I love old pulp art like this, especially when there are scantily clad women involved.
Reposted from Bougieman's blog.
The Book of Revelation (Ana Kokkinos, 2006, Australia)
I had The Book of Revelation in my Netflix Queue for months and it finally arrived over the weekend. It's an Aussie flick starring Tom Long as Daniel, a dancer with a girlfriend (Anna Torv from TV's Fringe) and overprotective chreographer (Greta Scacchi). Daniel goes missing for twelve days. When he returns, he won't tell anyone where he's been. Now out of a job, he wanders the city, looking for answers.
Many men would glady pay for what happened to Daniel (as the head woman -- also played by Anna Torv -- points out). He was kidnapped by a trio of young ladies who remain hooded the entire time he's chained up in a warehouse. They manually stimulate him, fellate him, and fuck him, using him solely for their pleasure. As Daniel's abduction isn't consentual, it's a bit horrific but I couldn't help but think, "Gosh, I wish that was me."
Tom Long has an interesting look about him. At times he reminded me of Paul Mercurio from Strictly Ballroom while, at others, he looked a bit like Nick Cave. From the neck down, however, he's gorgeous. Watching the muscles ripple under his skin is half the fun of this fun. Meanwhile, I'm still on the fence about Anna Torv. Normally, I don't find her that attractive but she looks pretty good in The Book of Revelation. As mentioned above, Torv also plays one of his tormentors but the audience isn't supposed to notice that or try to infer anything about this, according to director Ana Kokkinos. That seems like a scenario begging to be explored.
I love that the dancers' routines involve long ropes that hang from the ceiling, already calling bondage to mind. Add to that that their practice room looks like it was decorated by the same guys that tortured Debbie Harry in Videodrome and you're in the right frame for this deliciously twisted flick.
The DVD from Netflix is a Hong Kong import wherein a lot of the "naughty bits" such as Daniel's erection and some pubic hair are disconcertingly blurred. The ending is slightly unsatisfying and a few things that may have been "left to the imagination" are merely vague. I plan on picking up the book by Rupert Thomson to see what other wonderful tortures Daniel experienced.
The following is a sequel to this story
I could feel the drops of sweat landing on my back as Tony plowed his cock deep inside of me. I had sucked him off earlier and knew that this would be a nice, long fuck. Despite the coolness of the basement, Tony was hot from the effort of pumping his cock in and out of me. The drops of sweat reminded me of the burn of candle wax that he loved to drip on me occasionally, especially down my balls and across my perineum.
I moaned with each thrust, loving the feeling of him inside of me. He held on tight to my ass cheeks, pulling them apart roughly as he went deeper and deeper. When he was inside of me, I knew that he had complete control of me. He owned me completely.
I had always been the bottom to Tony's top but there was more to it. He made me weak and I loved being this way for him. I looked forward to our next "game night" as soon as the last one was over, as I limped to the car and drove home to my wife with an ass or belly full of Tony's cum.
Tony had taken to more automotive blow jobs and other games at work. He had me wear a large butt plug which he'd put in me before morning coffee. He'd take it out of me before we went home for the night or, on "game nights", once I got to his place.
Tony was getting close to loosing his load inside of me. Between grunts I heard a gasp and my stomach fell. There was only one person that it could have been... Marsha, Tony's wife.
I don't know if Tony heard it or if he was just too far gone. I clenched down on his cock, wondering what was going to happen. This apparently put Tony over the edge as he unloaded into me, cumming and cumming, gripping my ass harder in his hands, leaving a half moon of bruises that would rise in the morning.
"Tony? What...?" came Marsha's meek voice.
"Oh, shit," Tony said under his breath as he pulled out of me. I felt his hot cum dripping down my thighs.
I looked over my shoulder and saw Tony get up, naked, his half-hard cock dangling between his thighs, and turn to his wife. "I'm not going to say 'it's not what you think' because it's exactly what you think. I've been fucking this bitch once or twice a week for the last year. Do you have a problem with that?"
This was the first time I had ever heard Tony talk this way to Marsha. When describing his wife, the term "loud mouth" always came to mind. She was the kind of woman whose voice you'd hear over everyone else in a restaurant, endlessly bitching about some inane thing. She had henpecked Tony for as long as I had known him and this was the first time I'd seen her at a loss for words and him with the upper hand. Perhaps fucking me had empowered him.
"I asked you a question," he said, cum still dripping from his cock onto their plush carpet. She was completely cowed. He walked over to her and she seemed to snap awake, as if from a nightmare where her husband was fucking his "best bud". Her mouth started moving and through her stammering she seemed to come to some kind of self-realization, "N-n-n-n-n-No. No. No. I don't." She gasped, getting her breath, the cloud of confusion slowly dissipating.
Tony had told me a few times (usually after a few drinks) about the problems Marsha and he had been having in their marriage. Marsha had lost her interest in sex a few years into their marriage and this affected Tony more than he was willing to admit. I don't know when he first started having sex with men but I wanted to think that I was his first and only.
"No, I don't," she repeated. "I don't have a problem with that."
Ah, this was more like the Marsha I knew. I wondered when she was going to get loud or hysterical.
"Good," he said, "Then you shouldn't have a problem with this. Get down on your knees and clean my cock."
The Marsha I knew would have laughed sarcastically and told Tony to shove his sentiments up his ass. But this Marsha... My jaw nearly hit the table I was bent over when she did exactly that, kneeling and taking Tony's half-hard meat--now without the condom he filled while fucking me--hungrily into her mouth. He groaned and pulled her head closer to him. I slowly slid down from my position over the table and took a seat on the floor to watch what happened next.
He put a foot between her legs and kicked her knees apart before pulling her mouth off of him. He reached down between her legs, up under her skirt. She tilted her head back and moaned as he said, "Ahhh, you're wet, you slut. You like watching me fuck this faggot's ass, didn't you?"
She nodded, her eyes closing with pleasure, his arm working.
He turned to me, "Get over here, bitch boy. Crawl."
Obediently, I heeled on his left side, waiting patiently.
"Lay down and take off your skirt and panties," he told Marsha. She snapped to his orders as if she'd been waiting all of her life to hear them. She removed her garments and lay back.
He pointed to her crotch and snapped his fingers. "Eat her out, bitch. Make my wife cum and make it good."
I practically dived into her pussy, going from kneeling to laying between her legs in record time. Her trimmed bush tickled my nose as I spread her with my fingers and found her clitoris with my tongue. I sucked on her the way I sucked her husband, my tongue making tiny circles, tasting her rich flavor.
A shadow passed over me and I looked up to see Tony standing over Marsha, his arm jack hammering away as he masturbated over her. I began licking her harder and faster and her hips began raising and lowering in time, pushing her sex against my face. It'd been long enough since I'd eaten pussy that I was afraid I'd forgotten. Luckily, I seemed to be doing a fair job. Marsha grabbed my head and pulled me deeper and harder against her as she began to shudder and gasp.
She climaxed, wailing loudly. I looked up to watch her face undergo the lovely paroxysm of pleasure. Tiny drops of milky liquid began dotting her face and I heard Tony grunt as he began cumming as well, decorating her face with his jism. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she sunk back down, her hands slowly letting me go.
As it happened I realized that I had never seen Marsha smile the genuinely sated smile that crossed over her face. She lay, quiet, for several minutes. In the meantime, Tony had me get dressed and dismissed me.
Tony saw me less frequently after that night. We had our occasional "game nights" but there was no artifice any longer. When I came over, Marsha was now always a part of our evening. She was a changed woman. Tony had shown her that he was in charge and she graciously accepted it.
It wasn't until a few months later that I found out Tony had told Marsha to come home early that evening and come see us downstairs. He wanted her to see me getting fucked and use that as his first step in taking her over. While I'm often jealous that I'm not the only person that Tony fucks, I'm glad that he and Marsha have a better relationship and that I can play some small part in it.
"The doctor will see you now," the secretary announced. I was alone in the waiting room, the last patient of the day.
I always experienced a sense of dread as I walked down the long hallway to my therapist's office.
Dr. Houston was, in my mind, my wife's therapist. She'd been seeing him for years. As our marriage grew older, my depression got deeper and deeper until she finally demanded that I see her therapist to get some help.
I'd been seeing Dr. Houston for a few months and didn't feel like we were getting anywhere. Every session seemed to follow the same pattern where I'd talk about what had gone on since I last saw him for fifty minutes, he'd put his fingers on his chin and then tell me the "patterns" he's seen in everything I had just said. It was maddening. I didn't want to talk about the more difficult things that had been troubling nor did he seem to want to ask about them. Worse, each week I swore I'd put voice to my complaints but still hadn't.
Today, I did. If Dr. Houston was taken aback by anything I said, he didn't show it. If anything, he seemed to be waiting for me to bring up this pattern and left it up to me to break it."
"I'm very proud of you, Michael," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I want to try something new this week if you're open to it. I'd like to try some regression therapy via hypnosis to see if we can take down some of the barriers you put up. I think that's the reason why we've fallen into this trap. You're hesitant to relax and tell me what's really bothering you. After all these months, I still don't know much about the reason why you're here other than your evident depression."
I was desperate to try anything that might justify the immense therapy bill I paid off each month and that would help me get out of the funk that brought me to see a therapist in the first place. I readily agreed.
"We're going to try and get to the root of where your issues are coming from." He closed the curtains to the office, turned on his white noise machine and lowered the overhead lights.
"Now relax," he said. "Close your eyes and listen only to the sound of my voice..."
He talked and I listened until it felt like I was hearing him so much as I was experiencing him. It felt like his voice was coming from inside my head.
I felt like I was drifting, unhinged from my physical form.
"Time is like a river and you're standing on the shore. You're looking at the river of your life. You can put your toe in at any point," Dr. Houston said and I could see the river before me, familiar faces making ripples in the water. "I want you to look at the water... look at how it roils and moves... Is there one point in the river that's more active than others?"
"Yes" came my voice. I don't know if I said it or just thought it. Regardless, he kept talking to me... through me.
"Go to that spot in the water. I want you to dive in right there. Don't be afraid. It looks rough but it will be warm and safe. I'm right there with you."
I looked into the water and what I saw made me cringe. Yet, I was compelled to step into the stream. I sank down, slowly, gently, the water filling my eyes until it cleared.
I found myself in a dimly lit place. It was cold and damp. It was a basement.
I looked around and saw posters on the walls; rock bands and women like Farrah Fawcett and Catherine Bach. One wall was decorated with beer cans from floor to ceiling. There were three beds in different corners of the room and my stomach fell as I realized where I was.
I heard voices coming from another part of the basement. I'd not heard them in years but I recognized them. They were my neighbors. Three brothers who lived two doors down from where I grew up. I wanted to run up the stairs and leave but something made me follow the sounds.
As I turned the corner, going from one their sleeping area into a makeshift workout room with blaring fluorescent lights I came upon a uncanny sight. It was me, standing in the corner. I was twelve years old. I was naked except for a pair of underwear, little whitey-tighties that seemed especially white in the stark lighting. My hands were shielding my crotch.
I had put this day out of my mind but suddenly it all came flooding back in a flash of images and feelings.
"Wait, wait," came the voice in my head. "Go slow. One step at a time."
I caught my breath and forced myself to concentrate.
I was back in the basement room, but earlier now. I was there with Steve, John, and Geoff Long. Steve and I were best friends. We would play with action figures or ride our big wheels together every day. He was a year older than me. His brother, John, was two years older and Geoff was five years older.
The four of us had been hanging out that day, a rarity due to our disparate ages (even one year can make a huge difference in the "maturity" of boy at that age -- I was still into action figures while Geoff was taking driver's training). We were in their father's weight room when Geoff exclaimed, "Look what I found!"
It was a treasure trove in a Styrofoam cooler. Years and years of Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler back issues. We fell upon them like cannibals feasting upon missionaries. I had never seen so much naked female flesh in my life. i underwent a flurry of feelings. I knew that what I was looking at was to be considered "wrong" and "dirty" but it felt so nice seeing these naked women. And such a variety! Blonds, brunettes, red heads, big boobs, small boobs, shaved pussies, bushy pussies, and on and on.... A feast for the eyes that sent strange sensations shooting up my legs and into my penis.
We made jokes. That was the natural response to pornography as I've learned over the years. We compared and contrasted the women, laughing and using words that were beyond our years. But things got quiet after a while as we all became absorbed in the pages of flesh.
The silence of the room became too much. I looked up and saw something that was even more foreign than the dirty magazines. Geoff sat on one of the weight benches, his legs over each side, his jeans undone, and his hand on his penis, rubbing it.
John and Steve saw this as well and began imitating their brother until they all three were masturbating. Other than one time at the YMCA, I'd never seen another boy's penis. Now I was seeing three of various sizes and all hard.
I didn't know what to do. I liked looking at the naked women but didn't want any part of what my friends were doing now. I wanted to run away.
"Why didn't you?" came the voice in my head.
I was fascinated. I didn't quite know what they were doing but their faces betrayed that they felt good doing it. Geoff looked up, a strange look in his eyes. He kept his hand working his penis as he looked at me and said, "Take off your clothes. Get naked."
I don't know what possessed me. I began untucking my shirt and pulled it over my head. I stepped out of my shoes and socks. I undid my jeans and took them down. I stood there, in my underwear, and backed into the corner, my eyes darting from one of them to the other to the other. And they all looked at me like a slab of meat.
They stopped what they were doing and, like hungry jackals, they got up and began to approach me. I wanted to look at their eyes to see if I could tell if they meant me any harm but I couldn't tear my eyes away from their dicks, swaying, pointing at me.
Geoff grabbed me, putting an arm around my neck. He sunk to his knees and took me down wish him, his knee pushing against the back of mine to collapse my legs. I could feel him poking me, all the way down. John stepped in front of me and Geoff started pushing me down towards his brother's dick. "Open up. Open your mouth," he told me.
I did as he said and John put his dick in my mouth. I'd barely thought about male on female coitus at this point in my life. I'd never even contemplated fellatio, especially between two men. But here I was, putting him into my mouth. Geoff began pushing my head up and down, his hand holding my hair tight. Pushing, pulling, the feel of John's dick going over my lips. I didn't know what was happening, really, why they were doing this to me, or what would happen, but I knew it was wrong.
John began making noises and I thought I was hurting him. I thought maybe my teeth were scraping against him so I folded my lips over my teeth. Geoff began pushing and pulling my head harder and faster until John yelled out. I tasted something tart in my mouth and hoped it wasn't blood.
John stepped away and Steve took his place. Geoff did kept pushing and pulling my head. I tried harder, now, to make sure my teeth didn't scrape Steve, I didn't want more "blood" in my mouth. Geoff was grunting in my ear and I could feel him rubbing harder against me. He moved the hand that was around my throat down to my underwear and pulled it off of me. His hand began manipulating my penis, making it get bigger.
I'd only had this happen to me a few times before, usually in school. I knew what was happening because of a book I found in my parents' basement that compared it to a fireman's hose filling with water but I still didn't know what caused it or what it meant. As I got harder, it felt like the room was going away from me, like I was getting light-headed.
Steve began making noises, now, and they were different than John's. They were more urgent, like he was trying to say something. All he said was "Yes!" and I tasted something sour filling my mouth.
Before I had time to catch my breath after Steve left my mouth, Geoff was forcing me down, now, onto my hands and knees. Steve took one of my arms and John the other, holding me at the shoulders, each putting a knee on the backs of my hands to pin them. I heard Geoff spitting and, before I knew it, I felt him entering me. I don't know if I cried out but John or Steve put a hand over my mouth.
Everything goes black. And though I'm standing there, observing this all, seeing myself being raped, I know that my young self has closed his eyes. There's nothing to remember. When the lights came back up, I was laying on the cold tile floor. The boys were gone. I got my clothes back on and upstairs. The house was empty. I could hear them talking in the back yard. I went out there with them and it was like nothing had happened. Within moments we were on our bicycles and riding in the park. No one ever talked about what went on.
"Why didn't you go our the front door?" the voice asked. "You could have gone home but, instead, you went back to them."
Normally I would have said, "I don't know," as an easy way to duck the question. But something made me answer the truth. "I wanted acceptance. I wanted to be a part of their group."
"Didn't you care what they did to you?" Dr. Houston asked.
"But... You liked it, didn't you?"
Hearing this was a shock. But what really devastated me was the answer to his question.
"You've blocked out that day. You've hidden it from yourself. That's because it was wrong in a lot of ways but it's also because because you liked it and that scared you."
He paused, letting this all sink in, letting me feel the truth of it.
"And you want to do it again, don't you? If I told you to come to me and suck my cock, you would, wouldn't you?"
And, again, no matter how much my conscious mind may have wanted to deny this, I had to tell the truth.
"Then, do it. Come to me."
I was back in the office and Dr. Houston stood near his desk, his hand on his fly. I felt like I was floating, rather than walking as I moved to him, going to my knees, undoing his fly, and taking out his cock.
"That's right, suck it. Take it," he said. Even though he was standing in front of me, his voice still sounded like it was coming from inside my head.
"You want cock. You need it. This is what you've been craving for twenty five years. This is why you've had problems in your marriage. You're hungry for cock. Feel it filling you up. Feel it making you complete."
And he was right, of course. Having him in my mouth made me feel so good. So happy. So right. I could feel every inch of him. Every vein. I could feel his pulse beating, the blood pulsing.
"You're a natural born cocksucker. You're hungry for cum. You need a belly full of it. You need a real man to complete you, to drop his load in you. That's what little bitches like you are good for..."
And then he grunted and moaned and I tasted that old taste that had only tantalized me so many years before. Now it was flooding my senses, the smell of it, the feel of it in my mouth. I swallowed and swallowed as he came in my mouth, filling me up.
I wanted more and was sad when I knew I'd have to wait to get it. And then I was shocked to realize I was thinking this way.
"Now, Michael, I'm still in complete control of your thoughts. When I snap my fingers, you will remember nothing that happened today. You will think that I was unable to hypnotize you. But the next time we're together and I say 'Cheeseburger', you will immediately fall into this same deep trance. Is that understood?"
He snapped his fingers and I awoke. I looked at the clock and saw that my session was nearly over and I was pissed about letting yet another week go by without addressing anything important at therapy. Instead, I let Dr. Houston waste my time with hypnosis mumbo jumbo that didn't work. He sat there, his fingers on his chin, with this self-satisfied grin on his face, collecting another two hundred dollars for an hour of lost time. But I knew I'd be back the next week for another session and swore that I'd make progress with him, no matter what.
I've worked with Adult eBook Shop.com to make Freedom is Slavery available as a relatively lightweight eBook version for the low price of £3.99 (roughly $6 US).
This is less expensive than the version available at Lulu. One strange thing about Lulu is that the PDF used for print is the same PDF used for their download, meaning that it needs to be a lot heavier with the 300dpi images. The version available via Adult eBook Shop.com is saved specifically for a faster download. The images are still there, and still beautiful, though they're saved at screen resolution rather than print.
Now... go buy a copy!
I wrote this out years ago. This was my first experience with an escort service. It's a cautionary tale and should serve as a reminder to always go with an independent!
"Don't be ripped off again." That was the first line of the ad. That didn't so much catch my eye as the fact that this organization accepted credit cards as payment. I certainly didn't have much room left on my Visa but I knew I didn't have the cash available. After some precarious juggling of finances, I managed to secure enough credit for my first encounter with an escort service.
When hearing the term "escort service," I had always thought that it was synonymous with prostitution. It usually is but not always. I found that out the hard way. Certainly, there might be some shady operations out there that advertise as "escort services" that indeed provide sexual favors for money but this wasn't one of them. I found that out the hard way.
Maybe it was the way I was raised or the crazy world we live in but I have no moral qualms about prostitution. While I may resent paying for a little strange; I can definitely see the necessity of it. And, indeed, I felt that urge on my first night in D.C.
I had gotten in early in order to check out the finer points of our nation's capitol. As it was, however, I hadn't eaten since hours before I caught my flight. Oddly, while my physical hunger grew, so did my sexual appetite. Air-tine peanuts and bitter coffee just didn't cut it. Neither did masturbation. Grabbing a City Paper as I checked in to my hotel, I went upstairs to look up restaurants and see what this city had to offer in "Adult Services."
More horny than hungry, I made a few calls and settled on "An Escort To Remember" -- a reasonably priced escort service before going out for some grub. I had talked to "Candice". She seemed nice enough. I don't have a head for measurements or even a proclivity towards one or more "featured item" on a woman. I try not to objectify the female body and subjugate it to dissection. I'm not an "ass, leg or breast man". I was going more on Candice's voice and what little of her personality I could glean from our conversation about rates. Apparently, there was a "special" going on as it was Sunday. Must be a slow night for escorts...
I don't think that Candice was quite as busty as she made herself out to be on the phone but she was very nice looking. A little overly made-up and heavily perfumed (I can still smell her on my telephone receiver) but attractive nonetheless. She wore a fake leather jacket, tall clunky heels with a form fitting top and pants. If I had seen her on the street I probably would have admired her figure but silently noted that her long, curly hair could use some work. A little more body and less hairspray.
As expected, she immediately got on the phone to "check in". She asked to see my poor, belabored credit card so that she could make an impression with it--everything had to be on the up and up, according to her. I believe that's when she first used the term "credit card fraud." It was a different card with a different number than I had given her contact earlier (as I said, I had to do some juggling). This required her to call my Visa company and pre-approve the charge. I don't know why I thought the evening would be cheaper, but somewhere our math varied. Candice was suddenly five hundred dollars for three hours. Not wanting to appear cheap, I secretly hoped that her attempted charge wouldn't go through and this whole evening would be aborted.
This was not a moment to be confident. I had never been with a prostitute before so I wasn't sure of procedure. I didn't know what precautions had to be taken or what limits were going to be imposed. Miss Manners hasn't had a lot to say on social etiquette with escorts. I figured that I'd play up the shy angle and let nature take its course...if that damn charge went through.
Against all odds, it did. Damn. What to do? Candice wanted to know exactly what I had in mind at that moment. The clock was ticking. What did I have in mind?
How does one introduce screwing into polite conversation? After some hemming and hawing and some unnecessary back-story, I told her that I would like an intimate evening (nod nod, wink wink). I think I was still in a bit of shock after trying ever-so-hard to be euphemistic that Candice's immediate spiel about the laws on Washington D.C. prohibiting any man/woman interaction of the naked kind didn't immediately sink in. The evening had just taken a terrible turn. She explained, in no simple terms, that using a credit card for this service was grounds for fraud and that by taking money for sex she could be arrested for prostitution. Yeah, no shit.
Before I knew what was happening, Candice was on the phone to her contact explaining that I was under a false impression. Our date for the evening was being postponed until I could think of something nonsexual for the two of us to do together. "Hey, wait a minute," my mind struggle to comprehend through a fog of discomfiture "I wanted to get laid, not to go out dancing."
Confusion and civility prevailed and I agreed to see Candice some other time under better circumstances. Alit wanted was her to be out of my room now, as I felt humiliated. There's nothing worse than being forced to ask for sex and then being shot down (having the legalities of the matter bashed over one's head simultaneously does nothing for one's ego either). She passed me the telephone and beat feet out of my room. Dazed, I talked to her contact for a few minutes, vaguely agreeing to possibly having another evening. "An indefinite credit," they called it.
I racked the phone and then I stewed. And I stewed and I stewed and I stewed stewed stewed. I stewed about prostitutes and live hundred dollars. I got so mad that I wanted to holler. How was I to know that this nefarious business was more up and up than its rap had presented'?
And then there was that debt that I now so resented. Five hundred dollars for five minutes of infamy? Did they really think they could do that to me? I turned on the television and I paced the room, all the while not realizing that I was under the boom. That five hundred charge had exceeded my credit line and now I was staying in this hotel on borrowed time. It all seemed so hopeless! There was nothing to do but stew and stew and stew and stew.
The thought stayed with me all night. There was only one thing I could think of. A word lit in neon bursting through my troubled mind. R-E-F-U-N-D. Of course, they'd refund my money! it was like ordering a pizza and only getting an empty box. I could give back maybe, say, fifty dollars if they weren't willing to give back the full amount since Candice did make the effort, after all.
As soon as the alarm went off the next morning, I was on the phone leaving a message at the service. When I got back from my daily grind there was no message on my voicemail. Uh-oh. I called again. Still no answer. Another message left. A few more hours. Another call. Yet another message. An hour longer. A human voice!
Before I could even begin my tale I was told that there was a "no refund" policy. I warned the woman on the other end of the line that, before she jumped to any hasty conclusions, she should speak to her manager. There was an unsatisfied customer on the other end of the line. "Call me hack once you get the full story." I told her.
And call me back she did. What ensued was one of the most heated and pointless arguments I've ever had. I was informed that I was morally corrupt that I had offended Candice by calling her a hooker (I did no such thing), and the real kicker was that I was now being blackmailed.
Yes. I should have known after all the chiding Candice did for me to explain "exactly" what I wanted to do with her that something fishy was going on. Though I am relying on hearsay, I was told that Candice was wired. Flaunting this "incriminating" tape, the woman on the other end of the phone (who claimed to be a manager) sat in judgment upon my case telling me that if I tried to renege on my five hundred dollar charge the tape would he given not only to my credit card company who, she assured me, would prosecute me for fraud) hut that a copy would find its way to my wife. That last hit drew a chuckle from me and I wondered if I could mask it as a sob, suddenly breaking down into a crying jag about my poor dead wife who suffered years of agony from ovarian cancer before passing away. I figured that way, both of us could be liars.
I suddenly felt akin to John DeLaurean and Marion Barry. I wondered if Linda Tripp was on the other end of the line.
She couldn't seem to understand that I had been under a false impression by no fault of my own that escorts provide sexual favors. Why else would a man shell out hundreds of dollars to a woman? It might he viewed as pathetic to pay for sex but it's far worse to pay for none. How could I be penalized for a general social assumption? Moreover, what would have happened if I had paid in cash, would she have taken the money, sapped me with a blackjack and headed for the hills?
I tried in vain to explain my position that no services had been rendered nor would any service ever he rendered and, thus, to charge five hundred dollars for nothing would be ludicrous. Whenever I got close to completing this argument, she would begin impugning my character and defending poor Candice. In addition, each mention of the word "refund" brought a renewed exhortation of "fraud." I finally had to ask her if she would ever cease being unreasonable. When she assured me she wouldn't I simply stated the word "refund" and hung up.
There was an uncomfortable silence in my room in the seconds that followed my slamming the receiver to its base. My mind was still racing. I quickly surmised that I have been completely fucked and not in a good way. Even being proverbially "fucked in the ass" would have provided at least some prostate stimulation. No, I was facing a pain far worse that of economic plight. My balancing act of credit cards has failed. The five hundred dollars put my one card over the limit while I waited for another card to do a balance transfer. I bad the front desk of the hotel calling me on a regular basis and was forced to fend off a bellhop sent to my room who informed me, ever so gently, that I needed to get this matter straightened out. I feared that I might end up headline for those aforementioned hills myself. I wondered if John Kennedy's eternal flame could keep me warm. I doubted I could find out. However, since I probably lacked the funds to get over to Arlington.
So, when you're in Washington D.C., you're looking for a good time, and you don't want to he ripped off again don't call 703-222-4385. Nevertheless, if you want three hours of company and you can't find anyone to hang out with, feel free to use my credit. Just ask for Candice.
Just a shameless plug for my book -- Freedom is Slavery -- it collects stories from the first three years of the blog (proofread, this time!) along with some great photos of fetish model Ms. Elle. It's available here as either a printed book or a PDF download.
If you know of any places where I should try to get Freedom is Slavery reviewed, please let me know. I'm working on getting it "out there" a bit more.
The most popular stories on Prurient Interests have been the continuing adventures of Cerebral Trainee Subject Susan (the CTS Doll). Looks like sexy robots are in vogue. Take a look at the ad campaign for Svedka Vodka from Sweden:
And here's a whole photo shoot of some great robot girls.
Woo hoo! Sugasm posted a link to my story, Video Nasty this week! Be sure to check that out along with the rest of Sugasm's hot fare!
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #162? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
The Balance of Power
“A wave of lust coursed through her body at his words”
“What’s this? Evidence of pleasure?”
“I will adore him for it”
Not An Overnight
The Ghost of Abuse
Dr. Gabrielle Hoff has been doing a great job of getting information about BDSM out into the world. Here's the first part of a two part series on medical play. Be sure to check out more of her videos at YouTube until they get taken down for being "obscene."
It's no secret that the Internet is making the world a very tiny place at times.
Recently, I've had a few occasions to cross paths with people in my "fetish life" -- "Porno Person" side of my life -- that I had never expected to see there. It's like laying in the gutter and finding someone you know beside you.
Per my posting of the other day -- "Be My Friend" -- I've been spending a lot of time on Fetlife.com and MySpace.com lately. MySpace is fairly dead but it's still nice to go poking around and seeing who's online in my local community. It was from popping from one profile to another via friends that I happened to run into a familiar face, someone I went to high school with. We didn't necessarily hang out in the same circle of friends but I knew her nonetheless and it was really nice to see that I wasn't the only one from my home town that grew up into a "pervert."
Meanwhile, Fetlife has proven to be a great site with lots of interesting and relavant discussions. Oddly enough, when I tried to register with it recently it told me that my handle was already being used. "What's this? How could someone else be slaveboy72?" Then, on a whim, I tried my usual password with that username and -- voila -- I was in. I had registered for Fetlife.com when it was in its infancy and had forgotten. I went there years ago when I heard that one of my co-workers had started up "some fetish site." Luckily for him, he's done a hell of a job with it and it's turned into something valuable to him and to the community.
Thus the question becomes... Do I talk to these people? Do I acknowledge them at all? I try to keep this side of myself locked away in a little box, like Dr. Jeckyl trying to suppress his Mr. Hyde. By speaking up, I'm putting Hyde out into the light, albeit little by little.
The answer in this case becomes "yes." I said my greetings. What happens next? I'm not sure. If this were a Penthouse Variations story, I'd be blackmailed and on my knees in front of either one of them in no time flat. Luckily (or not), that's not the case. "I never thought it would happen to me..."
Why don't I embrace this part of my life and separate it out with a pseudonym and a thin barrier of attempted anonymity? Probably because of my past and how chastened I was by my ex-wife and ex-therapist about my "proclivities." Also, no matter how much people may hope that BDSM is becoming more mainstream, it's still a sore subject amongst many. Hell, even within the community there are several hot buttons that can be pushed (see my earlier post regarding discrimination).
By the way, I don't have delusions of grandeur. I'm not under the impression that anyone reads this blog or cares about what I say here. I'm just aware that it's better and safer to only allow a select few to know about this side of me. When I write here, I'm okay with those people reading what I write and knowing "too much" about me. I've been diving deeper than I usually do lately and I'm okay with that, as long as I can maintain the self-delusion of being just another anonymous jerk blogging into the ether.
I was looking at a posting from YourTango.com asking for people to tell their "Fetish story" and I thought, "Oh, I wonder if they'd be interested in mine...". Digging through this site, I thought for sure I must have written reams about my early fetish days. No, not so much.
When people ask me how long I've been submissive I always answer, "For as long as I can remember." I didn't actually know the terminology for what I was until I was 18. Before that, I just knew that I was different in some way, I just couldn't put my finger on it.
When I was a pre-teen I was inordinately infatuated with Cat Woman (the Julie Newmar incarnation) from Batman. I recall her tying up Batman and Robin with a Gordian knot and this stayed in my head for a long time. There was also a superhero made completely out of rope--the appropriately-named "Rope Man" from Ralph Bakshi's Mighty Heroes--who used to interest me.
Mighty Heroes also included the character of "Baby Man"; a tyke in a cape who was always suckling at his bottle. Though a toddler, he was still wise beyond his years. Something about him sparked my imagination, making me wonder what it would be like to be treated like an infant at an older age. Likewise, there was some television show or film where characters were age-regressed back to an infantile state. This seemed like both a devious punishment and a blessing as I was completely obsessed with breasts.
Those lovely protuberances were my first fetish object. I loved looking at breasts. Big ones, little ones, it didn't matter. I was always hungry for more. I think this thirst came from my need for nourishment; emotionally and physically. I wasn't breast fed as a baby and the idea that breasts could provide both something aesthetically pleasing as well as tummy-filling blew my mind.
My mind kept going to the idea of being reduced from my pre-teen self to a baby where I was completely dependent on a strong woman who would make me do what she wanted and who would feed me via her breasts. Not knowing much better, I thought that this would be wholly sexually gratifying to the woman. My suckling would be her pleasure.
Quickly this fantasy morphed into something where the breast milk itself brought about the transformation. This meant that I would be essentially seduced, feed, and changed, becoming increasingly reliant on the woman. And, eventually, the "magic breast milk" idea changed again to have different powers; different depending on the woman. Yes, this meant that I was fantasizing about multiple females, all in charge of me. I would be passed around from one to another, helpless.
These thoughts stayed with me until I started puberty and realized that, along with my own blossoming sexual organs, that women had things going on below the waist. Thus began my love affair with pussy and my burgeoning sexual fantasy life. I didn't think about infantalism again but I still entertained the idea of being helpless and being used by several women, almost like a commodity. I would while away the afternoons, flogging my "newfound" penis and imagining being traded amongst the women that lived on my block.
In the years afterwards, I didn't go back to the idea of being a baby again. I love Mommy/son roleplaying but don't necessarily engage in any kind of "age regression." Still, I never lost the lust for being used for pleasure and, in exchange, being taken care of. And, when it comes down to it, that's what my entire attitude of submission amounts to.
<panting> Whew. That was the first time I thought about some of those things since they were originally on my mind. I've discussed my love of Cat Woman and Mighty Heroes before but I'd put the whole infantalism safely away in a back closet. Even back then one can see my love of science fiction coming through with the different "formulas" for different effects. Kind of like the various forms of Kryptonite that cripple Superman.
BTW, it would be decades before I finally got my first taste of breast milk. You can read about that here.
I was recently asked to write out my perfect evening of servitude to a Dom male if I had a "subbie magic wand" and could make my wish come true. I suppose it would go something like this. Not the "be-all, end-all" scenario by any means but this is what I see as a "typical" session.
I enter their home. They're James and Margaret but I know them better as Master and Mistress, Sir and Madam or, on occasion, Daddy and Mommy. It depends what mood they're in. I fit myself to them. I try my best to be whatever they need me to be. By being there for them, I attain satisfaction, completion. I'm like a lock without a key until I see them, until they fit their key into me.
There's no conversation tonight. No wine. No. Instead, they direct me to the basement where they have their equipment. I know what I'm to do. I kneel in my spot and wait for them. It's not long before I hear the clack of Her heels on the stairs followed by the dull thud of His boots. They approach me and I keep my eyes down.
"Stand up," he says. I do, keeping my eyes down.
He comes to me and begins unbuttoning my shirt. He throws it aside and begins on my pants. I came here with one instruction and he sees that I fulfilled it as he takes down my jeans.
"Oh, look what we have here," he says, laughing. "Look at what this little sissy is wearing." He says "sissy" with such derision that I shudder.
She steps to me and snaps the elastic of my pink lacy panties. They're the pair we picked out the month before on one of our shopping excursions but she plays tonight that she's never seen them.
"Oh, my. I thought you picked out a boy to play with, not a little girl," she sighs, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "Oh, well, she'll have to do."
With that, she grabs one of my wrists and lifts my arm high, shackling it above me with the cuffs hanging from the ceiling. She shackles the other one, leaving me helpless. Meanwhile, he puts two cuffs around my knees and attaches a spreader bar between them, pushing my legs wide and increasing the pressure above on my arms. Despite myself, my cock begins to get hard in my panties, thrilled at being exposed and bound.
He sees the bulge in my panties and puts his hand over it, standing in front of me, smiling. He massages me through the satin, watching the lust in my eyes, seeing me lose even more control. My knees lose their strength as the blood continues to rush to my member. He knows what he's doing to me and it makes him smile even more broadly. My mouth is open and I'm panting for breath. "Oh yes," he whispers, "You like this, don't you little girl?"
"This isn't about what you like," he says, turning away.
I feel her hands yank down my panties, down to my mid-thighs. And, without warning, I feel the sharp sting of a smack on my bottom, followed by a flurry of others. I gasp, going from such pleasure to pain within moments. Now I'm gasping instead of panting.
She stops for a moment and allows me to catch my breath. She reaches around to feel my cock. It's gone flaccid. "Yes," she hisses. "That's right." She begins spanking me again, more rhythmically this time; one cheek and then the other. I feel the heat rising on my asscheeks and I picture them getting redder, picture the imprint of her hands on me.
He steps back to me and begins touching my nipples, running his fingers around the aureole. He knows how sensitive I am there and sees them getting harder. He pinches them, gently at first, and then harder. This is like metal in a microwave, throwing sparks in my head. The pain in my bottom, the pleasure/pain from my nipples, making my mind twist.
She stops spanking me, reaches between my legs, and grasps my balls. She attaches something to them and I feel a tremendous pulling on them. I realize that she has added weights to my balls. It's not necessarily pure pain that I feel but, rather, a stomach-churning discomfort.
Added quickly to this new mix of sensations is her finger, greased and plumbing my ass. "Oh," she says, "this girl's pussy is so tight."
One finger quickly becomes two, and then three, and I feel as if she's tearing me open. All the while he keeps tweaking my nipples, making my cock get hard again, despite the discomfort, if not all out pain, I was in.
She pulls out of me and I moan out of frustration, wanting her in me. I hear the snap of her rubber glove coming off and disappointment washes over me. She undoes my shackles and my arms flop to my side. She undoes my spreader bar and whispers into my ear, "Kneel."
On my knees, steps closer and I rub my head against his crotch like a cat. I feel his manhood beneath my cheek, the heat of it, the shape of it. He runs his hands over my head. Usually he's the tougher of the pair but tonight he's good cop. He's allowing me to feel special, to be his little girl.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"I want to please you, Sir."
"Any way you see fit, Sir."
"Don't be coy, slut. I'm going to ask you again. Tell me what you want."
I whine. Though I've asked for this a hundred times, I still feel funny somewhere deep inside when I do. "I want to suck your cock, Sir."
"Good girl," he says, undoing his belt buckle. "Go on, take it out. Show me how eager you are, you little cocksucker."
I undid the button and zipper to his pants as fast as I could, hungry for his cock. Opening up his pants I saw that he was without underwear underneath. This made it easier to pull out his hard cock and hold it in my hands before looking up at him and asking, "May I suck you, Sir?"
"No, girl. Show me how much you want it."
I began rubbing his cock over my face, my cheeks, my lips, nuzzling it with my nose. I wanted him, all right. I wanted to inhale him. I wanted to feel his hardness in me. I massaged his balls, cupping them gently, while mine still ached from the weight.
"Suck it, sissy," he said, finally, and I took him painfully slow into my mouth, enjoying every millimeter of his length as it ran over my lips and tongue. I got him as deep as I could and felt a hand on the back of my head pushing me forward, taking more of him in.
"You can do better than that," came her voice from behind me. I held him in my mouth as long as I could. I began to pull back and felt I could only go so far until my head was blocked by her crotch. She allowed me just a few inches that I could move back before moving forward again.
In and out, I took him. When my head went back against her, I felt her push me forward. In essence, she was fucking him with my mouth. She began moving closer, pushing me faster. I could hear them kissing above me and began to feel the swing of his balls into my chin. They were getting tighter and his thrusts into me became harder. Before I knew it, he was cumming in my mouth and I was thirstily swallowing his load.
He removed his cock from my mouth and wiped it against my face before I felt her pull me down onto the ground before mounting my face, grinding her pussy against my mouth. I relished her scent and taste as my tongue lapped against her clitoris until she had a wondrous, shuddering orgasm.
She moved next to me and he kneeled on the other side. Surrounded by them, they took me in their hands and began masturbating me, telling me what a good little sissy I am and that I know well how to please them. He removed the weights from me and massaged my balls, feeling how tight they were, while she put the index finger from her left hand in my mouth, allowing me to suckle it while they brought me to orgasm.
They cleaned me up, had me get dressed again (in a fresh pair of panties), and sent me on my way. A typical night with James and Margaret.
When it comes to serving, I've run into four roadblocks that just don't seem like they should be bad things at all.
1. Bisexuality - Being a bi male is a major turn off for some women (just as it's a major turn on for others). I'm not exactly sure why, other than it seems that some women feel that bi men are unsafe, not masculine, or just unsavory overall. I've never been given a really clear explanation, just a cold shoulder once this comes out. It's enough to make me want to hide this, but I don't.
2. Feminization - Even if it's not my "bread and butter," it still just turns some men and women off that I've ever worn panties in my life. This just pushes a button labelled "STOP" when I talk to them. Once they know I've been feminized they don't want to talk anymore. Again, this seems to talk to the "not a real man" idea. Apparently it's okay to be treated like a footstool or ashtray by some people, but not while wearing panties.
3. Switching - Again, straddling a middle line seems to put some people off. This goes for both Dommes and subs. Somehow, having had experience on both ends of the whip puts some people off. To me, it makes my experience richer. To others, I'm indecisive and likely to "top from the bottom" or "bottom from the top". I know my place when it comes to a scene and don't switch in the middle of things but that's just not good enough for some people who feel that once you're on one side of the D/s divide, you should never cross over that big slash.
4. Friendliness - Believe it or not but I've been told on a few occasions that I'm "too friendly to top" -- as if guys need to be a little bit of a jerk to be a "challenge". I honestly don't think that "friendly" in this sense should be taken to mean "creepily stalkerish". I just don't think that's me.
I suppose that "friendly" can be substituted with "agreeable" and one might get closer to the heart of the issue. I enjoy D/s and open myself to new challenges as much as I can. This gives me kind of a carefree attitude. Additionally, I talk to people like they were human beings -- trying to stand on even ground before the power exchange begins. By doing so, I seem to make friends more than making Dom/me or sub relationships. It's a very strange thing to be called "too friendly."
Pleasurists is your round-up of the adult product reviews that came out in the last seven days from bloggers all around the sex blogosphere. Did you miss Pleasurists #18? Read it all here. Do you have a review for Pleasurists #20? Submit it here before Sunday March 15th at 11:59pm PST. Please re-post this list on your own blog if listed.
Want to win some free swag? All you’ve got to do is enter.
On to the reviews…
The second I saw them a fantasy bloomed, large and dark, in the recesses of my mind.
I had images of formalwear and candlelight, gourmet meals and decadent desserts. A meal served silently, these dainty pearl cuffs binding my wrists. Images of kneeling at his feet, being hand fed bits of his meal and sips of his wine - the pearl cuffs wrapping my wrists, hands helplessly still in my lap.
Scarlet Lotus Sexgeek
Toys for Cocks
Lube/Massage Oil/Bath Stuff
I've done a pretty good job of blocking out a lot of my cross-dressing history.
Like many things in my life, I tend to only remember the most embarassing or awkward moments...
I was 18 and having a graduation party. One of the guests left her bathing suit in the downstairs bathroom. (Just because it's so improbable, I'll announce that her name was Candi. No, I kid you not. Remarkably, she didn't become a stripper, though she had the body for it.) I don't know what possessed me but I put on the still-damp suit, squeezing myself into it. Seeing myself in her garment really turned me on, especially the way it conformed to my crotch and emphasized my now-hard cock. So, yes, I masturbated; rubbing myself through the stretchy bathing suit material. Afterwards, I washed and dried her suit for her and gave it back the next time I saw her. I don't know why but I always liked knowing that she wasn't aware of what I did in her clothes...
While visiting a friend in West Virgina, I spotted her panties in the bathroom and stole them. I'd heard that female genitals have a nice scent and had never smelled it before (I was 19). I stuffed them in my pocket, transferred them to my bag, and waited until I got home to partake in her odor. It was strong but, damn, it was nice. Later I'd find myself wrapping those panties around my penis as I'd masturbate and, eventually, I put them on to see what they felt like. These weren't any kind of "sexy, dainty" underthings. They were the white cotton variety that Elvis liked.
Somehow I came into possession of one of my co-worker's brassieres. I think it was during a party in which there was a lot of drinking. Again, this was around the time I was 19. The bra didn't do much for me, sexually, though I did try it on once and masturbate while it was draped across my chest (she was far smaller than me and I couldn't have put it on if I tried). I seem to remember falling asleep while this was on and my step-father waking me up the next morning. Pretty darn sure he saw me with it on but he never said anything. The man barely talked to me, ever. I'm sure this was just one more black mark against me.
Otherwise, I stayed fairly clear of cross-dressing for many years. I always enjoyed the transformation stories I read in different dirty magazines but it would be years before I'd be dolled up. I'm still interested in feminization but it just doesn't happen as often as I'd like.
I used to say that I had an "open marriage" but I really need to stop that.
I met my current wife via Yahoo Personals (back when they were free). She was a Domme advertising for subs. We met for dinner and, rather than doing any D/s, she said that we should be on equal ground to begin. This sounded good and that set the tone of our relationship from that first time together.
We played... a bit... over our first couple years together. Unfortunately, I found it really hard to submit to her. I had been in a completely uneven relationship and giving up power to someone I wanted to respect me and treat me right just wasn't in the cards. Moreover, I just wasn't a fan of her style of Domination. She was really into tying me up and leaving. I'm not not into abandonment. If anything, I need to be coddled and talked to the entire session. Being left isn't a thrill. It pisses me off.
In short, it was a bit of a disaster.
As I was seeing someone else at this time, it was decided that I would sub to this other person while my girlfriend (soon to be fiance) would have submissives over on occasion. This became our "Wednesday Night Thing." I'd drive over to my Domme while she'd have subbies in. I'd come home around 10 o'clock and we'd be good.
After I broke up with my Domme, the subbies kept coming over so I'd stay out on Wednedsay night. Eventually, those subbies stopped coming but I'd still stay out.
This meant that our "Wednesday Night Thing" had turned into this: she'd stay home and rent movies--usually romantic comedies that I could do without--and I'd have my laptop at the local coffeeshop, writing for a few hours after work. So much for being big swinger, eh?
Even after we got married Wednesday nights were still our time to have away from each other -- everyone needs their space, right? I would kid myself that, if I wanted to, I could go out and tom cat around that evening and the Mrs. wouldn't mind. That's not necessarily the case.
We don't have the open relationship we once had, nor do I have carte blanche to fuck around -- though I still do on occasion. I need to stop kidding myself that I still have what we once proposed.
I miss my Wednesday nights.
There aren't a lot of professional Dommes in my neck of the woods, or at least not that many advertising these days.
I recently spoke to a woman via a D/s site and, as soon as I heard her voice, I realized that I had spoken to her years before and immediately remembered why I never played with her. No, it wasn't her rate... it was her spectacularly bad personality.
Despite there being years between conversations (she didn't remember me, of course), she was a broken record; telling me over and over in so many ways how smart she is and why everyone else is dumb.
The strange thing is, this isn't the first time I've talked to a Domme who's made a point to tell me how intelligent she is. Some throw out their college degrees while others some drop the MENSA bomb. I'm not sure why this is, but there's a need to justify one's actions via their education and it's rather disconcerting.
If I talk to a person for more than a few minutes I can generally suss out whether they're smart or not. Why is there this need to immediately jump on a high horse and never look back?
Big thanks to the folks at Sugasm for posting a link to my story, High School Bully Part 2
The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #161? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.
This Week’s Picks
He beats me
“I bite my lip in anticipation as I follow his direction.”
Jerking Off: You’re doing it wrong!
“However, I’m in it now. And I need it.”
“How do I best show my love?”
Faking A Four Way
Sugarbutch Star: Matt (part 1)
Two tales, both of them involving a person's significant other coming home. Strangely enough, the second one, "An Afternoon with Marcy" wasn't based on any kind of old magazine story, it was taken from my life.
The real story didn't involve cuckolding at all. It started off similarly; leaving work one afternoon to meet up with a local transvestite. We played around for a while, me going down on her. Shortly after she came, I heard the key in the lock. It was his girlfriend. No, no cuckolding happened. Instead, I excused myself and basically got the heck out of there before the screaming began.
I love the look of an attractive man in drag. The look of a masculine body depilated and dressed up in frilly things really get my blood boiling. Unfortunately, these men are usually emotional wrecks. They carry as much emotional baggage with them as sexy negligees, teddies, and panties. That's one reason why I try to keep in contact with and know as many of these folks as I can, hoping that the stars align with one or another every few weeks to allow a meeting an a few hours of fun before that window closes again.
It was one early winter Saturday afternoon when an opportunity presented itself. I was putting in some overtime at my office, occasionally opening my Instant Message window to see who else was online while I toiled. "SexyMarcy33" went popped on and I opened up a window to talk to "her". We shot the shit for a while, catching up about things that had gone on over the fall and summer. She told me that her girlfriend was out for the afternoon and what she had put on in her girlfriend's absence, celebrating a few hours of freedom by going "en femme" for a bit.
As always, I asked if she was ready to put her money where her mouth was and invite me over to let me see first hand what she was wearing. And then she surprised the hell out of me, "Sure I don't C Y not," came her response.
I had to suss out if she was serious but her providing directions to her apartment sealed the deal. I told her I'd be over in a half hour and signed out before she could protest or change her mind.
Marcy opened the door, being sure to not let herself be seen by anyone outside, including me. When my eyes adjusted to the dim of her apartment, I saw a lovely red head, all dolled up in a yellow sun dress with a chunky necklace, earrings, and too-tall heels. Her shoes and short dress helped show off her long, lovely legs.
Like too many of my favorite girls, she wore too much make-up but I knew that it was only a crutch to make her feel even more feminine. What would help her, there, too, was if I treated her like a lady. I stepped forward, putting an arm around her and pulling her into me, kissing her gently at first until she returned my kisses more passionately. I snaked my tongue into her mouth and allowed her to feel the bulge in my pants against her leg. This opened her mouth up more as she tilted her head back and groaned.
After this display of arousal and power, I pushed away from her slightly and entered her apartment more, looking around to see what kind of man she was and what kind of woman her girlfriend could be.
The apartment was quaint and I had Marcy make me a drink while I sat on her couch, checking out the lay of the land.
As she handed me my drink, I patted the cushion next to me, indicating that she should sit there. She seemed rather nervous, and that was fine. I liked her being off balance a little bit and hoped the alcohol would help the situation. Too many time I'd been with a girl like Marcy who would go only so far before getting scared of her own desires and backing out, graciously or not. I was here to get some action, not to hold her hand through some kind of touchy-feelie self-knowledge gathering. I made her painfully aware of this by sitting back, undoing my belt, button, and zipper before fishing my hard cock out of my pants and putting her hand on it.
She took a slug from her drink and then did an extra gulp as she looked down at her hand wrapped around me, surprised, almost as if it were someone else's. The crimson nail polish at the ends of her fingers looked particularly lurid compared to her pale skin and the dark veiny surface of my sex.
She looked up to me and licked her lips. She had a question in her eyes and I nodded my assent. She got down onto the floor and I spread my knees for her. She propped her elbows on my thighs and took me hungrily into her mouth. It was obvious that she hadn't had much experience sucking cock and I was more than willing to help teach her what she needed to know.
"Hon, take me out of your mouth. Now, put your fingers around the base of my cock," I offered. "Good girl. Now, lick me. Lick along the vein that runs up the underside of my cock. Stroke me while you do that."
I stroked her hair, wondering briefly how she wore it when she was "en drab". I drove this thought out of my head, wanting to enjoy her fully as the girl she was being for me. "Good, now take me into your mouth again. Slower, this time."
She was more deliberate this time, thinking of how things must feel for me, rather than how she was enjoying the sensation of a cock in her mouth. I could feel her tongue butterflying around the head before snaking it down and around me. She took me deeply, choking herself a bit.
Despite what some guys may like, I've never been turned on by the sounds of gagging. I pulled her back a bit and told her, "If you can't take it all, you're going to have to work at it slowly."
She looked up into my eyes and began taking me deeper and deeper, pressing her tongue delightfully against me all along the way down.
Behind me I heard a familiar and unnerving sound, a key going into the lock on Marcy's front door. Her girlfriend had come back early, just seconds away from me busting my nut in Marcy's mouth. My hard-on faded as Marcy jumped back, a panicked look on her face.
"Quick! Hide!" she said, trying to pull me off the couch toward the back of the apartment.
As soon as Marcy's girlfriend opened the door, I knew we'd both be in plain sight. I managed to get my pants back up but knew there was no sense in trying to hide. More than anything, I was dreading the impending social awkwardness as Marcy and her girlfriend were undoubtedly going to get into an argument, forcing me to leave as graciously I could under bad circumstances.
"Mark, what's going on?" came the small voice. I was surprised to hear such a tiny sound coming from her as she was a fairly big girl. Short, plump, brunette, and loaded up with packages from her shopping expedition.
"Angel, it's not what it looks like!" he cried. Despite my better judgment, I laughed out loud at this ridiculous statement.
"Oh, don't lie to me, Marcy," she said icily, "It's exactly what it looks like, I'm sure." She dumped the packages at the door and stormed over to Marcy and slapped her across the face. Marcy began crying and Angel began taunting her, "That's right, sissy, cry. Cry like the little bitch you are."
Angel turned on her heel to me. "And you! Was she good? What did she do for you?"
Feeling no need to be coy I said, "She sucked my cock."
I could see by the look on her face that I had taken Angel by surprise. She looked from me to Marcy and back, "How was she?"
"I've had better, but she's got promise," I said, enjoying where this conversation was going. Angel was throwing out a vibe that told me we were on the same path.
"Did you like sucking him, Marcy?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips.
Marcy lowered her head and whispered, "Yes."
"Then get down on your knees and do it some more. I want to see how you do it."
Marcy's face fell. She looked between Angel and I, her eyes pleading for help. Neither of us were giving her any. Instead, Angel pointed at my crotch and I began undoing my pants again.
As I stood there, hand on my cock, taking in Angel and Marcy, I wondered if this was fulfilling some kind of mutual fantasy for them. It even crossed my mind that Angel's "early return" might have been planned all along. It all seemed too convenient. And, moreover, Marcy could have refused but there she was now, getting down in front of me, replacing my hand with hers, and taking the head of my cock into her mouth.
Angel moved to get a better perspective. "Oh, that's very good, Marcy," she cooed. She bent over and began critiquing Marcy's critique. At one point she grabbed the back of Marcy's head and forced her to take all of me into her mouth. Angel looked up at me and winked lasciviously.
"It's nice having a fluffer around," she said. "I'm ready for you to fuck me so we can show Marcy how a real woman can please a man." Angel began peeling off her clothes, letting them fall where she stood while Marcy--still sucking my cock--eyed her nervously.
Angel kicked her clothes out of the way before getting down on her hands and knees next to Marcy. Angel's spread her knees, showing off her sizable behind. "Oh, fuck me," she moaned, turning her head and looking up at me.
I pulled Marcy off of my cock and got down behind Angel, sliding my saliva-slicked cock into her sloppy wet pussy. The smell of her pussy filled my nostrils and soon her squeals filled my ears. She grabbed onto the carpet and began thrusting herself back into me. "Marcy, get under us," she told her dumbstruck boyfriend.
Obediently, Marcy crawled between Angel's belly and the carpet, putting her face practically between my legs. I felt the additional sensation of Marcy's tongue occasionally taking swipes at my cock and balls as I pummeled Angel. From the sound of her reaction, Marcy quickly found Angel's clitoris and began concentrating her attention there.
"Oh, yes," Angel moaned, "taste my pussy on his cock. He knows how to fuck me like a real man, not like you, you faggot cocksucker." As she spoke, Angel seemed to get more and more excited, as if talking her way to climax.
"His cock hits me in all the right places. It's so good to be fucked by a man and not by a little bitch who'd rather wear my panties." She let out a long loud scream and I could feel her pussy grabbing me tightly, pulsating in time with her animal grunts.
Marcy, still between us, had her hand down her panties, rubbing furiously.
Angel began growling and her body started to shake. Her pussy held me fast and I could see her hands making fists. She paused, like she were a fly trapped in amber, completely still until she gasped for breath. Her pussy relaxed and she rolled off of Marcy and away from me. My cock, still wet with her, wasn't yet satisfied. Marcy moved closer to me, taking my cock in her mouth, her head still between my legs.
Lying on her side, watching us, Angel purred, "That's right, Marcy, suck that cock. Suck the taste of me off of him. That's the only way you should taste my pussy is from the cock that's been fucking me." Angel pulled down Marcy's panties and began stroking her thin, circumcised cock. Marcy began arching her back, moving against Angel's hand like a greedy bitch wanting to cum.
This pleasant sight helped push me over the edge. As Marcy began cumming, Angel squeezing the spunk from Marcy's cock, so did I. I could hear Marcy choking a bit as she took my load, sucking and gulping all of me down while her own cum spotted her sundress.
Angel smiled broadly and took Marcy's hand. I climbed off of Marcy and saw the same smile on her face, too.
When I came out of the shower, the girls were cleaned up with Angel showing Marcy what she had bought. "How many times have you two done this?" I asked.
"You're our first," Angel replied. "But we'll have you back if you'd like."
"You've got my instant message handle. Just give me a shout whenever you'd like." I leaned over Marcy and kissed her deep on the mouth before saying, "I'd like to break in Marcy's pussy."
Angel showed me to the door, handed me her cellphone number, and said, "Next week, same time," before saying goodbye.