly by imagining the possibilities. Here's what I'm thinking:

1) Straightforward, traditional hotel-room romp.
2) Give her the reins - she hasn't (really) held them yet.
3) Have her provide a modeling exhibition for me.
4) Something else exciting.

I've had a couple of ads up on CraigsList, seeking either a couple (to fuck for our viewing pleasure, or to demonstrate their BDSM technique) or an individual woman (to demonstrate her masturbatory technique).
The ads have produced nothing, alas.

But wait. I just had a great idea. Two, actually....

Church Board on a Bender

"Write me a story about us - about us and at least two other people we know.  It should be at least slightly plausible," I told her.

Weeks went by.  She was non-compliant, defiant.  Until the other day, when this delightful missive arrived in my inbox.  It started as a roman a clef, but I edited to make it not so.  Now, it's just hot....

---------

The year finally over, the current church board was gathering for a final time. A party. Fortunately, they were a remarkably hot and clever bunch, so what might have been a chore had the makings instead of a delightful night.

N. was cute: fiercely forthright, charismatic and quick, with twinkling eyes and an athletic build.

L.'s petite-ness was an ongoing joke; within that she was delicate, birdlike and funny, with a small, cute ass and finely shaped lips.

Their recent adventures together gave depth to what had begun as a playful crush, and had developed into something akin to partners-in-crime.

Their relationship was unique: both were married to other people, and their spouses were aware and approving of their friendship. A friendship which currently included a wealth of fucking.

In addition, they served together on the church board. This situation had added a dash of spice to the Sunday morning drop-off at religious school, and made the bi-monthly meetings considerably more interesting.

This evening they arrived independently, to a backyard twinkling with lights, humming with conversation, laughter, and the dual smells of grilling and honeysuckle.

The hostess, Nina, met N. at the door. The evening's humidity had added extra bounce to her dark glossy curls, and her first glass of wine was blossoming in her cheeks and shining in her eyes. She greeted him warmly.

N. was pleased to see her, and let himself appreciate her curves, the smooth brown legs her cotton dress revealed, and the sheen of sweat glistening on her shoulders.

He could see L. in the garden chatting with Tom, a tall, sweet guy they had both remarked on. Tom's conservative exterior might possibly mask a creative and enthusiastic lover.. Or so they had proposed, and the thought gave them hope and great amusement.

L.'s design was apparent and N. was spellbound. He loved to watch her reel in a new lover.

She combed her fingers through her hair, and cocked her head to one side, exposing her throat. Tom laughed down into her eyes, looking somewhat smitten, and simultaneously hapless.

L. turned, seeing N. She raised an eyebrow. Their plan was set.

The evening's challenge was to seduce their chosen prey, and witness one another's conquests.

The idea of playing with other board members had given them some fun fantasies, and tonight they planned to make at least a couple of those real.

L. pulled Tom inside, with the pretense that she couldn't reach a bottle placed on a high shelf. He came willingly, looking slightly dazed, but clearly loving the attention. Her eyes briefly sought N.- the game would fail if her partner missed the action. She spotted him laughing with Nina, his forehead crinkling in the way she found charming. He saw her and held his smile for her, tracking her progress with Tom through the crowd.

L. led Tom toward a pantry out of the fray. She was flirting shamelessly, but still quite sure she was in control. As they entered the pantry, Tom's eyes sharpened, and he lost the mask of hapless innocent in one sparkling instant. L. was suddenly and abruptly aware that she had miscalculated. She was not the hunter. And as prey she had been clearly marked, her pursuer crafty and determined.

Her breath caught in her throat, her blood draining away, leaving her dizzy. Tom smiled. He leaned in, capturing her wrists in one large hand as he kissed her. His lips were strong, and soft; his tongue meeting hers electric. Her dizziness melted into a swoon. She surrendered into his heat, feeling herself pulled tight against him. He pressed his cock into her hip, and pinned her against the wall with his body.

L. slipped her hand under his shirt. His belly trembled and his breath caught as her fingers moved lower, grazing his cock: silky, hot and hard.

He raised her arms above her head, exposing her, opening her, restraining her. He pressed her hard against the wall, and then deftly flipped her, pressing his cock against her ass. "Keep your hands on the wall," he instructed, his voice a low growl. His hand cupped her ass, and then pulled away her panties with one swift strong motion. L. could feel her excitement dripping down her inner thigh, and blushed with embarrassment when Tom remarked upon her "readiness". She moaned as his finger glanced over her clit, swollen and crying for attention. His fingers entered her hungry cunt with force. Tom laughed with delight, and continued to fuck her with his hand, murmuring his appreciation of her charms. He lowered himself to his knees, kissing her ass, his head disappearing under her skirt. His mouth found her cunt. He lapped her, and probed her with his tongue, then dragged his lightly bearded chin across her clit, driving shivers up her spine.

L. glanced over her shoulder, happy to spy N. in the shadow of the doorway. She grinned, knowing that her eyes were hazy with lust. N.'s were intent, drinking in the scene before him. L. rocked over Tom's face, her lips parted, her hands splayed against the wall. Meeting N.'s gaze, she came, knees buckling. Tom held her ass in his hands, licking her still, making her squirm and claw at the wall. He flipped her around once again, kissing her deeply. "Ask me," he said.

"Please. Please fuck me," L. responded, feeling for all the world like a kitten mewling for milk.

Their eyes met, and she pulled his cock toward her, teasing the wet tip with her thumb. She watched his eyes lose focus, his breathing go shallow. She knew that she owned him in this moment. He pulled her thigh up from underneath, spreading her legs wide. He rocked forward, locking his eyes on hers, and plunged into her, deeper and deeper still. His cock filled her, riding her, rocking her, setting the pace and then changing it. L. braced herself against the wall, reveling in the intensity of Tom's passion, loving the moment when his control faltered. He plowed her relentlessly, loosing himself finally in an aching, paralyzing orgasm.

*********************************************************************************************************************************

N.'s ardor was only heightened by the scene he'd so recently witnessed. His purpose was renewed.

He headed back to the garden, finding Nina momentarily alone. She smiled at him sweetly. She liked him, and was pleased he'd come. They'd had a nice working relationship throughout the year and knew that their admiration for each other was mutual. N. had restrained himself, but was ready to relent to his attraction; he'd pictured her lips en robing his cock many times. He yearned to hold her hair back in his fist so that he might enjoy a better view of her face as he fucked it.

"I'm afraid we have some unfinished business," Nina said innocently. N. checked the smirk playing across his face, and followed her into the house. "I'm at your disposal," he said.

To his utter surprise she led him into an unoccupied bedroom. She winked. And came forward into his arms.

N. squeezed Nina's ass, firm and meaty under his palm. He let his hands linger there, and ground himself against her. Her lips were plummy and soft, her breath sweet and laced with wine. He felt the frisson of excitement that a new lover gave him, and savored his anticipation. Then he kissed her hard. He ran his hands through her hair, taking pleasure in mussing it. His hands traveled down to her shoulders, then to the front of her dress. He unbuttoned it, releasing her breasts, full and heavy, and happily not confined in a bra. Her skin was smooth and yielding. She looked up at him, her dark eyes doe-like, and confessed her desire. N. couldn't believe his luck.. he'd thought it would be harder, but Nina was on her knees before him, deftly unbuttoning his jeans.

He suddenly realized he hadn't seen L. in some time and knew that he would have failed if she failed to see them thus engaged. He was torn. Stop now to find L. and risk the moment somehow passing, or continue where his heart and cock were leading and risk possibly "failing" the challenge. Nina's lips found his cock. He stayed. She sucked him expertly. Her tongue played over the intensely sensitive underside of the head, teasing him to a hardness he almost couldn't take. Almost. The pleasure was exquisite. Her enthusiasm was obvious; her eyes met his full of merriment and lust. He let her have him, allowing her to pull him toward his orgasm, stopping her as he neared the edge, pausing only a moment to gather his resolve, and then allowing her to continue, her rhythm perfect, building and building. He felt rushes from his belly to his knees, his cock a central nerve at fever pitch. He came in a toe- curling orgasm that caught his breath and made him shake. Nina held his cock in her mouth, swallowing him, holding him until his tremors subsided.

When he had recovered he pulled her up, and she was momentarily confused. He sat her down on a chair, and put the palm of his hand on her cunt, over her dress. Then he put it on her cunt under her dress, but over her panties. She giggled. Then he rubbed her clit through the filmy fabric. Her panties were soaked. He pulled them down, enjoying the way the elastic bit into her thighs. He knelt between her legs, and spread them wide, using both hands on her inner thighs, exposing her cunt in all its wet, pink glory. She was a peach: juicy, ripe and sweet. Her breath was ragged and a flush infused her skin. He licked her thoroughly, and fucked her with his fingers as he nibbled and sucked on her clit. She squealed as she came, and rewarded him with a flood of hot salty come of her own. He didn't release her from the attentions of his lips and tongue until he'd wrung the last spasms from her body and she slumped, spent and glowing, against the back of the chair.

******************************************************************************************************************************

Walking out into the warm summer night, it is true that N. and L. gloated just a little, sharing the satisfaction of a challenge met, new pleasures found, and a story added to the collection.

Black and Blue

We met for a drink, outside of the building where the sex party was to be held. She was wearing the skirt and tight top I had requested. She looked exquisite, and I couldn't wait to feel my hands slide up under her skirt, to cup her delicious little ass, to pull her against my cock. Even on the street, I grabbed a preview, kissing her hard, pulling her against me by her ass with my left hand, by her head with my right. "I miss the taste of cigarettes on your breath," she said.

"I hope not so much that I'm in danger of losing you."

"Nah. I'm just saying...."

We had a drink in a bar downstairs, talking about the blowjob she had (unprecedentedly) given to a near-stranger the day before in his office, about my sordid past and, to a lesser extent, about just how we would each feel as my cock slid into her mouth, her cunt, later in the evening. "We should head upstairs," I said.

We rang the buzzer several times before I called. "Where are you?" he asked. I told him. "Oh, we moved the party." He gave me the address - twenty minutes or so from where we were - and told me to hurry. "We're getting ready to start."

We hopped in a cab and made our way there, past the doorman, up in the elevator, into the apartment, arriving moments before the festivities were to begin in earnest.

The host gave a short spiel on safety and etiquette, and invited us to get naked. I pushed L against a radiator, hiking her skirt up as I pressed into her. We ogled a few of the other guests - there were probably 25 or 30 there - but only one or two couples that looked genuinely appealing.  It seemed likely to be an evening not of swapping, but just of hot sex between the two of us. This is a high-class problem.

I finished removing most of her clothes, leaving her wife-beater on. She looks so fucking hot with her little tits behind the sheer white cotton of a ribbed, thin wife-beater, her nipples straining against the flimsy fabric. I never wanted to take that shirt off. I removed my jeans and shirt, and, in my boxers, led her into one of the two bedrooms. There were two couples on the bed, in each of which the woman was sucking the guy off. There was another couple against the window in the corner, the guy fucking his girlfriend's face slowly, but insistently. She had an unbelievable ass, peeking out from beneath a cotton sundress as her head bobbed on his cock, guided by his hands.

"Against the window," I said, and I kneeled before her. L gave a deep, contented sigh as my mouth pressed against her, as my tongue found her clit. My rhythm was slower still than that of the woman to my right, having her face fucked by her muscular, tattooed partner, but L was responsive, pressing forward to meet me. After a while, I turned her around and placed her on the bed, below the two other couples, who were by now fucking. I sat her on the edge and guided her mouth down onto my cock, holding her back, only letting her taste the head. I guided her up and down, just an inch or so in either direction, maintaining her focus on the tip, for quite a while, until I was ready to force my whole cock deep inside her mouth.

Soon, I pushed her back, grabbed a condom, spread her legs in the air, and ground my cock into her, deeply, slowly. I gyrated my waist, pressing against her, but not moving in and out so much as around, and back and forth. Of course, I could take only so much of this before I turned her over and began pounding her in earnest from behind, alternately pulling her head back toward me by her hair and pressing her face down into the mattress. "Does she ever take her glasses off?" asked the guy next to us, who was trying to find a route in to our party, but not finding any.

After a few more minutes, we emerged from the bedroom, grabbing drinks and a bite, before heading into the other bedroom, where we did it all again. As a buff man stuffed the panties of his partner deep into her pussy (sorry, but not my thing), L sucked my cock, while I caressed the breasts and face of the woman in one of the two hot couples - a twenty-something blonde with preternaturally perky but large breasts.

Some more oral both ways, culminating in a shuddering orgasm by L, and then I guided her on top of me. Together, she and I shook the bed, now home to four couples in all, violently, as I bucked up and down, slid her back and forth. I shuddered and exploded, and we lay and debriefed, in whispers, while the panty-stuffer fucked the face and came on the tits of his partner. "Did you see him stuffing her panties into her?" I asked.

"No! Ew!"

We got up, and went into the living room. Inspired by I'm not sure what, I bent her over against a kitchen wall and spanked her, first gently, then more firmly. "Use this," said our host, handing me a black lacquered wooden paddle. I did.

After a bit, our host exercised his prerogative (such as it was) and gave L a few whacks with his paddle. Having had quite enough, she collapsed next to me on the couch, where we did some last ogling before heading out.

Two days later, I awoke to an e-mail from L, subject line: "Holy crap."  I scrolled down to see two pictures of her (perfect) ass, marred by lots of little bruises on one cheek, and a ginormous one on the other.  "Turns out I have a reasonably high tolerance for pain, 'cause I don't bruise easily. What happened to no marks?!"

Oh well. 

Catherine Millet and jealousy

A year or so ago, I read first The Sexual Life of Catherine M. and then Jealousy by Catherine Millet.  The former is an account of the protagonist's extreme sex life (it can be summed up as follows:  she simply never says/said "no," to anything).  The latter, an account of her reaction to her husband's infidelities.

The most memorable moment in the sexual memoir is when she writes that she is pretty sure she never fucked her father, but of course, because she only saw the faces of very few of the men she fucked, she couldn't really be sure.  In any event, reading the two books together is fascinating.  On the one hand, she is such a libertine with her own body - so relentlessly, manically willing to fuck any man in any circumstance - she participates in gangbangs at sex clubs and parties, in the woods, in cars, in houses; she allows herself to be pimped out by a variety of lovers; and on the other, she is maniacally, insanely jealous over her husband's paltry number of affairs.

Her engagement with the irony is unsatisfying:  she never tangles fully with her almost complete estrangement from her body in favor of her mind.  Her location of her sense of self is so intellectual that it seems coherent to her to imagine her behavior as simple, not problematic in the context of a committed relationship, whereas her husband's is sadistic, horrifying.  To be fair, she treats her own reaction to her husband's infidelities as the subject of the book, rather than his infidelities themselves.

But the juxtaposition of the two books makes stark something I know intimately from my own life:  because I know myself (or at least I imagine I do), because I'm so familiar with my motivations and bodily sensations, I know that my sexual peregrinations never have been a threat to my feelings for T.  I know that in my heart, in my soul, in my body.  But I have no such luxury with respect to hers, fewer and less frequent though they may be/have been.  In my chest - in my solar plexus, in my lungs - when I contemplate her fucking another man, I feel abandonment and rejection.  My breathing quickens, grows shallow; my chest tightens.  This, of course, has nothing to do with her feelings or motivations.  It's about my imprinting as a child, about my insecurities and vulnerabilities.

The good news is:  I don't fear these feelings any more.  Quite the opposite - I welcome them.  Not because I'm a masochist, or crave them.  But because they're fascinating.  Where Millet wasn't particularly analytic about her own seeming hypocrisy, I find mine endlessly interesting.  How can it be that I forgive myself my (CPOS) infidelities so easily, that I see them as so benign and innocuous, while my wife's open, transparent dalliances with just one man can render me insane?

Last night, I wasn't insane.  The opposite:  T graced me with a few choice, sexy photos of herself from the evening, and I was almost completely equanimous (or even whatever the adjectival form of "compersion" is) in the face of my wife's evident rapturous pleasure.  But I find it all interesting.  In the "poly" world, people often speak of jealousy as if it is an "immature" emotion, something that sophisticated people don't feel.  This is the opposite of how I conceive of it:  my maturity consists not of my outgrowing jealousy, but of my accepting it, rather than shrinking from it.

Morning wood

I rolled over this morning to find an e-mail from 1,000 miles away.  The subject:  "Morning."  The e-mail contained no words - just a picture of her crotch,  jeans unzipped and folded open, showing the front panel of her thong, baby blue with pink polka dots.

The rubber meets the road

My wife is spending the night with D tonight.  An overnight date, in another city - a first for us.  Or at least, a first in this time of openness and transparency.  I did it a couple of times when I was a CPOS.  And I was thinking:  this is kind of where the rubber meets the road in this adventure (at least for me) - my comfort with my wife's getting what she wants when it has nothing to do with me, is nowhere near me, and is in fact opaque to me.  Most (?) marriages are built around the premise that we don't DO things like sleep with another person to whom we're attracted.  In my marriage, this premise was in service of my (and my wife's) desire to keep pretending that my wife (and I) didn't WANT to sleep with another person.  It was the fact of the desire (and not the act of desire) that was threatening to me. And once I acknowledge that (inevitable) desire, then the benefits of prohibiting, or objecting to, its being followed through to fruition evaporate.

M and J

They've been back in touch, and I've been remiss in not keeping current on the story.  Their position is as follows:  we'd be happy to fuck T, but not you.  To be fair, they were a little more politic - but I'll let you judge:

M. is not really ready to be with another man unless she has, first and foremost, trust added to chemistry and physical attraction. For her, that's going to take time, lots of interactions and experiences in a casual, low-pressure setting. Being with a woman, though, is different. She is ready to be with another woman anytime and wants the two of us to enjoy that experience together. She's just really reluctant to be with another guy unless the trust, chemistry, and attraction have been built up over time. Having a Y chromosome, I, of course, feel no such reservations about being with another woman.

I didn't react so well to this, to the artful, delicate way in which this man presented his wife as wanting him to fuck my wife, while being too delicate a flower to imagine fucking me.  My ego's fragile, perhaps.  But it rubbed me the wrong way in every way.  From the substance - we'll fuck her, but not you - to the way in which the message was delivered - M, the woman (but not the writer) is both the one who wants J (the man) to fuck my wife, AND the one who wants me not to fuck her.  My wife suggested perhaps we should go drink with them, without expectations, or have sex near them.  At the time, I agreed to that.  But as I ponder it, and write about it, I think probably not.  Where things have been left for now is that we'll meet for drinks and maybe dancing (I HATE dancing - or at least, I hate dancing when I'm not certain that I'm going to get laid) in January.

She lives 1,000 miles away

Literally. We have never met. I begin many days by asking her to send me a picture. Left to her own devices, she would send crude, nude, spread shots. I've taught her to see the beauty in (or trained her to feed my hunger for?) a little more subtlety, nuance. I'll take a curve pressing against fabric over naked flesh any day.

She tells me of her liaisons (or really, hook-ups). They typically sound joyless, driven. She gets little physical pleasure from them - what she values seems to be some combination of feeling desired and feeling the power of making a man cum. And servitude. She likes that.

I value her responsiveness, and her beauty. She is unexpectedly beautiful, and delicate, given the harsh, even brutal way in which she seems to go about her sexual life. And she responds like a marionette to my requests: send a picture of your ass, your breasts, a breast in your hand. And instantly, or as close to that as possible.

And when I send a picture of myself - I do occasionally - her praise is instant, insistent, lavish. One would think I were sending her pictures of Adonis. Don't get me wrong, I'm cute. But not accustomed to the effusion with which she rewards me.

It's a lovely relationship - hot,  gratifying, and easy.

How I hate the common cold

B (who from here on out shall be the University Administrator) reported that she's singularly unsexy today, recovering, as she is, from a cold.  She wouldn't cancel, but I did.  We rescheduled for Monday.  Too bad.

In our first chat, I had told her a tale in which I would pick her up in a car for "lunch," and an hour later, she'd return to work all tousle-haired.  The fantasy was more elaborate and detailed....  But we were headed toward fulfilling the fantasy today, when she got sick.

Monday feels a long way off.

Special

One of the challenges of being the sort of slut that I am - that is, an honest and exhibitionistic slut - lies in the ease with which a partner can come to feel un-special. There is a fundamental misapprehension at the root of this feeling: I appreciate a woman who has given me the gift of being her sexual partner the way a gourmet appreciates a fine meal, the way a sports fan appreciates a great game: in the moment, while it's happening, there is nothing else in the world. Comparison is a nullity, appreciation and rapture are all.

And for me, this remains true after the moment: I remember fondly, reverentially even, every true sexual connection I've ever had, and I have no temptation to compare. The closest I'll come to this is a sort of consciousness of particular high points or strengths (the Dancer's unbelievable tongue, the Secretary's infinite submission, the Party Promoter's delicious wardrobe, etc.), or, very occasionally, weaknesses (I can be looks-ist).

And more than this, there is something else. I experience sexual connection on a three-step continuum. I value enormously, and am grateful for and appreciative of, the gift a woman gives me when she gives herself to me, when she allows me to use her for my pleasure. This is step one, and, as we say at Passover, if that were all, Dayenu. Even the woman I fucked at Le Trapeze, the hottie who had perfect breasts and never took her glasses off, whose name I never learned.... I feel an enormous, and real, gratitude to her for joining with me in the thirty minutes or so we were together.

If, on top of allowing me to take my pleasure, a woman allows me to lose myself in the pursuit of her pleasure, to devote myself single-mindedly to her ecstasy - well, if THAT were all.... Here, I'm talking about a woman who gives me the gift not just of her body, but of her trust and vulnerability - the Insurance Broker, who confessed she wanted to be put on a leash; the Porcelain Doll, who asked me to humiliate and hurt her. I recognize how much of a chance someone is taking when being this honest, this exposed, and I genuinely honor - and am honored by - what it means for someone to let me in in this way.

But a woman who allows me to conspire with her in the creation of mutual pleasure, who joins with me in a conspiracy of pleasure - is truly, deliciously rare. Someone who takes pleasure in exploring uncharted waters with me, in creating new sexual possibilities about which I'd never dreamed? Who lies awake at night wondering what we can do next? That is truly a special woman.

L - an introduction

Some facts about L:

She's smart.  As much as I enjoy fucking her (and fucking with her), I enjoy talking about fucking with her.  She makes me think.

She's funny.  A said to me yesterday that she can't fuck a guy she doesn't find funny.  For me, there's a slight modification.  I can't fuck a woman twice I don't find funny.  (Ok - maybe the threshold is three or four times.  But it's fewer than five, for sure.)

She's tiny. I love this about her. Her personality is strong, and her body is, too, proportionately, at least. But I love that I can push her around, can move her, bend her, at will. I'm not a tall guy, so when I can throw a woman around a little, that's a lot of fun.

She submits to me. When I ask her to do something, she does it. As she observed the other night, "I just let you boss me around." I love that not only does she let me boss her around, she gets off on serving as my "fuck toy" (her expression). I should say, I'm an easy master, by any measure. My bossiness is pretty restrained.  But her compliance is exquisite, nonetheless.

She's adventurous.  This relates to her submission.  She's beyond "GGG."  So far, there hasn't been an adventure that I've proposed that she's rejected.  This has included going to sex clubs and swingers' parties, masturbating in public, dressing as directed.  Again - by many people's standards, this is somewhat restrained adventurousness, but it's not for me, or for her.

She's a fuckload of fun in bed.  The first time she squatted over my cock and lifted her body up and plunged down on it, I called her "Yoga Porn Star."  Maybe it's a testament to my lack of experience, or to something about the partners I've chosen, or the direction I've given, but L is the second woman who ever did this with me.  The first?  I lost her when she went to jail.  True story.  L loves sucking my cock, and tolerates my love for licking her clit.  And truth be told, I'm always a bigger fan of the oral than of the fucking.

I seduced her.  Or maybe she seduced me.  In any event - seduction has actually been a very small part of my adult sex life, but it's in many ways the single thing I most crave outside of my marriage.  I always used to say that the thing I missed most about being married was dating, but the truth is, it was seduction.  I'm so grateful that T and I have reconfigured things to permit us both to enjoy the rapturous pleasures of seduction, and I'm so grateful that L has been such an ornate success.

There's more, but this is a start....

A New Penpal

I "met" B on OKCupid. Exotic looking, a bit younger, and clearly a bit self-conscious about her figure, and her ass in particular. I haven't met her in person yet, so who knows if I'll agree with her harsh judgment of herself, but the pictures she has sent - and she has sent a few now - don't seem to support such a judgment.

We started slowly: she was a bit put off by my ultimate unavailability, my being married. Though she seeks "friends with benefits," she hopes for the development of such a relationship into more/other, and so, she said, would prefer to confine her fucking to the universe of the plausibly available. But still, we flirted, and slowly started revving up to meet.

We've been getting to know one another just a bit sexually - she now knows a bit about the form my dominance takes; I, about her submission. I know that she cums more readily, at least with toys, from vibration than from penetration. But I know she can cum from fucking, and both by being fucked from behind and below. I know her porn tastes are conventional, with an appreciation for anal (on film, if not in life).

And last night, just before midnight, I asked her to send me - and she did - a few pictures. Pictures of her sucking her finger after plunging it into her cunt; of her breasts, still clad in the day's bra and top; of her crotch in her jeans; and, finally, at bedtime, of her panties from a hip view. Directing her, securing her compliance, was almost as hot as the pictures themselves.

I plan to have lunch with her Thursday.

Saturday Night

A week or so ago, D gave T a challenge:

Find three stories on Literotica that make you wet and that contain an element (or more) of something you'd like to happen when we're together. It's a challenge for you, because you have to find three stories that actually get you going, and then be willing to share them, which involves both sharing your fantasies and passing along something that's probably embarrassingly poorly written. And it's a challenge for me, to figure out what it them you liked, without ever asking.

Last night, L (about whom more later - for now, just think of her as my girlfriend) found herself with some unexpected time on her hands, her family being out of town.  She characteristically invited herself over.  Now she and T know and like one another, and L's hot for T (because honestly, who isn't?), and, in her more restrained way, T is hot for L (because honestly, who isn't?).  But their attraction is a (mostly) unconsummated one.  They kissed once, at my direction, on the street after we'd had a bit to drink, but T was feeling sick that night, and the kiss, though not entirely chaste, was hardly the passionate sort one might imagine.  And once, when I was out of town, they had impromptu drinks, and from the ladies' room, sent me a photo of the two of them, lips locked.

My initial thought was that we should get a hotel room and have an unbridled threesome.  I actually thought this was what T wanted.  In fact, though, when I suggested it to T, she revealed her (characteristically) more restrained fantasy:  she wanted L to come to our house and for the three of us to work on D's challenge.  So I invited L over - told her to bring her laptop, and any printed erotica she particularly liked.

At 10, L arrived.  The three of us engaged in small talk, T smoked two cigarettes, I got a little high, L professed pre-inebriation from some solitary salutary sake.  And then, we repaired to our living room, laptops on our laps, books spread out on the coffee table, and T explained the challenge to L.  We all began our search for compelling erotica - reading the dreck on Literotica, perusing blogs (such as Jefferson's family of blogs, a lovely spanking blog, Always Aroused Girl, and more), and reading from all of Violet Blue's recent collections.  As we were reading, I was idly stroking my cock.  (I was seated on a couch next to my wife, with L facing us in a comfy chair.  I had a great view of both beautiful women.)  I typed on my computer, "I'd like to send L to our guest room and ask her to play with herself while she waits for one of us.  Is that o.k. with you?" and motioned to T to take a look at my screen.  (T and I previously had agreed that tonight wouldn't be the night of our first full-on threesome, simply because of the presence of our son in the house.  Somehow it felt important to me that one of us be on hand to intercept him should he unexpectedly, uncharacteristically, come forth from his room in the middle of the night.)

So T looked over, and shrugged - a slightly positive shrug that I read as, "Yeah, I guess that's a good idea."  I turned to L and said, "L, would you go to the guest room with the book you're reading, and start playing with yourself.  One of us will be along shortly."

L stood up and left the room.  As she crossed the threshold of the room, she turned and said with some bemusement, "I just let you boss me around, N."  I smiled, and said, "Well, I said 'please.'"  In unison, both ladies said, "No you didn't."

Some (few) minutes later, I told T I was on my way to L.  "Don't take too long," she said.  I wasn't sure if she meant, "I want to see you soon," or "I want to see her soon."  But I figured compliance was easy.  So I went to L - found her splayed across the bed, her jeans unzipped, her hand idly resting just inside her panties, but not deeply so.  I kissed her and pressed myself against her, pulling her head toward me with one arm and grinding against her crotch with mine.  "I'm not going to stay long," I said.  "T's eager to see you.  So for now, I think I'd like you to suck my cock."

L hadn't yet refused a request of mine, which I take as simultaneous proof of her utter pliability and devotion to my pleasure (and her confidence that said devotion will be richly rewarded) and of my pitiable domination.  In any event, she wasn't about to start refusing me last night.  So down she went, taking my cock in her lips, pressing her tongue against its underside, and teasing up and down, all while stroking my balls and squeezing the shaft with her hands.

L wasn't the only tease, though.  A few minutes after she started, I excused myself and went to fetch T.  T wasn't nearly as... efficient... as I was.  She must have been with L for 45 minutes before she emerged, looking disheveled, but sexy.  Her hair was mussed, her shirt untucked, and she seemed a little wobbly on her feet.  "Go ahead," she said.  "But I want you to fuck me after L goes home."

Down I went for round two with L.  Again, I had her suck me expertly.  I licked her, felt her thighs against my ears, her hands on my head, as she bucked and shuddered to an orgasm.  She sucked me again.  I fucked her, first missionary style; then, bent over and facing a mirror, our faces staring at each other's reflection while I slammed deep into her from behind.  Abruptly, I announced my readiness for her to go home.

She looked at me as if I were from Mars, and we headed back to the living room, where we found T, studiously reviewing erotica.  L said, somewhat petulantly, "Well, he's saving it all for YOU!" to T, who smiled shyly.  We all said goodnight, and T and I headed upstairs.  I told her my plan - she would suck my cock, I would lick her clit, she would suck my cock, and then we would fuck with her on top.  I would, I said, cum momentarily after we started fucking.

A brief aside about me:  I have a unique - or at least, highly unusual, I gather - relationship to my own orgasm.  In virtually all circumstances, I choose the moment at which I cum.  My stamina is nearly infinite, and my self-control, nearly perfect.  So when I said that I would cum momentarily after we started fucking, that was an announcement not just a of a prediction, but of a plan.  And all of what I wrote in the previous paragraph is what, in fact, happened, over the next stretch of time.  T gushed all over my face, her salty sweet discharge drenching our bed, as it has so many times.  After cumming in T, I smacked her cunt repeatedly, causing her to do some more expelling, this time of my fluid, not hers.  We gradually subsided and I got some towels for the bed.

Another fine evening....

Friday Night

Our plan:  go to a panel discussion on the representation of sex in "Mad Men," conducted by a bunch of psychoanalysts; then, meet M and J, an Upper East Side couple who responded to a CraigsList ad; and then, go to the Gemini & Scorpi kissing party.  The only wrinkle?  We were both beat.  I had been at a play party with L the night before; T had had a long day of work, beginning at something like 6 a.m.

The "Mad Men" seminar was amusing - psychoanalysts using jargon as a toy while they masturbated in front of a crowded room of hot, well dressed people of 40 and under, sprinkled with late middle-aged Jewish psychoanalysts and their analysands.  Then, to the Upper East Side:  we met M and J in a LOUD bar.  J (he) is sexy, well built, tall, exotic-looking; M (she), petite, cute, demure.  This was (they said) their first ever explicit such date.  Conversation meandered - it was mostly T and J talking - and took a L-O-N-G time to get anywhere near the purpose of the evening.  When it did finally get there, it was tentative, gingerly, and we (and by we, I mean I) did all the talking.  I recounted our history with spousally approved extra-marital sex, described its benefits in T's and my sex life, described the ways in which I find it compelling.  They were inscrutable.  Facial expressions and body language led both T and me to conclude they were intrigued, that they liked us.  But who can tell?  The farewell was chaste.

We headed home - foregoing the kissing party in favor of a fuck at home.  T crashed in the cab while I played Scrabble online.  We got home, paid the babysitter, and fucked like bunnies.  "Would you like J to fuck you?" I asked, as I pounded T.  "Yes," she breathed.  "He's got a great body, doesn't he?"  "Yes."  I pulled my cock out and smacked her cunt repeatedly as she gushed all over our poor, abused, soggy bed.

Moments later, she climbed atop me, and as she was riding and I was bucking, she asked if I wanted to feel myself inside of M.  "Yes," I moaned, and let loose a gush of my own into her.

Cuddle, then text, to M: "T and I just had toe-curling-ly good sex. You both were very present.... N."

As of 11 a.m. this morning, still no response.  Perhaps we misread their body language.  In any event, as I said over drinks with them, the best part of all of this, far and away, is the benefit that T and I derive in our own sex life.  Not that's it not a ton of fun to discover a new person's brain and body - but OUR sex is so much hotter when we're contemplating the complexity and richness of new such discoveries - who actually needs to go to bed with those other people?