Category: Mental Pictures

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Worship

I worship cock. I always have. In all their variations, cocks fascinate, intrigue, please, and entertain me. I love how an erection can be an instant eraser of intelligence I’ve seen, great care I’ve felt, and deep conversations I’ve seen interrupted mid-sentence. That being said, the intelligence, conversation, and care are absolute prerequisites for that worship, intrigue, pleasure, fascination, and entertainment. Establishing a connection as two human beings who have something in common other than compatible genitals is critical for my personal enjoyment. Once that connection has been made, and sometime it comes in the aftermath, my interest and pleasure skyrockets.

Without that connection, I am capable of providing a high caliber service, but at that point it becomes a service. It ceases to be the genuine back and forth of an expanding relationship and stays firmly in the realm of a provider providing a service. I am capable of that experience and as an actor of both skill and talent it will be a service of caliber and quality, but it will not be the kind of session that makes me want to keep you late, nibble on cylindrical meats, chat long into the lazy afternoon, play with you again until you cannot rise, and fall asleep gently on your shoulder.

That is the session I most often share. I started to write the word ‘offer’ but I share it with you as much as you share it with me. I like to describe it as GFE, but back in high school. We’re both good kids, not doing anything that’s actually sex no matter how much we yearn for it. We kiss and kissing leads to touching, leads to more touching, leads to the kind of exploration that doesn’t focus on some kind of finish. It focuses on the touch, the tease, the closeness, the surprise finish that’s fun and sweet and rewarding but not a disappointment if it doesn’t show. It brings us both to a combined frustrated and satisfied frenzy and that’s when I worship your cock.

I want to touch it. I want to look at it and observe similarities and differences. I want to explore it and the surrounding area. I want to tickle your feet and see if it moves you. I want to trail my fingertips across your chest, searching for previously undiscovered spots that send shivers and tingles through your belly into your cock to make it twitch. I want to test your reaction to my excursions. I want to explore the textures, bends, folds, fuzz or lack. I want to watch your face and breath for peaks of intensity and valleys of relaxation. I want to feel the swell and regress of your glorious cock as I find patterns and rhythms that please you but don’t quite satisfy… not yet. I want to hear you pant and feel my breath rise with yours as we both get sucked into the hot, wet intensity of our arousal. I love the mental and emotional swell I feel when your physical cues tell me you’re walking the edge. I want to feel myself throb between my thighs as every thought and movement is for sex and sensuality. I want to feel you struggle to watch both my arched ass rock across your torso and your cock, barely visible in the gap between you and I as everything I have that can reach your cock caresses it, strokes it, slips across it until, after ages of touch and tease, I finally feel the pleasure and satisfaction of your hot, sticky, slippery cum all over me. I don’t even need that ‘finish’; I still want to worship and pleasure your cock, regardless of the outcome. I want to bring pleasure and excitement to your every moment. I want to cover you with warm slick oil and bring you a bliss that requires only your appreciation to plaster a grin on my face.

I’ve discovered in myself an intense internal reward system that fires when I am appreciated. It only takes a moment, only a thought, to share that appreciation. I don’t require, nor would I want, some epic of care and thankfulness. I wouldn’t press for thanks as my services are given in a fair exchange, regardless of the attitudes (barring the pushy or downright unsafe) of my beloved clients. Thanks and appreciation are only to give me pleasure, something I regularly and often receive. They enhance my experience and quickly turn a pleasant session into a memorable one I long to repeat. Once in fifty sessions I will have a simply pleasant experience. Those other 49 are rewarding in thousands of ways. Flowers, exotic cheeses, wines, words of admiration and appreciation, acknowledgement of time invested and time stretched, contented smiles, exhausted poses, repeats and returns, long conversations that have nothing to do with either of us, those are the things that bring me pleasure and joy and intensify just how much I worship your cock.

Who among you doesn’t desire appreciation and to be desired? When I meet you, as a human with thoughts, cares, a history, a life before us, I appreciate you. I appreciate that you may be nervous. You may be cautious. You may be carefree, celebrating a recent life event. You may be an old hand or brand new, you may be thick or thin, tall or short, old or young…. Every one of you has something that I appreciate. You are shy and I care for you. You are bold and I admire you. You are clever and I laugh with you. You are serious and I am careful for you. You are curious and I am excited for you. You are verbose and I convers with you. You are young and I teach you. You are old and I learn from you. You are kind and I am nurtured by you. You are misinterpreted and I understand you. You are unsure and I am sure for you. I am suited to my work; I am suited to you.

I long ago vowed that I would only interact with penises attached to awesome people. While I have sometimes bent this rule and have once or twice broken it, my experiences in the last few years have been absolutely consistent with this motto. Thank you, to those who have and those who continue to help me uphold my personal motto. You are the greatest of men. You deserve the worship of a great woman.

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A Cat’s the Only Cat Who Knows Where It’s at

He was tiny. A few weeks old, eyes barely open. He was perfect.

I always had pets growing up and as pets are wont to do, one died. I don’t remember it well but it was my mom’s pet, it had been a month or so since, and as is the way with our family, it was time to find a new companion. Friends of ours had adopted a puppy from my brother’s dog so we returned the favor when one of their wild cats had her own brood. The kittens had been irresistible to me as soon as the adults allowed us to play with them. A cautionary chorus of ‘gentle’s and ‘hold them carefully’s followed us through the house as we watched and helped them develop motor skills and explore their world. By the time they were old enough to take one home with me I already knew which one I wanted. He was a cute tabby with a white chin, chest, and tummy and little white socks. He was playful and exuberant and the perfect fit for my hyperactive, hyperfocused pre-teen self.

We brought him home and I could’t leave him alone. While my family watched TV and polished off dad’s Top Ramen Tuna Fish Casserole I cuddled our newest addition and sang phrases from songs I though might be comforting. Ostensibly he was mom’s pet but that first evening and my subsequent fixation created a bond that was to last until his passing sixteen years later.

His kitten year was adorable and fun; all the things that children and kittens like. We played with strings and feathers and I spent hours giggling and shrieking with delight at his leaps and spins. His ‘teenage’ years were full of mischief and mayhem. He used to relax on the steps between the first and second story, his twitching tail the only action. Innocent stair climbers would soon discover a coiled spring that would launch itself mercilessly at passing ankles. Those of us who were most often home learned to step wide or to the side, but there are family members who still harbor a grudge against the little stair monster. When that grew boring, he would lie on the ledge at the top and to one side of the stairs and swipe at whatever eartips and scalps presented themselves.

As the result of a urinary territory battle with a new arrival, he became an outdoor cat as all our cats have inevitably become. Despite the added danger and the succession of missing and DOA pets, we could neither deny freedom nor his ferocious tenacity as he grew into an affectionate and scrappy adult. Birds and mice were a common gift from the cats to our doorstep and we quickly learned to look first in the morning when heading to school lest we hear a tiny crunch underfoot. I once came across him toying with a mouse on the lawn. I rescued the little creature and brought it inside, only to have it escape in the kitchen. It lived in the kitchen long enough to create some highly amusing stories concerning mouse traps, fingers, and midnight snacks but it wasn’t until we invited my mighty hunter back inside that the now thoroughly fattened rodent took its leave.

I used to climb into the neighbor’s apple tree with a bag full of apples, oranges, water, and a thick book to sit in the warm summer sun, reading and snacking. On rare occasion he would come join me until my incessant petting became annoying and he left.

On the evenings we let him into the house, we would fall asleep together, his fur and my long hair an inseparable tangle of fuzzy, cuddly affection. Many of my pets had an affinity for hiding in my hair but he spent the most time by far on my pillow with me.

Leaving him behind when I went off to college didn’t feel like a betrayal or abandonment, it felt like an interlude at the end of which we would fall back into old patterns like the best kind of friends. Finding him wherever he was on property and giving him a snuggle was part of my home visit routine until I finally got a place where I could bring him with me. I had a little cottage type place out far enough that I felt fine letting him roam around and the little old couple who lived next door would give him little treats.

He and I lived it up that year. We had boys over and parties where he and I both earned the affectionate title of ‘snuggle sluts’. I remember one evening when he went from person to person until he had received adequate pets and snuggles from each attendee, then went back for seconds from the best cuddlers. Even my allergic friends couldn’t resist him, if just long enough to start sneezing before they had to shuffle him to the next person. By this point he was ten or eleven and had settled into a calm, alert, but relaxed regality that ruled our social circles from whichever perch he chose.

It is this age that I remember the most clearly. His full, round belly, thick, ropey muscles, easy, strong purr, and alert, brightly green gaze glowed with health and stability. I can see in my mind’s eye my hand cupped around his face, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his breath hearty and rumbly as my fingertips found all the right spots: under his chin, behind his ears, and that one spot that made him scritch like a dog with his hind leg. He always met me at the door in the morning and when I came home. A few times I even saw him racing me home as I turned the last corner to the little side street we lived on.

There’s something about that perfect combination of total independence and devotion that only a cat you’ve lived with your whole life can share with you. Dogs are wonderful and I’ll have them, too, when I can, but they have an element of neediness that cats lack. Many cats have that aloofness that keeps you from bonding but when you share the better part of two decades with them, there comes a point where that aloofness wears off. You share vulnerability with each other, you share strength when it is needed, and you become family in a way that still leaves you both room, free of judgement, to pick fights and make mistakes and still come home to someone who loves you.

My life thereafter didn’t lend itself well to pet ownership. I ran out of money and left him in the care of a friend ‘just until I can take him back.’ A year passed, two years, three, and I was finally in a place to bring him home with me but by then he had become a source of strength and joy for her in her times of need. He had become a loving grandfather now. He stayed indoors and slept a lot, he lost some weight but his eyes still took everything in and radiated wisdom and calm in return. His teeth started to loosen and fall out and we saw less of each other. Every time I saw him it was a surprise. The kind of surprise you get when you see you your parents after a few months away and suddenly they have gray hair. It’s been silvering for a few years now but you missed a few months of it and now suddenly you notice. His immune system started to fail but both I and my friend failed to get him the care that he needed.

Tuesday morning I got a text. “I just got home from work. He’s really bad. Can you come?”

…

I knew it. I’ve had pets before and they all find their end sooner or later. I went home and emptied out a cardboard box. I lined it with ragged towels and put it in the car. My eyes blurred as I drove and that image of his face pursed in ecstasy and joy came to my mind. I knew what I would find when I arrived and I knew none of us were prepared. I’m not proud of what I did when I bundled him up. I couldn’t deal with her grief on top of mine and so I left her behind, unable to make a full cathartic goodbye. I took him and he never came back.

I felt for the people at the vet’s office. I walked in, carrying a sack of bones and bawling, knowing what had to be done. They expect people to hang on, to be sentimental, to demand extension of their beloved pet’s life and so they didn’t understand that I knew. I knew that he and I weren’t going out the same door that morning. I knew that his run was over, probably sooner than it needed to be. I knew that I had failed him by leaving him in the care of a friend and not checking in. I knew that regardless of what regrets I might have or damage I might have averted six months ago, it was too late now and he was already gone.

His belly heaved with each breath. His spine was a serrated knife, ready to tear through his thin skin. His fur was still soft and fine but now tiny parasites crawled in it. His gaze was directed inward, focused or fighting I will never know. I stayed alone with him until he began to grow cold. I had left him before and I would leave him now but not until he had left me first.

Mortality is a funny thing. We all have it, we mostly deny it. I’ve expounded to some on the research being done into hallucinogens as treatment for end of life anxiety and other mental disorders. I wonder if there was something more I could have done. His eyes that final morning did not hold the bright, outward gaze I got so used to but instead held the inward focus of a starving creature in pain. I had a thought of a cat on LSD, taking a guided trip to help him come to terms with his end and his pain. That wasn’t my only moment of wry, morbid amusement as the morning came and went. I thought of the last really bad hangover I slept through. It was all encompassing. I felt feeble and weak, wanting to eat and vomit at the same time, able to do neither. If that’s bad I can’t imagine what he must have felt and feared. The thought brought a chukle devoid of joy.

They say time heals all wounds and I’ve got a remarkably robust mental immune system so the pain of yesterday is already a shadow of what it was. The life that left us yesterday, however, was not, and I felt it important to memorialize that life. Words are my punishment, my joy, my artistic medium, and my platform and so in words we find his memorial.

My Kitty, I know you never could understand my words, but the feelings behind them must have rubbed off a little. I hope that you felt my love and my need for you and I hope that all cats go to heaven too.

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I Watched

Not often does one have the chance to observe. I tried it once, because it seemed like it would help, but it was merely uncomfortable for all involved. Today I had a real chance to observe.

The light was strong, slanting through the window so fully the edges were shattered, diffused through the room, lighting every detail for my inspection. I had only a few moments; both participants were so consumed, so passionate, so thoroughly prepped that the moment was gone almost as soon as I realized I had it.

It occurred to me, as I watched and brainstormed how to be with this preoccupied pair, that there was no need for me to be. I had done my part and there is a moment when the third becomes third in truth as in conceit. The advantage to our situation was that the edges of our interaction had been delineated prior and so there was no need for insecurity or egotistical fragility. I knew that they would, at some point, reach this pinnacle but I had not yet decided, or even considered, what to do while they were consumed by each other. So I watched.

First I observed his face. Expression is difficult to describe when you have only a moment and that moment is split into micromoments, each filled with its own expression. The impression I came away with was complete rapture. Eyes open, gaze far away, internally focused, filled with the intense concentration that arousal confers; lips parted, no effort spared to close the jaw or turn a frown or a smile, breath quick and shallow, not yet raspy but hints of what might come should they continue long enough.

I notice her back, striped pink flush and pale flesh stretched across ribs. The pattern repeats as she tosses her head back and low but throaty cries force themselves from her throat, the wild horses of legend tearing down a canyon: raw energy irregardless of its surroundings. Her face reflects her arousal: a deep and bright flush that I can only imagine he feels as she envelops and draws him into her. Her hair falls in that combination of perfection and tousle that comes only from the application of vigorous activity. She could have just come in from a run or a swim, but the circumstances are obviously otherwise.

I notice my own body, curiously absent from the action but a direct contributor to the circumstances in which it is occurring. I feel anxious and calm at the same time. I feel an impulse to insert myself into the interaction but immediately on the heels of that impulse I feel an assurance that my participation, while understood and welcome in spirit, are unnecessary. The pleasure of that relief is cathartic, opening my focus not to myself but to them. Thus the observation; the watching.

All too soon it is over. Her orgasm pulled from him his own and the flush begins to fade out as the broader focus fades in and the rest of the room comes to their attention. My moment of observation has passed and my attention is required again as she and I reassure him that he is the kind, lovely, generous, handsome, and trusted gentleman we have always known. The vision of her back, his face, the two entwined, haunts me as I go about my day. I wish for it again. I crave the opportunity to observe two people fucking, not for any voyeuristic pleasure but for the satisfaction of my Kinseyan curiosity.

I have confidence it will happen. Someday I will again watch two people, brightly lit by afternoon sunlight, completely enraptured in each other’s basest desires and shameless of it. Someday I will again watch.

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Office Space

Don’t date coworkers. Isn’t that what they tell you? It’s bad for office morale when the guy in the cubicle next to you is getting some on the clock while the one to your right isn’t getting any at all. I suppose that’s just too damn bad then.

I first noticed him during a meeting that was going way too long. Some hot winded bigwigs were talking about efficiency and productivity, meanwhile taking us away from being productive and decreasing our efficiency. The irony seemed lost on them but what does one expect from corporate bs?

Anyway, he was sitting across and a few chairs down and looked as bored as I was until he caught my eye. He was cute in a normal person way. His features didn’t jump out except in the way he used them to start making funny faces at me. He rolled his eyes a little and winked. He mimed the speaker a little, just enough to make me chuckle inside and think he might be good company for lunch.

After the interminable meeting was over, I approached him to ask if he wanted to take an early lunch to make up for that waste of our time and he agreed. I kind of thought he might, but it still feels good to know I can walk up to a stranger and twenty minutes later have a friend. Because that’s what I was thinking at the time. He seemed funny and was fine enough to look at, but HR would have a fit if anything developed.

Over the next few weeks we started instant messaging each other at work and then texting when we weren’t at work. We had different schedules most of the time so little of our communication was face to face. Before long, though, we were fast friends and I was thrilled when we got the chance to work on a project together.

It was a little over a week into the job and suddenly work had become far more enjoyable. We shared the same schedule now and we both had stayed late almost every day. When we finally called it a day, we went out to drink and eat and talk. It was one of those nights over a couple of beers and a burger that a switch flipped. We were talking about relationships. He had a way of bragging without bragging that interested me. He was telling me about this girl he had been with recently who had a second orgasm while they were together. I had always had a rough time getting even one and the thought occurred to me: if he can give this little tart two (and good for her!) then I wonder if I can get one? With that thought I decided I was going to give him a try.

That night was good but the next day was great. I went home with him, drunk and interested. That first time is always a little awkward and the alcohol got in the way. The next day, hungover but extremely pleased with myself, I could barely contain the sexual energy that bridged the office space between us. Though we were both painfully aware that we were breaking the rules and tried to keep our contact to a minimum, just knowing that he was in the same room had me distracted all day. Our computer messaging was dirty, so dirty, and once just before lunch I had to retreat to the bathroom to do a little de-stressing. My panties were damp and strong with the scent of desire. I hoped the next occupant wouldn’t recognize me or the smell of sex but I couldn’t focus on my work without taking some of the sex drive out of me so I had to take the risk.

Every time he came to my desk to answer a question or look over my shoulder at the project we were trying to work on I could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the air between us. I could hardly think of anything except the two thin layers of clothing separating my skin from his. Very little work got done that day and by the time our coworkers were saying goodbye the heat generated by our friction made me weak. We stayed late to work, as we often did, but as soon as the last person left the office it was all I could do to unbutton his shirt instead of tearing it off.

I remember every detail. He slakes his thirst for my kisses with passion and care. Lips teasing each other, pulling, feeling; hands tasting the curves and planes of our bodies. I can feel the edge of my desk pressing into the back of my ass as he presses his hips against me. We grind together. The feel of his cock, hard and insistent sends a surge of warmth from my chest to my groin. My arousal is so strong and fast it almost hurts. I fumble with his belt until my hands find a break in the defenses and reach their prize. I would kiss it, lick it, pull it into my mouth until I can’t even breathe but my tongue is already busy with his and so I settle for stroking his cock, teasing the tip, using the precum slipping out to make my hands as wet as my pussy.

His hands slide up my skirt, one on either side of my hips to raise it above my ass. I may as well not even be wearing panties for all the good they’ve done to contain the flood. Later I will have to reprint those papers but the tips of his fingers drive the thought from my mind. Our breath and our voices mingle in uncontrollable gutterals. Our hearts pound as adrenalin races through us and between us forming the string between the cans; our bodies communicating through the sliver of space between us. I desire you. I need you. Please.

The moment of first penetration is always the greatest. His head is spongy but firm. It gives just enough to prolong the moment but remains rigid as I feel him slowly, almost painfully slide inside me. I lean back to lie on my desk, hug my knees to my chest, and close my eyes to savor the sensation. Every slow thrust builds a wave of ever increasing pleasure starting with him and flowing to the tips of my fingers and toes. Here, now…. this feels so right. Mind and body synch and flow. I can hear him closing in on his climax. I can feel him leaning over me, hands on me, everything all over me. My body finds its center without me. I’m reaching the cliff. I can see it. I can feel the vertigo as I look over the edge. I fall, no, I leap off the edge. A primal cry tears itself from my throat to mingle with his as we tumble through the air, two eagles in a courtship dance cartwheeling towards certain death.

The aftermath is funny and messy; a combination of shame left over from old social indoctrination and fatalism that something so wonderful and so necessary for the continuation of life is so slippery and goopy and full of endorphins and funny noises. The afterglow is a bond that every time reinforces our friendship.

I know I’m not supposed to date coworkers, but I don’t give a shit. This one is different.

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Car Wash part two ;-)

You answer her question with a moan and a nod. Her focus on your naked hips and jutting cock is all encompassing. You let your head fall back onto the couch as you feel her tongue teasing your smooth head. Her tongue makes a long stroke from base to tip, leaving a trail of slick wetness. She cups one hand under you and wraps the other around your shaft, using that wet trail to slide her fingers up and down, teasing you. “Mmmm, that cock is gorgeous. I can taste the salt of you. I want more” she murmurs. Her hand on your cock’s shaft slides towards the tip, drawing out a bead of thick, slippery precum. She makes eye contact and slowly licks across and around the head of your bulging shaft. Her tongue presses just under the head of your cock. Now her lips tease you, opening just enough to take in the spongy tip. Her tongue sneaks out to lick and press against you and smoothly but suddenly she engulfs you. You can feel her lips just brushing your pelvis as she tries to take all of you into her. You can feel the head of your throbbing cock pressed against the back of her throat. You look down to see her focused, determined to deep throat you until you can’t handle it anymore. She alternates between deep, intense strokes and lightly flicking her tongue around, across, and under you. Those eyes, those hands, that gorgeous womanly form kneeling at your feet, watching your face and smiling around a mouthful of sex at the sounds she draws from you, all is driving you wild.

Yet still you’re not sure to let go or to hang on…

With a sudden decisive move your body almost chooses for you. You stop her enthusiastic movement and pull her up onto the couch with you. At some point during that transition, your shirt has come off as has hers and the two of you work to remove those hot white shorts. The warm scent of her arousal draws you in and with no hesitation you position yourself comfortably with your face between her thighs. You can see she’s already dripping wet and her soft lips are dark red and engorged. The first stroke of your tongue, delving into her hot sex draws a gasp and a heavy moan. Your fingertips gently pinching her nipples draw another and your other hand slipping inside her pussy draw still more moans. It is a wild ride indeed, following her hips as they buck and gyrate, sometimes wrapping your head in the strong hot muscle of her thighs, other times sliding back and forth, practically fucking herself with your tongue and hands. You focus on what she responds to and her moans of ‘yes, more!’ and before long you can feel, see, and hear the ripples of orgasm begin at your mouth and spasm through her legs, belly, and arms. The heart of her orgasm explodes from her lips with guttural, uncontrollable cries. You fill with pride and pleasure, knowing that you’ve brought her to the edge and more. Your cock also rises, full of hot blood and sex, ready to pleasure her if she’s ready for it.

A heartbeat later there is no doubt. She pulls herself up from the couch and wraps her hands around your face, kissing you deeply and reveling in the scent of her orgasm on your face. With words and eyes she asks to feel you inside of her, filling her, pleasuring her deep inside where your hands can’t reach.

In a moment you lie above her, poised. You pause for a heartbeat to take in her flushed cheeks and mussed hair. Her pupils are large with arousal and her hands and legs pull you towards her. Her lips and thighs are parted, ready for you. She is so wet there is almost no resistance as you slip the length of your throbbing cock into her waiting pussy. Your moans come in unison as you both slowly build up speed, her hips rocking up to meet yours as the sensations build. Her full breasts sway with you, their bright nipples hard and sensitive. You can’t help yourself and you reach for one to pinch and tease, drawing a gasp, a shudder, and a smile.

Your orgasm is building again. You aren’t going to stop it this time; it’s practically written on your face. “Wait. Like this” she grins as she disengages and rolls over underneath you to present her rounded ass. “My orgasms are always better like this.”

She closes her eyes and you can see her working her clit with one hand. No hesitation. You hold her hips with your hands and draw her into you as you slide into her. You can feel the entire length of your cock slide into her frictionless pussy. You can feel her hand pleasuring herself and teasing your cock as you thrust again and again, deep and full and pleasurable and ecstatic. Her breath comes ragged, deeper, panting faster with every movement. You can feel both of you building to a peak, a cliff of pleasure that you will happily throw yourself from. “Oh God. Shit! FUCKfuckfuck! I’m comi…ginfsdk!!!” she roars, the words caught in her throat. Her admission is the last straw. Over the cliff you go with her following, both of you on a high of lust, passion, novelty, and release. You complete a few more strokes to draw out your pleasure as best you can, then collapse as the tension leaves your body. For a long moment you both lie, panting, pressed against each other, separated only by a layer of sweat, cooling you both and bringing you slowly back to reality.

The humorous and sticky after effects of your passion take a few minutes to clean and tidy. You are connected by spontaneity and a sense of adventure.

“Lunch?” she offers. “I’ve just got sandwich stuff, so nothing fancy, but I know I’m hungry after all that.” The contented smile on her lips and the flush lingering in her cheek are irresistible, and you know, “a sandwich doesn’t sound half bad, if you’ve got good company to share it with.”

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Car Wash

Seattle rain has yet again turned your sleek black tesla into a gray shadow of its true glory. Instead of trusting the black gold that is the pinnacle of automotive engineering to some kid on the block, you decide to wash this beauty yourself, lovingly and carefully. Armed with a bucket of warm soapy water, a soft cloth, and newspapers for a streak free dry, you begin the delicious chore.

Your neighbor seems to have had the same idea. Her red BMW also lounges on the black asphalt of her drive but it’s hardly the car that catches your eye. Her white shorts show well shaped legs and the swell of her thigh, the bottom curve of her cheeks just hidden above the hem. Her flowered top clings when she turns to reach for the sudsy scrub brush and hints at a full bosom; a peek at her creamy skin visible around her neck. She catches you watching her and she smiles a little.

Flushed to have been caught, you busy yourself looking for hidden pockets of dirt and working on those stubborn dried bugs in the grill. The next time you sneak a peek you catch a glimpse of rounded waist, her shirt lifted as she reaches up to get the roof. Another quick glance and that curved cheek is showing below the hem of her shorts. A fourth look stops you in your tracks; several buttons on the front of her shirt are undone and she’s looking right at you. She knows you’ve been watching, and the sparkle in her eye tells you she doesn’t mind.

Her movements around the car become more exaggerated, she leans across the hood to show a fine view of her posterior and ‘accidentally’ spills some water on her white shorts. Is she wearing red under there? You can almost tell from your driveway, but something tells you she wouldn’t mind you finding out for sure.

Through the flirting eyes and her inviting smile, you manage to finish drying and shining your sexy car’s slick finish, even throwing in a few ‘come hither’ looks yourself. You saunter across the lawn to introduce yourself and offer a helping hand with the finishing touches on your gorgeous neighbor’s sparkling red car, even bringing over some microfiber cloths you ‘just happened to have lying around.’ She introduces herself in turn and the way her lips move when she speaks suggests other ways she might like to use them.

With the outside of the car shined and polished, the two of you turn your attention to the interior. A quick sweep with a vacuum hose is all it really needs but she asks you for your help so you obligingly climb in one door as she slips in through the other. Your suspicions are soon confirmed; it’s not the inside of the car that needs attention, it’s your gorgeous neighbor. Her ‘accidental’ brushes against you are followed with very deliberate looks. The bulge growing in your jeans is obvious. Her interest in it is also obvious. As you both lean over to reach a particularly difficult spot, she moves in and begins to kiss you.

That first kiss is incredible. Here lips are as soft as you hoped they would be and her tongue teases yours. Her hands begin to caress you and you oblige in turn. With hands roaming over each other’s faces, arms, and bodies the smoldering spark of lust is ignited and there is no going back. The vacuum hose falls to the floor, the high pitched hum goes on in the background ,drowning out the noise of the wind and the neighborhood as you twist around each other, reaching as if you can’t get enough.

You break for a moment to catch your breath and look at her with a question in your eyes. She laughs “I suppose we could take this inside?” her voice and eyes are expecting and receiving your emphatic acceptance. You flip the switch on the vacuum and roll up the hose while she moves the car back under the protection of the garage. Moments later you are in her living room, sitting on her couch, kissing like teenagers with her straddling your hips. Your hands slip under her shirt to tickle and tease her nipples under her bra. She moans as she presses herself onto the rock hard bulge under her, muffled by your lips against hers. The last time you felt this pent up was tenth grade… The combination of implicit permission and reminiscence of illicit teenage activity is driving you wild. She begins to unfasten your belt and plays her hands across your cock as she manipulates your clothing. Your desire for this near stranger is both baffling and intoxicating. Her mouth is hot against your neck as she moves down, down with your jeans to the floor. She pauses for a moment with a question in her eyes. ‘May I?’

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Drift

The wine is getting to you. You knew drinking on an empty stomach would do that but for some reason you don’t mind.

You sit across from each other, chatting easily. She giggles at something you said, the wine gently sloshing in her glass and a smile dancing across her face. One hand is holding her glass, the other is squeezing your feet in her lap, absently wiggling your toes and kneading the arches. Between the visual, aural, and physical stimulus you find it hard to focus on the words but the conversations flows easily from topic to topic, a little hummingbird dancing on lips of flowers.

With the wine finished (most of it, anyway) she suggests the two of you take a look behind door number one. It is innocuous, white, with a plain cheap mirror stuck to the front but what it reveals is anything but plain. Soft light from above illuminates a pile of pillows, cushions piled up against the wall making a mound of cream colored squishiness. Her eyes invite you even more than her words and you both sink down toward the floor. The cushions are piled so as to push you together, holding you in the embrace of not only each other but cool pillows and a warm fuzzy blanket.

Time doesn’t exist here. There is nothing to distract from skin against skin and the warmth you generate together. The tingle from the alcohol blends in with the tingle where your bodies meet. It smells of cinnamon buns and coconut and lavender. You could almost fall asleep, murmuring sweet nothings to each other, listening to each other breathe. Her sleepy eyes flutter as she struggles to stay awake and loses. There is no time here.

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Your Courtesan

She wears black every time. It’s almost like she’s found a uniform, though the fabric and style changes. You’ve been back so many times you’ve started to see the same ones, hear the same songs, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not what you’re here for. You’ve watched the furniture come in, seen the walls sprout new colors, helped hang a painting or two, but that’s just being helpful. That’s not what you’re here for. She’s been chatting about the last week. There’s something new but you don’t remember what it was. That’s not what you’re here for. The room is warm and smells sweet, of vanilla, cinnamon, coconut, and lavender. It’s nice, but unimportant. That’s not what you’re here for. She finally lays her hands on you, covered with warm oil, firm yet soft and femenine. There. That’s what you’re here for. The rattle of the radiator fades, the sirens and horns and people talking outside drift into your subconscious. THAT is what you’re here for.

Warm hands, warm oil, and warm words caress you, stroking away stress and the daily monotony. Your shoulders begin to relax. That spot on your back doesn’t hurt so much now. You always forget how awesome a butt massage feels until it happens again, every time. The moments slip away as your legs and feet receive her minstrations. Your arms and hands are coaxed into some semblance of calm. Every once in a while you open your eyes and catch a glimpse of warm rounded hips or a soft curve in her waist. Her breasts brush softly against you as she leans down to trail little tiny kisses down your spine. She smells clean and faintly of woman.

She’s covered you from head to toe in long strokes, kneading motions, caresses, kisses, and a generous amount of oil. She’s been teasing you off and on about what she’d love to do to you and you happily allow it. The contrast between the relaxation and the arousal is electrifying. You’ve wanted this since you walked in the door and now it’s here, an explosion of endorphins followed by long, slow, panting aftercare. As long as you’re here she will use her hands to the best of her knowledge to show you how great you are. Sexy. Desired. Relaxed. Smart. Funny. Helpful. Loved. This is what you’re here for. This is what you’ll come back for.

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Stoner by John Williams

No, this has nothing to do with weed. The novel Stoner is a human drama, the story of William Stoner: son, husband, father, lover, scholar, stoic. Born to poor farmers in Mississippi, Stoner allows his father to direct his fate by attending Columbia university’s school of agriculture in the hopes he can bring back expertise to make the farm more successful. During a sophmore english survey class he falls in love with literature and switches to a literature major. He fails to tell his parents until after graduation that he will not return to help them on the farm at which point his future is once again directed by outside events. World War One is in full swing and the dearth of able bodied men means recent graduate William Stoner finds an open teaching position at his alma mater. After a year or two teaching, our shy, unassuming protagonist meets a beautiful young woman and pursues a goal for the first time in his life. Despite that his fate is yet again decid by another. The mother of his prospective bride decides the details of their nuptuals and we, the readers, have hint after hint that it is not the young woman’s destination as a married woman that motivates her but her past as a coddled but unloved and possibly even abused little girl. His marriage is rocky due in part to his wife’s neuroses and in part to his stoicism which presents as a total lack of reaction.

This story is an intensley human story. I was browsing reddit the other day and came across an admission from a young man who had questioned and rejected his Christian beliefs over time. After telling a shortened version of his conversion, he asks if he should write a book of his story. The concensus was “no, your story isn’t interesting enough” but I disagree. After reading Stoner I think a life doesn’t have to be spectacular to be meaningful and to make a story worth writing about.

First in making the story worth reading was the poetic language. It is, of course, prose, but the word choices evoke such beauty, even amid sorrow, that the story is lifted from the mundane to the extraordinary. Stoner lives through both world wars, participates in neither, and yet is profoundly changed by the war culture which surrounds him. He observes the depression, his wife’s family is directly affected by the stock market crash, yet his position as a tenured professor is under no threat. He observes the world as almost an outsider. The words Williams uses to craft the story of a life are emotionally evocative regardless of whether he describes the intellectual devotion between scholars in love, the joy of rearing a beautiful daughter, Stoner’s pain at his wife’s machinations, or the threadbare connection between Stoner and his family.

Aside from the beautiful and evocative language, the pure humanity of Stoner’s life resonates with anyone who has ever dealt with difficult relationships or moral ambiguity. He is the archetypal stoic, doing what he is supposed to without complaint. He writes his book, teaches his students, rears his child, and cares for his ailing wife all with the same plodding fortitude that we both pity and admire. We, the readers, know that his marriage is toxic and wish escape for him, but it doesn’t even occur to him to seek an out. We can see that he should stand up for himself at home and at work but he doesn’t imagine himself some sort of hero, he simply does what he feels is expected of him with no reservations.

Another aspect of the novel that sets it apart is its subtlety. I’ve read a few books recently (reviews pending) that irritated me in their childishness. I resent feeling my emotions manipulated by superfluous scenes and being spoon fed my philosophy. I mentioned when reviewing some of Robert Heinlein’s novels that while I appreciate the sexual forwardness of his dystopian futures, those same mores are so obvious they are almost insulting. Williams writes about Stoner’s actions, the scenes he finds himself in, but not much about emotions or motivations. There is a scene in the book where Stoner’s wife goes home after her father dies. She painstakingly separates out every item her father has ever given her or been responsible for and destroy it. Williams doesn’t tell us why, nor does he employ the omnipotent narrator to tell us how she feels about it, we simply see the scene and are free to draw our own conclusions. Another scene where Stoner and his lover are writing together, composing surveys of literature independent from each other but in the same room. Their work is interrupted often by lovemaking but again, there is very little to tell us how the characters feel other than what we see. Williams paints brilliant, poignant scenes for us and allows us to see what we wish in them.

We watch William Stoner as he stands up for academic integrity and gets bitten for it. He stands up for his relationship with his daughter and is manipulated out of his home because of it. He falls in love and disregards social mores and in turn watches his lover get run out of town. He works towards a relationship with his daughter only to watch her mother push her into a shotgun wedding and alcoholism. Through it all he remains quiet and thoughtful, a listener rather than a contributor, often helpless in the face of his circumstances. Here is a quiet life, remarkable in its plainness but beautifully wrought. John Williams is a brilliant author. I can only hope that someday someone will write about me the way he writes about William Stoner.

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Good morning indeed

You fade into consciousness and slowly become aware of the sound of the wind in the darkness. You can tell it’s early because the light slanting through the blinds is faint, almost nonexistent. It takes a moment to remember where you are as your mind slowly comes up from sluggish sleep.

That’s where you are; you’re lying next to her. She smells sweetly of fruity shampoo and of the human scent of sleep: skin and breath and warmth. As you scoot into her back and wrap your arm around her she presses herself into you, her perky round bottom fitting like a spoon in a drawer against what is becoming a delightful early morning wood. You’ve wondered your whole life what it would be like to wake up to a woman who delighted in those uncontrollable moments and you smile as you think back on the first time you woke her with a little nudge from behind.

Her tiny early morning moans of appreciation just made it worse. Well, better as it turned out, but how were you to know? She surprised you by pulling your hand up to cup her breast before reaching down to appreciate that delightful chap with a mind all his own. “Good morning” she says, her voice still muffled with sleep. The inflection makes it very clear how she thinks you both can make it an even better morning. It had been such a long week for you both, last night sleep came early and hard and as they say: the mind is willing but the flesh is weak. Is it any wonder this morning came a little bringhter than the last?

Half asleep, you both move with each other, your arousal becoming more obvious all the time. Her arousal you can hear in her heavy breath andt he way she strokes you. With little else on either of your minds, love making in the morning has a delightful simplicity to it. No rushing, no stress, and the warm wash of dreams has left your minds blank except for each other. It’s not long before you both are naked, pressing against each other. She turns her head so she can kiss you, feel the press of your lips together and share hot breath.

The way you fit together perfectly makes this early morning lazy love easy and comfortable. You can wrap your arms around her, tangle your legs together, and she holds you with her arms behind her as you move together, inside her, pleasing and playing with her while she does the same to you. Of course before long you both are wide awake, breathing hard together, diving headling into pleasuring each other and yourselves. Both of your are selflessly selfish. There is no finish line or ulterior motive, it is simply making love. Each of you is inwardly focused and because of your giving nature, both of you are happy and satisfied with the selfishness of the other. You discovered the freedom to explore each other and yourselves long ago. This morning you meet with blank minds and open hearts as uou give and take, sliding at your own pace towards the satisfaction of your desires.

By the time morning twilight has begin to burn off the two of you lay in a panting heap, hot and wet with sweat. Satisfied. Awakened in the greatest possible way. It’s six thirty, half an hour before you meant to get up, and already you’ve accomplished something. The rest of the day will be as full or empty, as stressful or calm as it will be, but no matter. This morning made today a good day.