Category: Mental Pictures

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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.

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Once Upon a Time….

…there was a great King. He held himself in a regal manner and commanded great respect and love throughout his kingdom. He preferred to think of himself as a man of the people, more of a senator than a King but none could look upon his bristling white beard and full belly without knowing that this was a man of great works.

But the King often got lonely in his power. Too many tried to curry favor in one way or another and to retreat from this barrage of favor seekers and sycophants he turned to his concubines. The concubines to the King were not simply pretty things to serve his eyes, they were intelligent, wise in the ways of pleasure, and more beautiful for their knowledge than the most beautiful of foolish young maidens. The familiar scent of roses and sweet candles filled the nostrils of the King as he entered the domain of his women. They greeted him with their wide, sensual smiles and warm, sweet words.

The two women were similar in loveliness and enthusiasm. The taller of the two carried on her crown light red wisps of fair hair and on her shoulders a diaphanous green gown, its presence more to enhance the figure beneath than to conceal it. The smaller of the two displayed a smattering of freckles and a pair of full young breasts barely hiding behind the open front of an overlarge, thickly plushed robe.

“It’s been too long, far too long since we last saw you” whispered the redhead, between kisses. “You must not stay away or the stress of day to day life will overcome you and even our skills will be hard pressed to bring you back.” The berobed young concubine pressed herself against his back and assisted with the removal of his robes while her partner in pleasure assisted from before. Clothes dropped to the floor on all sides until nothing separated the young women from the object of their desire.

“Come, sit, enjoy what we have prepared for you” they said as they led him to the red throne, cushioned for comfort and just large enough for three but small enough that the three were close indeed. They fed the King grapes and chocolate from faraway lands and kissed him by turns. Their hands danced across his chest and arms as they exchanged small words of little meaning and sometimes bigger words with even less meaning. The waltz of hands and mouths went on for some time before the beautiful ladies presented the kind with the dias of pleasure which he mounted with eagerness and anticipation.

As the King’s precious women went about their work, the room grew quiet. The sound of the flames licking in the fireplace became loudest int he room. It blended with the small sounds of pleasure from the three participants and the bare whisper of oil slicked skin sliding along the King’s body. With four hands and two mouths on him he was filled with a pleasant humming of taut muscle and stress of the most pleasurable kind. Minute after agonizing minute the priestesses of pleasure worked the king over. Breath came harder and, once all were ready, so did the King. With a handful of lush femininity and a mouthful of kisses and sweet words, his whole body settled into a deep relaxation. The King’s lovers smiled their satisfaction to each other and set about caring for their beloved. They brought him hot towels for his feet, cool grapes for his mouth, and sweet tea for his belly. They spoke of their fondness for each other and made light of the King’s stress. For this one great hour the King was more than a King, he was a man in the eyes of woman.

Though they were sad to see him go, the women of the King knew great decisions depended on him and they loved him enough to see him off and to wait, though impatiently, for his return. A last few kisses and a warm goodbye left the young women alone again, already looking forward to the next time they would be able to serve the king.

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Squeaky Clean

She’s been in the shower an inordinate amount of time.

You busy yourself tidying the apartment, the tv on for background noise, and think back on the last few hours. After work and working out, she met you right out of the shower with dinner and a kiss. She wrapped her around you and you felt clean and warm. You smile at the memory of her breasts pressed against your chest, how her lips tightened when she smiled while she kissed you, the smell of her hair, and how she tilts her face up to you like a flower turning to the sun. The whole package is worth waiting through a half hour shower, because you know what happens when you are both squeaky clean. All the accumulated grime of the day is washed away and you both smell fresh, warm, she of coconut and you of your aftershave.

Your warm smile turns into a devilish grin as you put some scattered books on the shelf again and imagine what’s going to happen when she finally emerges, dripping hair and hot skin, from her cleanse. You turn around to find something else to tidy and there she is, watching you, loving you, appreciating that you put out the effort to keep your shared home neat and clean. You’re still nesting. It’s your first apartment together and you’ll remember it forever. You always remember your first.

She grins with pride as you look her up and down, appreciating the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts as she stand nude before you, all yours, with a fiery sparkle in her eye. A moment’s silent looking and you come together, hugging and kissing and touching each other with love and fondness and affection and lust all spiraling like a big delicious milkshake just waiting to be tasted. Speaking of….

In the bedroom under the covers a familiar scene plays out, comfortable as old shoes, sweet and new as fresh strawberries. Your hands play over her skin, teasing her nipples hard, raising goosebumps on her arms, brushing gently past her hips, finding all the places you know she loves caressed. She rewards you with little sighs and moans and hushed cries of pleasure. Her hands instinctively reach for the rapidly growing evidence of your desire. Just the feel of it in her hand always arouses her and gives her focus behind her half closed eyes.

You slide yourself down the length of her as you move your face to where you can kiss her sweet lips. You use your tongue to draw even greater gasps from her. Her hips begin thrusting, her breath comes faster, she gets louder and softer by turns. The gasps jumble with words as she is whisked away into some kind of alternate reality where her body is a million coiled springs, it’s pricked by a thousand needles, muscles move independent of thought.

“I need you… I need you with me” come the first distinct words in some time. With her wet sweetness around your mouth you move up to kiss her, sharing the salty sweet taste as the two of you meet. First contact. Shivers. Tight and slick you find yourself moving against her as she arched into you. Now she’s on her belly and you press your hips into the round firmness of her butt. You reach around to cup her breast as she reaches down to touch herself, adding to the intoxication of making love. It’s so wet there’s nearly no friction, only the pressure of you against her, parting and meeting again smoothly, building intensity. She is thrusting back into you. You can feel her fingers almost frantic on herself as she gets closer and closer to her climax. You hold back, partly to prolong your own orgasm and partly to help her find one, too. The second stretch into minutes of heavy breath, hands gripping the bedsheets, shower wet hair tangling in passion and heat.

It’s too much. The sight and sound and feel of such raw, familiar, lust filled activity is too much and to the sounds of her ecstasy you reach a climax. You are lost in her. You are safe with her. A last few sensational thrusts together and motion slows, then nearly stops. She is slowing down with her hands, releasing the tension. She asks you to stay lying there, a comforting warm weight on top of her as you both begin to cool off. Though you’re tired from the last twenty minutes you stay. Because you care. Because it feels good. Because she asked you to.

As your breath returns to normal and the less glamorous aftermath of the evening is taken care of, the comfort of her presence is warming. You know she can’t stay. You know things will take her from you from time to time, but for now, in the afterglow, you cuddle together silently, lovingly, and think of nothing.

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A most wonderful experiment!

As should be obvious, I have recently amended my Modus Operandi to include a mostly unidirectional sensual offering. It has been a few weeks of testing the waters both of the new incall and of the new techniques and, aside from a tiny glitch with the buzzer, it’s been delightful! I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been busy, between buying new sheets and more candles, shopping for new lengerie, and spending time in the company of some truly delightful gents.

My first was at least with someone I knew already. I spent more time giggling with nerves than being sexy, but he was thoughtful and gracious and experienced and it went much like a first encounter with an older lover, one who gives suggestions and advice to make me into a better lover myself. After a few more experiences, I found more confidence. I began to experiment with my craft, with the timing, the order of events, speaking or remaining silent. Of course I have the gentle encouragement of my gentleman friends to thank for that confidence, and for the chance to start to find a groove. I can’t say that I’ve become an expert, yet, but the learning curve is incredible. The transition from one movement to the next is like a symphony of touch that I’m working out, playing, conducting, and composing all at once.

I was not prepared for how silly and awkward I would feel that first time. The first time I made love to one of my friends it was fairly natural and straightforward. I’d made love before, it came naturally. This was slightly different. Not that I’ve never given a friendly massage before, but they had always stayed just friendly. The transition between friendly and friendlier was, well let’s just say I’m glad I have a cute giggle, because I was doing a lot of it. Nervous giggling with a big silly grin on my face. Of course part of that is because I was very much looking forward to the rest of our little get together.

I was also surprised with how thoroughly and consistently my work arouses me. There’s something about being in control of a situation that allows me to fully immerse myself in the playful sensuality of it. I discovered this with my first forays into the hobby: because I have control over the situation, and because I am mentally prepared there are no distractions from the pleasure of your company and your touch. During a massage, the situation is even more under my control and so it is far easier to relax into full dedication to the task at hand. I can feel my breath quicken, my eyes focus, then blood starts to flow to certain sensetive areas where the throbbing tempts me to throw caution to the winds and tumble together in mad passion. I find myself often lounging for a while after, glowing with sweat and oil, toying with myself in the memory of my encounter. In this interaction I get everything I want. I get to give pleasure and get lust in return. I am free to explore budding relationships and am in turn allowed glimpses into other worlds. I provide companionship and receive joy. I am a safe place and that fills me with pride.

In short, I am more than pleased to have begun this journey and I encourage old friends and new to walk with me. I’ve still got a lot of learning to do. Might you fancy yourself my teacher? 😉

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Massage Plus or FBST

You open the door to find a Long hallway complete with red carpet and at the quiet thud of the door behind you a face appears from the kitchen. “Welcome” she says as she comes around the corner. A thin black robe conceals the majority of the young woman but you can see her soft legs invitingly peeking from the hem and her open, welcoming face. “I’ve been looking forward to this all morning. Would you like tea, coffee, water, or perhaps something a bit warmer?” she says with a wink. You know from last time there is always something around to warm your belly.

The shower is hot and you begin to relax already, memory and anticipation melding together like spices into mulled wine. When you emerge from the bathroom clad in a big fluffy towel she greets you again with a chaste kiss and a mug of warm comfort. Soft French jazz coming from behind a closed door holds promise as the two of you sit on the couch to sip your drinks and catch up, establish sore spots, and enjoy a little face time.

The sheets on the table are smooth and cool. The candles on the shelves warm and make the room glow as if you’re in a dream. The oil on your back is slick and the hands are soft but firm. The conversation drifts in and out as your muscles begin to release the tension of holiday shopping and the stresses of work. You catch a glimpse in the mirrors of a face, a leg, the smooth curve of her bosom or hip as she moves around you, helping you stretch and relax, the oil drizzling across your back and spilling onto the sheets.

With a few words and a naughty little smile she lets you know you’re ready. Before the relaxation wears off, you’re lying on your back, enjoying as your arousal rises under her skilled and playful hands. There’s a look in her eye that tells you she likes it. She loves watching as you respond to her touch as much as she did when it was designed to soothe and relax. There is a rhythm to it, a cresting wave you can watch in the muscles and the eyes, the sound of someone enjoying themselves, totally selfish, absorbed, pampered, pleasured. The wave crests in a moment of slick, dirty, gorgeous release and after taking a moment to regain your senses, you open your eyes to a satisfied grin, a warm cloth, and a moment of closeness in the afterglow. The rest of your body is well attended; arms and hands, shoulders and feet all receiving her talented and well-schooled ministrations.

The shower after is relaxed, a moment to remember and savor the best parts. You emerge to a drink refreshed to keep you warm and hydrated and a kiss, less chaste than before. You are warm and safe and sexy. Those knots you’ve been trying to work out for ages have been calmed for a while and the endorphins from the final rush add to the glow. You savor those last few moments, looking forward to floating through the rest of the day and to the next time you can treat yourself to ninety minutes of warm, firm, sensual heaven. You chat of trifles and promise to come back soon, back to the hands waiting to warm you and that naughty little smile, waiting to devour you 😉

Or maybe next time you choose a higher energy option. Instead of a slow, soft greeting you find your lips and lap occupied within moments of opening the door. You’re reminded of that high school girlfriend; a good little Christian girl with a sinful appetite. You never quite went too far but even through her jeans she used you shamelessly. You lose your clothes with no delay and chase her to the table. Firm hands and full body strokes are less relaxing, more teasing teasing as you feel breasts, lips, and fingertips sliding across slippery skin and roaming into all sorts of naughty places. You can feel her weight as you become her personal jungle gym, knees and hips joining hands and arms to knead and tease, prolonging your arousal. Sweet nothings drift to your ears and your hot breath makes you both shiver. It’s been both forever and no time at all when her weight gently slips off of you and it’s time to roll to your back. You turn over and the sight is a welter of curves, smoldering eye contact, and the candles shining on thick streams of coconut oil. Breath, breasts, arms, hands, belly, and thighs all create their own sensations as she rides you and shares deep, long kisses. Your breath rises high and fast together. This isn’t your ordinary sensual massage, this is the closest thing to sex you can find without actually having it. You move together and the resultant mess is a sign of your satisfaction. You have time, still, to relax and receive some deep therapeutic bodywork on your hands and feet before washing off the aftermath and dressing again. If you’ve chosen to stay long enough there may even be time for round two, but that’s up to the mood and the moment. Next time you’ll have to opt for the relaxation style again; you’ve got to save your strength for this high energy seduction.

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Pant(ie)s!!

First, a nod to one of my favorite musical artists of all time: Jonathan Coulton

I have to wear a uniform at work. Up until recently it was: black shoes, black tights, black pencil skirt tailored to mid thigh, black suit jacket and baggy blue undershirt. Tights. Every. Night. Now I don’t have a problem with tights. I have quite a number of them in varying colors, textures, patterns, and levels of sexpot but wearing boring black tights eight hours a day, five days a week, 52 weeks a year… it gets old. Last week was glorious. Last week we got pants. This is a huge accomplishment for our manager who has been lobbying on behalf of the women here for several years against the stodgy sensibilities of the owners. Women can’t wear pants because… well, we’re women! We are also not allowed to actually tend bar, but that’s not a formal restriction, it’s just how the owners like it and… well, that’s another story.

Right now the story is of the pants! We are supposed to purchase our new pants from Macy’s but I, as a denizen of the night, am not often downtown when the store is open and so have been wearing yoga pants to work. It is glorious. I’m sure it’s highly inappropriate because boy do they cling to the backside, but it’s so freeing and relaxing. They are even high waisted so I can tuck my shirt in which is more than I can say for the Macy’s fashion work pants. Of course the butt-hugging nature of the yoga pants means boy-shorts or lacy panties only, to avoid lines and maintain an illusion of decorum. This brings me to my metaphysical revelation of the day: wedgies can be fucking hot.

Wedgies? I know, weird, but hear me out, ok? The word wedgie is awful and not sexy at all. It comes with connotations of middle school bullying, streaks, and that uncomfortable tickle that must. be. satisfied. However, as I walk around my little castle behind the desk I notice that my sexy gray lacy panties are hugging my soft round cheeks very well. I am acutely aware that, were I not wearing pants, the bottom of my bottom would show, that little ass shelf made by a woman’s finely rounded tush when she stands with legs straight and back arched. The mild discomfort of the lace tracing little crescents atop my moon reminds me with every step that under my clothes I look sexy as hell. I’m a little seductive demon in gray and I know it. The knowledge is sexy and it shows in my face and my walk. I don’t much like thongs, but I can absolutely understand now why they make women feel sexy. When I feel that little string tickling my rosebud, I know my apple is in the eye of every man in the room and the lust is palpable. So when you think ‘aren’t they uncomfortable?’ the answer is yes, they are delightfully, sexily uncomfortable and that’s why we wear them.

I think I may buy a few more pairs this week 😉

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Welcome the Rain

The weather has finally turned. The sky is steely blue, fluffy with clouds and misty with that rain that’s not ahrd enough to warrant an umbrella, but just cold and damp enough that the drops tapping the tops of my breasts are uncomfortably noticeable. The day is finished. I’ve completed the tasks that might take me outside for the day and what little else needs doing requires energy I do not have. I like the dark. I prefer being in the dark when alone. It’s cozy and chill enough that I’m constantly wrapped up in that fuzzy sweater I appropriated from your closet a while back. I’m wearing it now. The neck is wide enough that my collar bone shows and the thin strap of my camisole is visible. Below the sweater I’m wearing loose workout pants and fuzzy pink slippers to protect from the cold kitchen floor. The dishes are done and while I hate to make more, hot cocoa is on the agenda. The patter of the rain against the window and the gentle rolling boil of the kettle are all the soundtrack I need to enjoy this kind of weather. I think about lighting a fire but I’m too lazy; I’ll wait until you get home for that. Instead I take my cocoa upstairs where the heat has risen to fill the loft with warmth. There’s even some lingering scent of apple pie from yesterday when I left you to your devices and you produces a masterpiece. Perhaps I’ll have a small slice. Later. Right now my goal is bed and warmth.

I’ve slipped between the sheets and chosen the book I want. It’s my dirty little secret: a book of erotica I found at a second hand store. It’s cheesy and smarmy but between the lines I insert my own life and adventures. The slender, gentle hands of the musician/lover become your hands in my mind and the gentle banter between the Mary Jane and her lover become the tease, the laughter we’ve shared so often. The insertion of my own life makes the steamy scenes all the more real for me 😉

The cat is napping near my feet. I’ve finished my cocoa and while my hands are warm, I’m thinking of a little something to warm up the rest of me. The bedside table has a little stash of toys we use when we play together, but sometimes it’s fun to play by myself. But first thing is first: The Tease. I pick up my phone and snap a picture of myself, robe askew, with the toys visible but not prominent and perhaps most of a breast in view and send it to my lover, stuck at work on this dreary day with a little tease about how I miss you. Don’t you wish you were here right now? The mental foreplay, between the book and knowing I’ll have you fired up on the other end of a camera phone, has me giggling and gasping in no time. I have all the time in the world so I can stop and start, taking photos as I go of my hands on my breasts (wish they were yours), then one of the toys poised to enter and stimulate (I can’t wait for you to come home and do it for real. Nothing can replace your magnificent cock, my love), maybe a few more texts describing how I feel, tantalizing you, frustrating you with what you can’t have right this minute, though you know all bets are off once you get home.

When I turn it on, the cat looks over lazily but I have no time. In my hands I hold a bit of silicone and wiring but in my mind it’s you. You are the musician serenading me into bed, you are the carpenter, lifting my hips from the bed, you are the soldier returning from your long absence to love and pleasure me. My eyes are closed, my breath is short, my cheeks are flushed as the images in my mind get more and more explicit, the thoughts dirtier and my body moves closer to orgasm. It’s not the same. It’s never as good, but I’m pleased by the short but releasing orgasm and the aftermath in which I snap one last photo. I’m looking into the camera. It’s the afterglow. Were you here my head would be on your shoulder and our scent would mingle and we would gasp together. I promise you that by the time you get home I will want you just as much as always, but for now I slip into sleep, the cat purring on my feet, the rain pattering against the window, and your face leading me into my dreams.

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A good damn night

This is a tale of fiction and fantasy, written to stretch my skills at imagery and also to tease and please the mind. This is not a guarantee of

I had a long night last night. No one was cooperative, nothing got done, and someone in the kitchen left the stove on and burnt some sauce all to hell. Of course no one noticed until the middle of the night when smoke starts drifting into the lobby. Breakfast was late, I missed the bus, and it was Sunday morning so a longer wait for the next one than usual. What should have been an easy night and a twenty minute ride turned into an ordeal by fire. All of these things by themselves are no problem, but everything at once? Come on! The half mile trudge through the rain to get home was the cherry on top of my shitty Sunday. All I wanted was a shower and to sleep.

There’s something about taking a hot, steaming shower that melts the worries of the day away. I’m torn between soaking longer and knowing you are in bed waiting for me. It’s the weekend and while I’m busy every night making sure other people’s vacations go off smoothly, you got to go out and have a good time, texting me all night, asleep by four in the morning, blissful and calm. I can’t wait to join you.

After my shower I’m warm and damp, my skin glowing from the hot water. My skin is smooth and soft, waiting for a kiss of lotion to seal the softness in. My hair is damp and smells like coconut, sweet and buttery, waiting to dry and fall in a soft silken halo around my face. I feel tired and relaxed, unwinding and getting ready to climb into bed next to you, wrap my arms around you, rest my head in the hollow of your shoulder, and twine our legs together to sleep.

Of course you have other ideas…

As I slip into bed with you, you turn and kiss me. Our hot breath mingles a little as our lips meet, caress each other, remove what worries I have left. I can feel affection in the kiss, and sleepy interest… a hint of lust waking up. I know what you have in mind. You tell me all the time how much you love to make me wriggle and moan and breath heavily with your tongue and your hands. Normally after a night like last night I just want to sleep, but the memory of our previous encounters and the powerful orgasms you’ve given me before entice me to stay awake. After so many times together we know each others’ rhythms and you can tell by my smile and the small flirty giggles and sighs that I’m open to a little interlude before slipping off to sleep.

I love it when you’re firm and gentle. Your right hand presses against my shoulder, pushing me onto my back where I can lie in perfect relaxation and enjoy the pleasure you bring as your fingertips brush across my skin. It’s the lightest touch, like a kitten’s fur, a rose petal against the skin… silken. Because I can barely feel it it demands my attention. My skin has such terrible sensitivity I can’t escape feeling that tingle across my skin. Your fingertips start at my lips, taking in the softness and how pliable they are, making use of the millions of nerve endings to send shivers down my spine and out to my toes and fingertips. You trace the curve of my cheek and that silly =dimple in my chin and though my eyes are closed (all the better to focus on the feeling) I know you’re looking at me, listening to me, drinking in the reactions you’re drawing from me. I can feel you brush across my collarbone, then lower, drifting close but not just yet to my nipple which is fast hardening, anticipating the touch.

Thoughts flit into and out of my mind too quickly to follow. Nothing noteworthy, just the assorted confusion of a day of sensory input. All of it is being overpowered by this tiniest of feelings, your fingerprints catching on the goosebumps you raise on my skin. Waves flow under my skin, rippling away from where you touch me, feeling exactly the way the water must feel on a sandy beach, when that top layer of fine, fine sand skitters to and fro just under the waves. It’s as if my skin is the water, the sand is below the surface of my skin, and it tickles and tantalizes and moves in waves back and forth, chasing relaxation and sleepiness before it and leaving dunes of desire and arousal behind. As your hands move up and down me the ripples move ahead of them and farther; I can feel the silken sand in my hard nipples, my thighs, and my arms… between my legs even. You know my rhythms and you keep going just past the point where I want you to touch me harder, denying immediate gratification, forcing me to go just past the point of need but not so far I can’t feel it anymore.

Your lips and tongue begin their work on me, bringing new sensations. Every time you gently wiggle my nipple with your tongue or your lips, there is a fire stoked between my legs. It doesn’t take much. Less is definitely more here. I’m so close to being ready but you know the anticipation hasn’t built enough yet. Your hard cock is resting against my hip, throbbing and leaving trails of slick, sticky precum, but not close enough to where I want it. I want the head of your hard cock, slick with desire and sex, to press against me and slide over my clit. No hands, no tongue, no silicone gadget can ever replace the perfect soft firmness of what has to be the most flattering and unfakeable evidence of your enjoyment of and desire for me.

You’ve made the decision, I can tell. You look at me with a mischievous twinkle in your eye and move yourself down, settling between my knees as I spread my legs eagerly. I remember last time, and the time before, and the time before. Much like good food, I can’t get enough of great sex. You pause a moment, heightening the tension, then use your soft fingertips to open me until you can see how wet I’ve become. The scent of a clean, healthy young woman is one I personally enjoy. I love kissing my lover right after you’ve spent good time on me. I can smell and taste the wetness from my pussy on your face. I can tell you got into it because it’s on your chin, and you have to take a moment to wipe some of it off before you kiss me again.

Your tongue touches my clit and I spasm. It’s so gentle it’s almost painful. I want you to lick me, hard, press yourself into me, but you know that after only a moment of that I can’t take anything else so you don’t allow me what I want, you instead dole out what is best for me, for this sex. I have the image in my mind of you entering me, sliding inside me after you’ve made me so wet I’m dripping and at the same time I have the feeling of your tongue and lips stroking and sliding all over my clit and around it, sending sensations rocking through my body. You use your fingers gently but firmly to stimulate me as if you were sliding inside me, causing even more desire. Your hands are slender, soft, and warm, but they are not enough; they are not your cock. I want you inside me and you deny me while at the same time pleasuring me. I have to remind myself to be careful with the spasms that bring my legs together around your ears, I don’t want to hurt you but it’s hard to control. The backs of my knees are on your shoulders, my hips heave, and you ride my shudders. Your hands wrap around my legs and hold onto my hips. I draw you as close and as hard into me as I can for long seconds. A string of gasps and epithets, a series of words like a sex mantra drawn from the base mind that has no words for what is happening, and no attention to spare for finding them. Images flicker through my mind as fast as sensations flood my body. I like to call these my little orgasms. There is no discernible climax, only a flood of heightened sense and a feeling of needing more, more, more. An addiction that can only be satisfied by full, firm penetration. I’ve passed the point where I need to be fucked but I can’t being myself to ask you to stop your work on me. There’s not enough thought left to make a decision until finally I can’t take it anymore. I break my catch 22. I need you.

I sit up, interrupting your enthusiastic, thorough tongue fucking, and you know. You’ve known, but with part sadistic desire to push me, part selfishness, part single-mindedness you didn’t want to give up so easily. We both know I need you to fuck me, but not yet. It’s my turn.

I draw you up next to me and push you down on your back so I can reach your erection with my hands and my mouth. At this point I lack the finesse and restraint you have displayed. I’m already holding back on impaling myself on your erection so that I can take it as deep as I can and pleasure you with my mouth and my hands. Being penetrated turns me on, even if it isn’t exactly where I really want it, so while one hand is grasping what I can’t fit in my mouth, stimulating you as firmly as I can, my other hand wanders to where your mouth just was. The more I slide my mouth up and down on your cock the wetter I get until I’m past the end of my rope. I’ve fallen from it and my only option is to fuck you.

The moment of first penetration is incredible. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for half an hour now while we teased and licked and sucked on each other. We’ve been pleasuring each other for what seems like forever but this is what I needed. You sink deep inside with no resistance. At this point we’re both so slick and wet it’s almost frictionless. I can feel the ridge at the head of your cock pressing into the soft yeilding walls of my pussy as I sink down, lower, until I can’t take any more of you. The pressure inside me feels so satisfying. I want it again. I lift myself up and down again, savoring the feeling of penetration. I love it. Your cock is hot and firm and slick and velvety. Your face as I fuck you is ecstatic. I feel like a goddess bringing unexplainable and powerful feelings to my worshiper. I love the way you put your hands on my ass and pull me into you, like no matter how deep you push into me, we can’t be close enough. I love how you sound when you moan how much you love the way I feel.

I’m completely focused on your cock in my pussy and my hand on my clit. Between the two sensations I can feel an orgasm building. I’m leaning over you, panting into your ear and thinking about how much I want to feel you come inside me. I want to feel you filling me. I want to hear your orgasm on your breath and in your voice. My mind conjures images of cum spurting from your cock and into me, onto my clit, hot and salty and sexy. Between panting and swearing I tell you I’m close. You grab my ass and it send me over the edge. I bury my face in the pillow and yell. I’m swearing to God and crying out in pleasure. With my hand I can feel the muscles in my pussy contracting around your cock as the waves make me shudder and yell. I feel release. I’m not done yet.

The thought of your orgasm keeps me wet while I up the pace. You’ve given me a body shattering orgasm and I’m hoping to return the favor. I tell you not to hold back, it’s your turn now. I know I’ve only got a limited amount of time before I can’t take the sensations anymore so I take full advantage of my endorphin high to fuck you like a porn star. Our hips come together as I ride you, your hands on my ass pressing me harder, faster, until I can feel that moment right before your orgasm when your cock gets rock hard, your breath shortens, you break your focus and concentration and start swearing along with me. I can feel the spasms of your body as you come inside me and I grind my hips down to yours so your pelvis presses on my clit. It’s almost like I get to have two orgasms. I love everything about this. My body tenses with you and relaxes with you. I start rubbing my clit again, gently, with your cock spent but still firm inside me. It feels good but I can’t last.

I lay down on top of you, still entwined, sated, happy, sleepy. I suppose it wasn’t such a bad night.