The First Roots

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is about “The Last Tree” I’d like to write about something along those lines but I’ve had something else filling my head these last few days. If you follow Allison Tyler’s blog you know she asks a question each week. (you really should, she's pretty awesome) There are a lot of interesting answers to them. This week, the question was “Are you Dom, sub or switch.”

The more I thought about this, it really wasn’t a question of where I landed on the scale, it was the label. I really hate the term “Dom”.  It has to do with the first group that I was social with. I’ve wrote a bit about how I came into the world, and how I was taught. But I’ve never really talked about some of the people in that group.  They considered themselves “Old Guard”. I’ve met some Old Guard folks and they were far more respectful that my first social group.

I was in the military at the time. It is pretty much habit to refer to most people you don’t know as Sir, or Ma’am. In this first group there was a guy, let’s call him Doug for posterity’s sake. He thought that was a sign of submission. It was more about the fact that he was the age of my grandfather, or about my age now. In that group if you were a single male, the rules were you had to give the sub gals and evening of whaling on you if you wanted to be a part of it. 

I went on the cross, I let them go till I was black and blue and bloody. 

It was something you had to claw your way out of. It was meant to be humiliating. It was meant to drive away the guys who thought they could join and just demand sex from the single subs.

Doug, who thought that anyone who would accept that had to be submissive, began pressing. Kap advised me to be patient, to show people who I was, and I what I was, to ignore the asshole. I did. It only made him worse. He saw my showing a bit of respect to the submissives who’d been with their partners a while as a weakness.

He started coming into the bar on nights between parties. I worked there, I had to be respectful. “Yes Sir, I’ll get you that drink.” “Oh that’s not what you ordered.. I”ll fix that.” It took a couple of months but finally Kap told me to do what I needed to.

A few nights later he showed up and I asked him. “What do you want Sir?”

He said “I want you to come to me out back. I want you to be my boy.”

I looked to Kap, and she shrugged her shoulders. I knew that look. It meant ‘Do what you need to.’

I followed him out back. He put his hand on my cheek and told me to get on my knees. It took about fifteen seconds to dislocate his shoulder, his elbow, and his wrist. Having a lot of aikido training can be a surprise to folks. I took him out to the alley, tossed him out by his pony tail. Then I went back to work. We never saw him again at that group.

Whenever I hear someone demand to be called a “Dom” it reminds me of Doug. It makes me think of people who demand respect when they do not deserve it. Respect is earned by your actions, not by your ego, or by what you think you're entitled to.

And you’re probably wondering how does this tie into the theme of “the last tree”

When I think of the theme, along with Alison’s question, I think of Breta. She was 87 when I met her. She had a number tattooed on her arm. In Germany in those days, they didn’t just go after the Jews, or the Gypsy. They went after the gay. Breta was a Domme in Germany in the 40’s. She went to a camp because of who she was. Miraculously she survived.

I met her while I worked in a nursing home in the late 80’s. I don’t know why, but we recognized something in each other. Over about a year she began telling me stories about her girls back then. What she did to “Top” them. She never called herself a dominatrix, but she was one. She liked to top her girls. After at time I told her my stories about my experiences in Hawaii. The violence I had committed. My love of the violence involved BDSM, versus the almost casual violence I committed against Doug, which was far worse, and far more lasting

In my experience I would far rather be remembered as someone like Breta.  A “Top”, someone who wanted to make people feel wonderful about who they were, no matter what that entailed. To bring them to a new sense of feeling; stretching their limits until they felt like they were more than what they were before they met me.

Breta is not my last tree. She’s one of my roots Her, Kap and many others helped me become who I am. I could have easily wound up like Doug. A bully who demanded that others serve. They taught me better.

They’re both gone now. They were gone may years ago, but they are always with me. I like to think that who I am now honors their memories. To those who think less because I don’t demand others bow to me, I have one of Breta’s favorite phrases to offer them, “Ficken Sie”

Wicked Wednesday

Its a Compliment

I used to do this amazing bar trick. The gal I went out with would tell the girl that I wanted to meet that it was amazing, “He can whisper in your ear for just a few minutes and…you’ll cum” I was in the Navy at the time, and I was her beard. But ya know what. I could do it. Even then I knew it was about drawing someone in, getting them to relax enough that they get sucked into the narrative, drawn along like they can’t help it. Its about leading them into the thoughts they have but aren’t willing to acknowledge.

When I write, I want that same effect. Getting someone to respond in a physical way with just words is an amazing compliment, and it’s one that I hope everyone gets from my smutty stories. Otherwise~ why bother writing them.

I’ve written in a lot of different forums since 1990.  I keep copies of some of the emails from different readers that my writing moved. When you can put words together that turns the mental gears in someone enough that they can’t help but grind it out on their own…how can that be anything but a compliment?

Wicked Wednesday

Hunting the Elusive Unicorn

First of all kids if you’ve shown up here, dodged the adult warning at the front end, and yet still think this is about a pony with a horn on its head you need to head on over to Disney or something because this is not for you… soo shoo.

This is a longish story, it starts long ago, but it only really become serious in 2010. Cause you see, in 2010 my wife should have died. The doctors told me I should prepare for it, that even if she did wake up, she’d have brain damage. A few days later she opened her eyes…and was pretty much back to normal. Just with some blood sugar issues. Almost dying can do some wacky things to you. And it makes you realize that you should have been doing all those things that have been floating around in your mind for all these years.  To that end, she jumped out of an airplane, she started flying around the country when before her fear of flying kept her off planes since she was 18. There were a lot of other firsts too. Its been amazing to watch.

One of the things she finally told me is that she wanted a girlfriend. Not a “hey lets get mani-pedi”s kind of girlfriend, but a “hey lets roll around and do interesting things on the bed” kind of girlfriend.  This would have been far easier to arrange if we were back in our 30’s and not hitting 50.

I have to admit that I’d like something a little different to. Back in our younger years my wife was my occasional submissive as well. I like things a little intense. A different illness back then did a number on her and it really changed her pain tolerance. It’s one thing to want to paddle your wife a little and tie her up for some teasing. But when the gentlest swats erupt into blood blisters and the softest of ropes leave marks for weeks; it changes the dynamic. Quite a lot actually. I’ve only really let that thing in my head out of its cage once since then. The thing about letting those parts of yourself have free reign is that they don’t want to be silent again.

We’d also both like to be there to watch the other having their fun. So I took on the task to find us a Unicorn. For those of you unfamiliar with the jargon, the Unicorn is that woman who’s looking to join a couple. Actually she’s usually described as the HBB~ Hot Bi Babe. To be clear here, we’re not just looking for someone to get laid with, we’re looking for someone to date, to enjoy life with as well. Neither of is particularly hot either…so we just wanted someone nice.

So, I did what everyone else does. I looked in the online communities. I even met two lovely women for coffee to meet and discuss things a bit. The first was a chain smoker with an emphysema sounding cough. The other was very up front about her recovery and relapses into meth addiction. While I’m sure they’re nice people, they were not exactly who we were looking for.

So after failing on the internet, where else do you look for a Unicorn? I’ve teased the idea to female friends. We always joke about the things we really want right? There was one who had interest. Enough of an interest that we met after work to discuss it a bit. We set a date to meet up. And then she got offered a job in another state. That was 2012. We keep in touch, and she wants to move back to Vegas, but is going to wait till she hits a few career mileposts where she’s at. I can understand that. And quite frankly I was biding my time until that happened.

You have to understand something about where I work. It’s very conservative. There are no secrets. If you don’t have half a dozen bumper stickers that contain your entire political philosophy you’re probably going to be a black sheep of the organization. That’s kind of nice in its own way, because the black sheep all know who each other are. We all get along pretty well.

One of my black sheep friends got divorced about two years ago. Her ex-husband was a douche of epic proportions (13 bumper stickers at last count). She was definitely a wild-child. She toured as a roadie with a band for a year after high school; where I understand she experienced a number of alternative styles and pharmaceuticals. Then she did the school thing, and got a career and a husband and a child (who is just brilliant btw, I help with math once in a while). Now she’s a single mom, in her young 40’s, not a smoker, not a meth head either.

We did a project between our two parts of the organization about 3 months ago. After it was done, one day while she was in the building she came by to say hello and asked how I was doing.

“Oh just trying to figure out how to catch a Unicorn.”

She takes a beat, smiles and says “Oh really?” She used an intonation of voice letting me know my clever remark has been completely understood.  We talk a few more minutes and she goes back to work.

About a week later she swings by again. “How’s the unicorn hunt?”

“It’s difficult. They’re wild and elusive creatures. You have to be very careful how you approach them. If it’s overwhelming they get skittish and just disappear. I think rather than hunting them now, I’ll just put out Unicorn signs and wait for her to approach me.” I had thought about what I’d say to her if I had the chance again. Trust me I’m not bright enough to not get tongue tied if I tried to do it off the cuff.

She laughed, we talked work for a bit and she wandered away again.

At this point I’m not sure If she’s fucking with me or interested. It’s frustrating because I can normally read people pretty well. That was a Tuesday.

On Friday she came back by my cube again.  She’s beaming and smiling and bouncy, jingling her keys and its distracting while we’re talking. Finally I look, and she has a brand new shiny key fob… a pretty little unicorn; and an old worn triskellion.

“We should have a drink sometime after work.” I said with what was probably the first genuine grin I’ve had in years.

“Yes,” she said putting her keys away after watching me see them.  We lock eyes for a moment “We should.”

What's a Hellgramite Good for?

There are certain episodes in my life that I’m not proud of…this is one of them.

In the mid-80’s I was in the military and stationed in Hawaii. Tickets to come home were very expensive, so you made the best out your trips. Often I’d fly home during the summer and spend 3-4 weeks at home. It was a time to reconnect with family and friends. And each time I’d spend several days with Belinda. She was someone I knew from one of my high school jobs, she was a few years older than me. In those days, being 18 could buy you beer, but Bel was 21…which meant Jose and Jack.

I’ll be honest, Bel was the first girl I ever had sex with. It was exactly what people of my generation did; it was hot, sweaty and actually at a drive in theater. By the time this story takes place though, I’d sailed to Africa and back, had had a lot of different experiences and I was well on the way toward becoming who I am today, instead of that very timid person that I grew up as.

On this particular trip, Bel and I spent three days together that she had off. The first was spent at a local lake, while people splashed around us we used the corner buoy and the ropes underwater to support ourselves while we fucked under the waves. The second day we spent the morning catching crawdads and hellgrammites in the riffles, and the afternoon and evening fishing off of a grassy bank. They were good days. They were fun nights in the hotel room I had on the edge of town.

The last day, she took the morning to head home to grab some clean clothes and run a couple of errands. I told her to bring a decent dress back with her because we were going out. I spent my morning preparing too.

I had rope prepared and under the hotel mattress. I found a scrap of cloth to use as a blindfold, and borrowed a few clothespins from my mom’s laundry line. The only new part of the play that would be new for us was going to be the clothespins. I was fond of Bel so I’d picked ones that weren’t too tight, and didn’t plan on using them long, just enough to get a reaction from her.

That evening we went to dinner at what passes for Irish food in a small Midwest town. We saw a movie, I’m reasonably sure it was Conan the Destroyer. We stopped by a drive in to grab a lime-aid on the way back to the hotel.

It was there that she broke the news. “I dated Terry for a while.”

Most people can make it through life without having a genuine enemy. I’m not one of them. He and I grew up the best of friends but that all twisted around later. He hurt a friend of mine, I hurt him back and it was a never ending escalation that did not stop when I left the area for boot camp.

“For how long?” She didn’t answer until after the girl delivered our drinks (actually on skates if you can imagine that)

“I don’t know…two- three weeks.” She stared out the front of the car and wouldn’t look at me.

“Did you…” I didn’t even know how to ask the question at that point. I’d never before felt that level of betrayal.

“A couple of times.”

We sat there a long time. We drove and talked a while about it. I’d been with a lot of girls while I was gone, and I’d never have expected her to remain dedicated to me either. We were friends, we liked to fuck. She could have named my best friend, anyone else in that town, but she used the one name that drove me a little insane.

This was the night I realized that sometimes I’m not a very nice person.

I told her that while it was a shock, it was OK. That I just hoped that she learned that he was an evil bastard and that I was glad that she got away from him without being hurt. We finished our drinks while driving around the small town and wound up back at the hotel. She used the restroom and came back into the room in a white bra and panties.

Fucking with Bel was always a blast. She liked to wrestle between kissing bouts, she liked to bite and be bitten. She was about two steps past the rough that most girls I’d been with before enjoyed. Eventually I had her pinned and stripped. We kissed more until she was breathless.

“What do I win?” I asked

“What do you want?” It was always her answer.

“Don’t move.” I used the scrap of cloth to blindfold her and pulled her arm to the side and the rope from under the bed and began wrapping it around her wrist. She had a huge grin while I did it. After I finished with her arms she moved her own ankles out for the rope. Bel had been in this position before with me, she probably thought I was about to plant my mouth and lips over her pussy for an extended period while she got to orgasm a few times. That was my plan earlier too.

I debated with myself for all of thirty seconds before I did it. We had hellgrammites left over after fishing. They were in a coffee can in a Styrofoam cooler in the closet. I got two of them and dropped them on her belly.

“Ohh that’s cold” she squealed.

They were cold, and as they warmed up on her skin they started moving. They’re easy to guide with your fingers, a nudge here, a nudge there. I had them walking up her body towards her breasts. If you’ve never seen one before they have pinchers up front. They’re pretty wicked. When something live gets between them they pinch down, then release, then pinch down, over and over.

She started thrashing around so I picked one up, I had to pull her nipple taut a bit to get the thing to latch on. The second one was easier because the fear had the second one tighter than I’d ever seen on her, or maybe that one was just more eager. As they worked away their tails began thrashing around.

Then I slid down her body, and then I put my tongue and lips on her. I added teeth into her lips too, always just long enough to hear her groan from it. When you have your tongue in a woman you can tell when she cums. Bel came three times before I peeled the bugs off of her.

When I loosed her from the ropes she was crying. I got her under the blankets and I held her. I got a cool rag to clean away the mascara that had ran. Bel was on my chest for over an hour before she said anything to me. She told me she was sorry about Terry.

I told her I shouldn’t have done what I did, but that hearing about him kind of put me off in that zone where I’m not very rational. The rest of the night was actually kind of nice, we talked till the sun came up and she had to leave for work. She married a year later, and I didn’t see her for seven years.

This is what a hellgramite looks like in case you're curious.

Wicked Wednesday

First Connection

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Where the Steam Counts

In celebration of my progressing in the #smutmarathon I'm posting a story I did a few years back for another contest.

Where the Steam Counts

The chime rang ten minutes late. Caroline was always late, she had never made it on time yet. I gave her the customary ten minutes to disrobe and get herself positioned on the table. I could only do a few of these a day, and since she was a favorite, always booked her in at the end of the day so that she wouldn't  mess up my schedule.

Before stepping I disrobed, and clad in the traditional loincloth for these appointments entered the room with a smile, “So nice of you to make it Caroline.” I said with a smile.

She looked up and gave me a shy grin, “I got caught in traffic…again.”

“Wouldn't know what to think if you didn't.”

Her body was already beading with sweat from the sauna. That’s my specialty, firm massage in a steamy sauna. Clients loved it, and paid for the privilege of being one of the few I could do each day. There was something liberating about the heat. Once the muscles soaked in that steamy heat, they surrendered the knots they held as if by magic. “Is the pressure good?” I asked for the first time of many for our session.

“Oh god yes.” She answered.

Caroline’s body was far from perfect, she was a real woman, not some fake plastic surgery trophy wife. 

Curves no one would ever imagine from her suits graced her frame in ways that could only truly be appreciated by touch.

I started at the shoulders, working broad strokes into her flesh. Her sweat soaked skin needed no lotions in here. When I found the first knot I began working it with my thumbs. “How was your day?” Light conversation was the only lubricant needed to help loosen her up, as if the words helped her mind relax while my hands worked on her body.

“The usual, too much complaining, teachers, parents, students,” she groaned when I really dug into the knot and lost her train of thought. It always made me smile to make her lose her concentration like that. Caroline was the principal at a junior high school near here. It made it convenient for her at the end of her long stress-filled days.

We filled the time with idle conversation while I moved down her body, stopping at her sacrum to ply that tender diamond. She held a lot of tension there and the pressure I had to use rocked her body on the table. 

Her head turned to the side while her long hair trailed off the other side of the table and soft noises that I doubt even she was aware that she made growled softly as her lower back relaxed.

The towel over her ass was soaked through with sweat, and I bypassed the entire middle section of her and went to work from the bottom up, starting at her toes, working through her calves and hamstrings. All the while she puddle more onto the table. Around the noises she made I could hear the soft drip of her sweat striking the floor as she soaked through the towel underneath. The other leg proved difficult with worse knotting. I always chided her to sit with better posture and not cross her legs the same way all time to make it easier on her body, but she always forgot.

With both legs worked out I approached her ass again and folded the towel down her body to begin working on her glutes. A lot of women tensed when they were massaged there, and at first Caroline did as well. “You need to relax.” I reminded her.

Considering how much time she spent behind her desk, her ass was still taut under the softness of her. I knew she didn't enjoy her morning runs, but they had paid off and the proof of that was under my fingers. I folded the cloth lower and lower as I my fingers slid across her flesh.

I was sweating too, small rivulets fell from my arms and legs, and I could feel the loincloth fall heavy over me. It was unprofessional, but I could not help but be stirred by her. She didn't help matters either. Caroline rolled her hips gently under me and the sounds coming from her sounded more focused, more carnal.

As if on cue, her feet hooked over the edges of the table and she drew her knees up slightly, The entire effect rolled her up granting access to the one muscle group she really needed massaged after a long day. The first intelligible word from her in the last twenty minutes was whispered, “Please.”

I knew what she wanted, and I knew when she called and booked time that this is what she really wanted. I reached up and gently moved a tangle of her hair back behind her ear with one finger, “Of course.”

Years of practice had taught me exactly how to do this, and it was definitely not taught in any massage therapy course I've ever taken, but it was something my clientele wanted, and was willing to pay well for receiving.

I placed one hand on her back over her heart to find its rhythm and rested the other on her ass. I let the beat of her fill me before letting my hand slide down her cheeks. She parted her thighs graciously to accommodate the width of my hand. Once I had her lips under my palm I started massaging gently. The heat from her, from where the steam counts was evident, gentle pressure from my palm split her lips open and the warmth of her sluiced down my fingers in thick viscous threads. I raised my fingers and teased them through the thick brown thatch she bore.

Caroline’s hands gripped the table and she tried to rise. I kept her pinned there with my hand, still using it to gauge her inner rhythm and massaging her time with it. She rolled her hips under me and I wished I had a third hand to keep her in place. She pushed up higher and on the down-stroke and I let my thumb glide into her.

The firm spongy spot at the top of her pubic bone was easy to find and as soon as I began massaging the noises she made rose and more of her spilled down my palm. “Is the pressure good?” I asked.  The dreamy eyed look she gave me was answer enough. That spot likes firm pressure and I stroked across it in a gentle circle, first in one direction, then the opposite. Caroline moved her hips more urgently and I felt the first spasms begin to pulse through her.

“Times not up I said,” withdrawing my thumb and waiting several seconds for her to catch her breath.

I fed in my index finger and its neighbor into her and found the plump spot deep inside her that genuinely needs stimulation. It was like an over-ripe plum. Full and soft and warm- and begging for attention.

“Oh yes.” Caroline spoke her last intelligible words of the session.

I worked the spot around and around, timing the strokes with her heart, feeling the pressure behind it build. 

“This is what you really came for…isn't it?” I asked teasingly.

Her head nodded. It only took a few moments to take her to a climax this way. Her body bucked and all of her steamy heat pulsed out of her around my hand as she squirted in three long streams. I let my fingers wind down slowly, feeling the joy of her pulsing around my fingers and under my hand.

Only after she fell limp to the table did I withdraw.

I leaned down over her and kissed her brow before opening the door and grabbing her robe from the hook outside.

“Why don’t you head upstairs and shower?” I told her. “There’s water on the counter, you’ll be dehydrated from the…steam.”

She gave me a weak look as I helped her up. “Of course, it’s the steam.”

I watched my wife leave and wondered how I’d ever been such a lucky man to find her.

Some Days...

Some days... it all just seems like a lot to deal with. I haven't been writing here like I had hoped. And I apologize for that. I was healing well from my knee surgery, then things took a downward turn. Last Tuesday I was barely able to walk by the end of the day. I called the surgeon and got an appointment. I figured fluid behind the patella, or maybe a minor infection.

According to him, its the arthritis he saw in there while doing the surgery. WTF! the arthritis hurts more than the shredded meniscus? All I can say is that getting old is not for sissies.

Work has been a challenge too. I'm taking on new responsibilities that are going to take up a lot of time. I just hope there's more pay at the end too, though I'm not counting on it.

And lastly, a very nice older lady at work today took a tumble down the stairs because the on and off elevator was off. I wound up giving first aid and all I can say is that head wounds and white shirt's don't mix well. I've got it soaking in hydrogen peroxide to maybe lift the stains.  I'm hopeful, its my favorite white dress shirt.

In good news, I made it past the first round of Alison Tyler's #smutmarathon . On to round two. There's 14 left I think. Waiting on what the next prompt is to get working on that..

Looking forward to a good weekend, I could use it.

Aural Aids

This week #WickedWednesday's challenge was to write a story between 500 to 1000 words that began "Angela brushed her skirt, took a deep breath and walked towards where he was sitting." I have to say that it was a challenge. My first draft was about 2500 pages, and a much better story, this comes in at 998. After this week I'll may work on the original bit so you can see what I had to cut out to make it fit. Its not great, but I hope you enjoy.

Dar

~~

Angela brushed her skirt, took a deep breath and walked towards where he was sitting. She sat at the table, leaned forward and whispered, “Are you the guy.”

 He looked her over, smiling after a moment. “That depends on what guy you think I am.”

 “The one with the study aids.” Angela turned her hand over and flashed the cash had stowed there. “I am that guy.” He pulled out a sim card and placed it on the table.

“You don’t have to be so clandestine,” he teased, “It’s perfectly legal.” She dropped the cash and reached for the card. “One person, three plays. That’s the deal.” She nodded and he lifted the finger. Angela picked up the chip and slid it into her purse.

The whole thing seemed a little too good to be true, but her friends swore by it. Binaural tones; the newest thing in digital drugs. She bought it to help her concentrate and remember better At home she prepared for bed and started. It just sounded like static, but gradually she could hear it, warbling slow, as if passing a sound back and forth through her brain. She woke in the morning, face down on her bed, head buried in a pillow, in a wonderfully relaxed mood. Normally it took forever and two cups of coffee for her to feel awake. And she felt…good, so very good.

Angela remembered having a very good dream. She had been in a cottage on the beach she couldn’t remember the face of the man in the dream, but she did remember that he made her cum, long slow orgasms that she loved. Even thinking about them in her waking state made her roll her hips slowly. She could imagine his hand, or his cock, or his mouth over her, working her expertly toward another one. Denise’s alarm began buzzing and it roused Angela enough for her to realize it was her hand that was making her feel those things.

She pulled free as Carol slapped off the alarm. Angela rose and prepared for her classes that day.

In her first class, her mind wandered while the professor prattled. She settled her gaze on one of the boys a row ahead of her and to the right. He turned and smiled. He stood and pulled Angela with him to the front of the class. No one seemed to notice or care. He kissed her slowly for a few moments then took her shoulders and turned her. A gentle hand at her back pressed her over the desk. He lifted her skirt then lowered her panties to her ankles. Angela stepped free. She sensed the boy sliding up behind her and the rasp of his zipper sent a pleasant wave through her. His cock felt like fire when it pressed up against her. Angela was wet and ready and throbbing. She rolled her hips back to meet him. He was thick and he stretched her: bigger than any boy she’d been with before and the strain of it tearing at her pulled a groan from her.

 “Angela!” The professor was standing beside her chair. “Are you all right?”

She looked around, the class was definitely looking at her now “I’m sorry,” she muttered “I’m not feeling well.”

 The professor ended the class and Angela gathered her bag and walked from the classroom in a daze.

“What the fuck was that?” she wondered. She’d fantasized in clas before but they had never felt that real. She sat at the back of the room near the door for her next class in case she began to drift again and needed to leave. About halfway through the next lecture the girl beside her stood and walked to the door. Angela saw her motioning for her to join her in the hallway. By the time Angela made it there, the girl was leaning against the far wall. She wore all black and her skin was pale porcelain. She lifted her skirt and Angela saw that she wore only black leggings with the crotch torn out. A black groomed strip pointed down to her pussy, and Angela could see that she was swollen and glistening. “You want to taste me, I can see it in your eyes.” She taunted in a husky voice.

Angela did, and lowered herself to her knees before the girl. She nuzzled her cheek against the dark hair, inhaling the musk of her. She wrapped her hands into Angela’s hair and turned her head and pushed her hips forward until Angela’s lips met hers. Angela parted her mouth and dipped her tongue into her. She used her mouth to cover her and traced every curve of the stranger’s pussy with her tongue. The taste- amazing, the scent-heady.

The girl pulled Angela closer and the roots of her hair throbbed and Angela realized that it matched the throbbing she felt low and burning in her body. Angela groaned with the sheer intensity of it.

She woke from the daydream and the entire class was staring at her.

Something was wrong, horribly wrong she knew. Angela grabbed her bag and bolted from the room. She kept her head down as she crossed the campus until finally she reached the safe confines of her room.

Angela closed the door and leaned back against it. She took several deep breaths then opened her eyes. Her roommate sat naked on her bed. She held a vibrator that she had shown Angela months ago. Denise idly flipped it on and off. “I swapped the cards.” She said. “I used mine more than three times and it changes what it does. It wakes you up to new things, lowers your inhibitions so you’ll want to try them. I can’t… by myself anymore.” Denise confessed, “But I think maybe we can do it together.” Denise caught Angela’s eyes and thumbed on the vibrator again and left it running.

Angela closed her eyes and let the fantasy take her.



WickedWednesday

~~

I have bouts on insomnia and was desperate enough to try binaural tones from an app on my phone to help me sleep. I feel much better sleeping with them going through my head. I've used them for many circumstances, concentration, relaxation, dreamy sleep, deep sleep...and have had some very good results. I don't know if there is one that would produce the reaction that Angela and Denise have, but it would certainly be interesting to try.

Fragile Delicate Things

I don’t have to imagine the wickedwednesday prompt because I lived it. In the mid nineteen 80’s I was stationed in Hawaii. When we were in port life was actually quite boring; there is only so much softball you can play and beer you can drink. I started taking jobs in various places that had dubious reputations.

At different times I worked in a backroom poker club, a brothel that catered to Japanese tourists, and a few different bars on Hotel Street. That area was pretty much what you saw on Miami Vice, only not so pretty. There were gangs, hookers, drugs galore and lots and lots of bar girls. I forget exactly how I got the job at one club, but it was basically to pull beer from the stockroom, change kegs and to smack sailors who got out of line with the girls upside the head with a sawed off pool cue and deposit them on one of the bus benches along the street.

The club I worked at closed once a month and held a private party. I was not allowed in, but I worked the door. I allowed in the folks with the right invitation, and nudged the others to different bars. I knew what was going on inside though. It was one aspect of the Hawaiian leather scene.

I asked the owner about it, she deflected my questions for a long while, but she knew I was very interested in the goings on inside. One night the owner asked me to stay late. The bar closed at two, so staying late meant next to no sleep before the next day on the ship. The owner was Jae and she whispered to me, “It will be worth it.”

Once the drunks were out the door, and the bar girls paid their due the owner locked the door. “You want to be one of us, show me you know what to do.” She laid out several implements on the pool table. I knew what they were of course; a flogger, a cane and a crop. I had never used one on a woman before. I was a farm kid who was barely past virginity and the only instances I had ever used anything remotely like a cane or a crop was to move livestock along.

Soon came out from the back room in a red robe. She dropped it once she stood in front of the pool table. I’d seen her naked before, when one of the other girls was sick she’d often dance on the stage, or keep the customers busy. This was entirely different. Jae said something to her in Korean and she laid herself across the end of the table.

Jae glared at me then the implements. I chose the crop since it was the one I was most used to and I began on Soon’s ass. I was using light taps. When you use them on livestock the entire idea is to not bruise them and to be frank; my upbringing taught me that women were these fragile delicate things; that they were weak and needed to be protected.

Yes I know that’s a very sexist attitude…now anyway… but that’s what this lesson was all about. Jae said a number of things in Korean that I knew were not very complimentary and she grabbed the crop from me and put a full armed swing into it. It was like a gunshot going off in the small bar. I could see Soon’s face in the mirror along the wall.

I saw it in her eyes, in the way her mouth formed around the noise coming from her. Jae shoved the crop back into my hand and scolded, “She is not some flower, treat her with respect.”

It took several moments but I eventually raised my arm with the crop, I remember the moment perfectly. We locked eyes in the mirror the moment before it came down. I saw it in her, she wanted it hard. She was almost encouraging in the look she gave me. I brought it down then watched mark rise.

I’d learned the lesson, in my life, there would be no more thinking of all women as fragile delicate things.

Wicked Wednesday

10 Things and a Story

While I’m rolling around ideas in my head about what I want to write here I figured I’d take the lame way out and post the 10 things most people don’t know about me.

1.       I was one point off of a perfect score when I took the ASVAB

2.       When I was younger I held mid to high level belts in four different martial arts…no black belts though.

3.       I used to dress up in armor and fight with people with big padded wooden sticks

4.       Along with my engineering degree, I graduated with three minors: nuclear sciences, mathematics and English (creative writing)

5.       The first time I saw my wife I thought, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” And I did

6.       I’ve broken 19 bones in my body at various times

7.       I was almost arrested because of the Westie nuts out of Topeka

8.       When my beard used to grow in it was red, and I’m not a redhead. Now its mostly gray.

9.       In my professional life I let people purposefully think that I’m far less intelligent than I am.

10.   When I sing karaoke, I stick with the 3 B’s, Bob Seger, Billy Joel and Bon Jovi

What follows is a short story I entered in monthly contest on a site for adult writers…it did not win.

Title: Making an Impression

My teeth sunk into her flesh; into the only soft part of her, the upper, upper inner thigh. Zoe hated it, or at least she pretended to whenever I did it. As I took hold, my cheek brushed up against her and already I felt the heat there, growing warmer every second that I held onto her.

“Damn it, it takes forever to heal when you do that.” She bitched.

Zoe would not accept any kind of mark from me willingly. Oh, it was fine for her to rake my skin with her nails. My back and ass had bore more than a few bruises from her drumming heels when I gave her head. Her hair was shorter than mine in tough-girl spikes that took her forever to tease up until they were just so. She was my little fashionista, and the woman I thought about sinking my teeth into every day. 

She reached down to grab my hair and move me between her legs instead of just being latched onto her like I was. History left me prepared and I caught her wrist and pinned it to the bed.

“Fucker.” My girl cursed when thwarted and if I didn’t know better I’d say she had spent time as a sailor.

I bit in more firmly and my teeth squinched into her as her flesh submitted to my teeth. She groaned at the sensation and moved her other hand down. I grabbed it and captured it as well.

It would have been easy for her to scissor her legs closed. That she didn’t was why I know she only pretended to not like this occasional play of ours. She could have easily raised her free leg and pushed against my head to dislodge me. But she didn’t.

Instead her lips parted and her desire painted against my cheek.

It was still too soon to let go, I wanted a perfect mark on her. A true representation of me that would live upon her flesh until it healed. One that only she could see, and remind her of me every time she did.

I’d shaved before coming to bed, so we slid together smoothly, lip to cheek. She rolled her hips, much like she would when I turned my neck and covered her. For that I loved her a little more. My strong girl could never admit in words that she loved the marks too, but words are only the least of our communication, or of our adoration. Body language meant more, and her response was her gift to me. The roll of her body changed and I knew that her head rolled along with her hips now, punctuating the message.

Zoe purred deep in her throat. I released my grip on her thigh slowly, pulling my teeth from the divots that would bruise the pale flesh. My tongue traced them and I smiled feeling the mark upon her. My tracery brought out new noises from Zoe because she knew what came next.

Her.

I turned my neck and covered her with my mouth and began making a new impression for my love.

There's always a beginning.

I've just created a blog...that's new. I'm not really sure how I feel about that.

There are bloggers I read and respect. I admire their ability to put their lives out there, their ability to record the things they feel passionaletly about. So I guess the question is, what do I feel passionately about?

I intend for this blog to record both my past and present so I guess I should talk about the things that are important to me, the things that have been constant throughout my life. Its an amazingly short list. But my passions did start early. The first time i remember being truly excited about something was seeing both Daphne and Velma tied up and gagged on Scooby Doo. I really did not understand what it was making me feel at the time, but I knew it was important at the time, and that it was going to be important in my life. Later I watched shows like "Johnny Socko and his Flying Robot" and "Ultraman." (I'm probably dating myself here) I rushed home after school every day to watch them. I cared little for the villains or heroes, but I waited with and held my breath once the moment in each episode was finally reached. At some point the hero's sidekick females were bound and gagged. I think one of the first images I remember from TV is that of a japanese woman in a box-tie. Though I could not have told you what I box-tie was at the time.

I just knew that...it was perfect.

Other times it was Bat Girl, tight spandex outfits and lovely white rope around her. For me play was more about using the jump ropes to tie the girls to the tether ball pole than exercise. In middle school, I wrote a story that was mistakenly left out where people could find it. It didn't take long for it to wind its way through our small school. The boys read it and didn't understand. The girls read and I heard them talking about which of them it could have been about. In reality it was about my 8th grade science teacher, but I noticed that the girls all seemed to be excited by it.

So I wrote stories. We were a small class, there were maybe twenty girls in it. That year I wrote twenty stories. Each featuring one of those girls. They were poor stories, more about the sex we barely understood and my limited understanding of rope and torment. But you know what. I wrote those stories on blue paper, and every one of those girls left that paper hanging out of their notebooks. They all looked dreamy eyed at the other boys, hoping it was one of the prime athelets in the school. Not one of them ever though that it was the nerdy kid who played tackle in football, or center in basket ball. Nor did they ever consider the kid who was a freak and played that new game "Dungeons and Dragons." They always hoped it was the quarterback, the running back, or someone who mattered. I dearly wish I still had those stories.

I grew, they grew and we all wound up in high school, the same group of us. In small schools like ours, things were always kind of inbred. The main rule was you didn't date your cousins. The problem was half of them were your cousins. It wasn't uncommon to date a lot of the girls, at least for the popular guys. I only really dated three of them. I got calls from a lot of them when their boyfriends were jerks. I had many of them drop by where I worked on a Friday or Saturday night when their boyfriends gave them the "put out of get out" speech. Guess what, the girl crying on your shoulder about her asshole boyfried can be pretty accomodating when you're the one giving her ride home. Of course they'd never admit to it in public. It was all innocent then, just the typical teenage groping and fumbling. But I always knew what I wanted. I just didn't have the nerve for a long time.

That changed with M. (of course all the names in this are changed in some way)  She lived near me and rode horses by my house on a regular basis. Her body had a very distincive bounce as she rode, one that I noted a bit more every year. One Saturday morning she rode by and invited me swimming. I hitched up behind on her on the horse and we rode the half mile or so down to the river and played. It was fun, it was almost innocent. On the way back she stopped at her place, and put the horse back in the barn. She brushed it down and I watched from a hay bale. I remember her taunting and teasing me while she did it. From there it grows fuzzy.

We wrestled, I tied her wrists with a length of rope and used a hoist in the barn to pull her up to her tiptoes. Her shirt was pulled up above her waist and I rested my hands on her, feeling the sweat of her under me and I just looked at her.

She didn't call me a freak.

She didn't scream for her parents.

She didn't ask me to kiss her. She said the words, but it wasn't an "ask" it was a "beg". I was hooked.