blistered lips

Your eyes have always held me. Lashes longer than a boy’s should ever be. Yet the beauty of all that you are is captured in their shadow.

So I watch those eyes, your cheek sweet against my thigh, so close that I know you can smell me. My hands, their shyness conquered by your unbridled ferver, move down my belly and to my cunt.

One hand would have been enough. You wouldn’t have asked for more.

But now I want you to see, need you to see: The way I pull the lips of my cunt wide, extending a finger, just one finger, running it along the roseate slickness to press the tumescent ruby of my clit.

It’s for you. Only for you. Now watch me cum. Watch me make myself cum only for you.

Anybody who believes that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne

Was it Mrs. Gump who said Vanilla is as Vanilla does?

What I am proposing with this simple little entry is that quite probably the term vanilla (when applied to sexuality) just might be on the verge of vernacular extinction.

Case in point: I was recently discussing said topic with a college student I am tutoring (yes, he does flirt and yes, I do tease) when he told me that, “These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird.” I got such a kick out of that, as you might imagine. Particularly since this certainly wasn’t the case only a few years ago when I, myself, was a student!

But you have to admit that my little friend could very well be onto something here. And it emphasizes my rather vague—but nonetheless valid—suggestion that, just perhaps, when it comes to the difference between vanilla and kink we might just be splitting hairs.

His comment got my admittedly little (but always industrious) brain to pondering upon the glorious games boys and girls have forever played. (The problem for the boys is that nobody has ever told them that the girls always win. They—aching members in hand—go directly to jail and do not pass go, while we—oblivious and sexy in our nylons and heels—are busy buying Park Place and building little red hotels.)

Another gentleman recently regaled me with stories of his search for a Mistress throughout the 1960s and early 1970s, when even finding reference to such things was next to impossible. Yet search he did, eventually exchanging long-distance missives with a number of “incognito” Pro-Dommes.

So maybe things weren’t always as vanilla as we’ve supposed? Perhaps kink is all a matter of one’s particular perspective? Could it be that the only difference between then and now is that rather than hiding or burying our sexual proclivities, we embrace them?

Wasn’t it Janis Joplin that said, “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose?”

Anyway…just some food for thought.

i think of you:

your warrior’s heart
its toughened blister
-but not for me
-not ever for me

has served you well:

keeper of your flame
it’s kept your secrets
kept your seasoned wit
kept your quiet expectations
kept your easy wisdom

kept you for me
everything for me
all of you for me
always for me
forever for me

just waiting for me:

to untether its strings
puncture its wound
untangle its weave

and I am here:

so that we shall fold
this rare metal
this precious metal
this noble metal
this keeper of your heart
this weathered chain mail

and keep it safe
as it has kept you

You are thinking you are just about the luckiest guy in the world tonight. The sexiest girl in the hotel bar, every man was watching her, yet she chose you. Now in your hotel room, she is undressing you, stopping to touch, kiss, lick every bit of flesh as it becomes exposed. Everytime you reach for her, she pushes your arms back. “No, no, no,” she whispers, “I want you to take. I want to give.”

Kneeling in front of you, she runs her long, red nails over the the bulge of the erection straining against your crotch. “Are you hot, baby? Are you hot for me? You know I want to fuck you, baby? You know that, don’t you?” You groan reaching down to run your fingers through her blonde hair.

“You’re so beautiful, Cherie” you whisper when she looks up at you. “You’re so hard,” she answers, tugging at your zipper. You both watch as she pulls your cock through the open fly. “Oh, fuck, this is the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen,” she says then brushes her open, moist lips down the throbbing shaft, her tip of her tongue weaving across it’s engorged throbbing veins.

Abruptly, still holding onto your cock with her hand, she stands up. When you go to grab her, she again grabs your arms. “No, honey, this is your night. You get it all and I’m the one that’s going to give it to you.” Still holding your arms she pulls you to the bed.

“I want to go down on you,” you tell her as she begins undressing you. She is tugging at the legs of your pants, when you reach down and grab her ample breasts. She shivers, but still pushes your hand away. “Now what did I tell you, lover? Be a good boy.”

Once you are naked, she pushes you back against the pillows. She climbs on top of your belly, her red dress pulling tight against her open thighs. You can see the top of her hose and garters, the smoothness of the thighs above them. Grasping your hands, she laces her fingers through yours, gripping tightly. Then leans over, her yellow hair a halo around both of you, and looks deep into you eyes.

“Are you really sure you want to go down on me?”

“More than anything.”

“You’re absolutely positive?” She licks your mouth, then runs her tongue down your neck to your right nipple and bites it. You moan and try to untangle your fingers, but she clenches tighter and starts moving up your belly.

“I have a suprise for you,” Cherie says as slides her shins over your upper arms, pinning them to the bed. As her crotch looms over your face, she finally releases your hands and reaches behind her, grabbing your cock and stroking it again.

And then she is pushing her thighs against your cheeks, shoving the crotch of her black, lace panties against your face. Something rock hard is grinding against your chin, your nose, your mouth.

“I told you I wanted to give,” Cherie pants as she rocks faster against your face. “I’m giving you my cock.” At first you try to push up, push her off of you, but she bears down and tightens her thighs. “You said you wanted to go down on me.” With her free hand she pulls her panties down so that her dick pops out over the top. She grabs it and rubs it all over your face, then, matching the rhythm of the hand around your dick, begins jerking it against your slack mouth.

“Open up, honey. Open up and take this hard piece of meat in your mouth.”

Watching her stroke her cock and feeling her stroke yours at the same time, you open your mouth. “That’s a good boy. Pretty Cherie has a nice cock, doesn’t she? That’s it, wrap those pretty lips around it”

And you start sucking and you want her cum more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

Groaning, Cherie starts riding your mouth. “You want it? You want my load? You want to swallow my cream, cocksucker? I got a lot of cum for you, baby.”

She thrusts forward and you feel her cock jerking and sliding off the back of your tongue and into your throat. She starts stroking your cock hard and fast. “Cum with me, baby,” she screams, “do it.” And then you are riding the wave together, you’re bucking your hips, fucking her hand as hard as she is fucking your mouth.

Then she is filling your mouth, your throat. And you are spewing yours all over, wherever. And it is the hottest sex you’ve ever had and you know that you will want this again and again.

Cherie slides her cock out of your mouth and moves down to stretch across your chest, her lips at your ear. She kisses your cheek then whispers, “Let’s rest a little bit, then go for round two. Remember what I promised you, what I said?” Catching your breath, feeling the sticky sensation of her cum still on your teeth, you try to remember.

“What?”

“I said I was going to fuck you, honey.”

“What’s this? What are you doing?”

Caught. Caught jerking your teenage dick. You try to hide the porn magazine and pull the sheet up, but Catherine has already made it from the door to your bedside.

“Don’t pull that sheet up. A little too late for that, don’t you think? And what are you looking at. Let me see it.”

Sheepishly, you hand Catherine the magazine, turning crimson when you realize the page it is opened to. She looks at the page, then looks at you.

“You like playing with that little boy chubby while you’re looking at dirty pictures like this? Is this what gets you stiff?”

Catherine shoves the magazine in front of you, pointing to the high-gloss page. You stare dumbly at the filthy picture and feel your cock twitch. You glance at Catherine, hoping she hasn’t noticed. “Well,” Catherine snarls, “answer me, young man.”

“I, er, I mean…”

Catherine laughs. “Just admit it. You like it dirty. You want to do filthy things with bad girls. Like this.” She points to the page again. “What’s that guy taking up his ass? Huh? Tell me.”

As she says this, Catherine sits on the edge of your bed. In an instant, the anger that had colored her face is replaced with a sly smile. As she takes the magazine and tosses it onto the floor, she pushes your sheet to the bottom of the bed.

“Spread your legs.”

“What?”

“I said…” Catherine grasps both of your thighs and roughly pulls you down onto your tailbone while pulling your legs a part. “…spread your fucking legs.”

“Now,” she continues, “grab that hog of yours and start stroking it. Let me see you beat off that teen cock.” She reaches out, grabbing your hand and forcing your fingers around the shaft, then guides your hand up and down. “Go ahead. Up and down. That’s it. Keep it up.” She takes her hand away. “Do it. Jerk that meat.”

Your cock is rock-hard again as you start playing with it, watching Catherine watch you. You feel nasty and dirty. You like being watched. You like Catherine watching. A drop of pre-cum is already bubbling from the head. “Oooh, look at that,” Catherine purrs, “you like being a dirty little masturbater for Catherine.”

Moving her hand over your balls, Catherine cups them and squeezes gently. “We’re going to make little jack-off boy cum so hard,” Catherine says. Then she is putting the finger of her other hand into her mouth. She raises an eyebrow while looking at you and making sucking sounds. When she pulls the finger out of her mouth, it is glistening wet. “Guess where I am going to put this finger, babycakes,” she says, and you watch as she puts the finger between your open thighs.

When her finger touches your asshole you almost explode. “Not yet,” Catherine whispers, “keep stroking while I start working this finger in.” Not even realizing it you scoot down and open your legs wider. Catherine giggles. “Oh yeah, you want it bad, don’t you?” She starts pushing in and out, wiggling it around. You are moaning. It feels so fucking good.

“Do it,” Catherine says. “Stroke that cock and shoot the teenage load of cum. Show me what a dirty little fuck you are.”

Suddenly, she jams two fingers into you, all the way to the hilt.

And you are cumming so hard that you can feel your ass clenching her fingers with every jerk of your cock as it spews in every direction.

Easing her fingers out of your ass, Catherine leans over and kisses the gooey head of your dick. She looks at you, holds up the fingers that were just in your ass and wiggles them.

“That was just the beginning. I’ll be back later with a dildo just like the one in the magazine.”

“From now on,” she is saying, “you will wear panties. No arguing. No protesting. I’ve disposed of your boxers; every last pair. Come, Andy, let me show you.”

She’s always called you Anderson before. Your given name. The one you prefer.

But this is the beginning you’ve known was coming for a while now. Since the night she came home and caught you.

She’d been so quiet and demure when you’d married. When you look back, you think those qualities were what drew you to her. That somewhere deep inside you knew; that you knew even then that your fetishes and desires needed some kind of cap. That her softness, her goodness would keep you safe from your own demons.

But she’d caught you. One of those rare occasions you’d indulged your desires. Alone, your beloved out for the night. That’s what she’d told you. No reason to expect her until late. And you couldn’t resist. Found the pink lace thong you’d bought her for Valentine’s Day, slipped it up over your thighs, your stiff prick.

You were so devastated when she’d walked in finding you masturbating into the crotch of those panties, a pair of her soiled ones across your face. Now she knew. Knew your naughty, dirty secret. But the shock, the revulsion was quickly replaced with a smile. She giggled; told you how ridiculous you looked. And there was a look in her eye that you didn’t understand. Though, now you do.

Because she took over from that point on. Making you wear panties sometimes when you fucked her. Then making you lick her cunt while wearing panties and humping the mattress. Sometimes right before you were going out with the guys she would insist you wear panties. She even bought you a few pair of your own, very feminine, satin and lace. You were at her mercy because the panties felt so good and dirty at the same time.

And you couldn’t say no. There was a power exchange the night she caught you. You realize it now. And, as you follow her to the bedroom, you realize that things are never going to be the same, will never go back to the way they were. Maybe you like this. Maybe you’re glad to finally be the panty slut you’ve always secretly wanted to be.

The top dresser drawer is open. You see satin, nylon, ribbons, bows. It’s not a man’s drawer anymore. You look at her.

“What about when I go to the gym?”

She ignores your question, reaching for a pair of the panties–white with little pink and yellow hearts. She holds them up in front of you.

“Put these on, Panty Andy. Be the little Panty Slut you know you want to be for me.”

She’s never called you anything like that before. You blush. But you also feel your prick responding to the calm authority of her words, the intuitive power in her demeanor. You slowly begin removing your jeans. Her words have hypnotized you. You only need to do what your Goddess Wife says. That is all that matters.

When the jeans are lying next to you on the floor, she hands you the panties, then reaches for a tube of lipstick. “What’s that for, honey,” you say as you pull the panties up over your pelvis, feeling the rush of pleasure as your prick drags along the soft fabric.

She looks at the panty tent your erection has caused and snickers. Again, she ignores your question. “Here, stand in front of the mirror.” You move to her side as she takes the lid off of the lipstick tube. “Close your eyes, Panty Slut.” Because it is all you can do, you close your eyes. You feel the lipstick, guided by her firm hand, moving across your torso. All the while she is laughing. You get the weird sensation that you are hearing her in stereo, but chalk it up to the surreal-ness of what is happening.

Finally: “Okay, open your eyes.”

You slowly open your eyes to see your chest, your ribs, your belly smeared with pink lipstick, spelling out the truth. Even backwards you can read it, because you’ve always known it. And you see Jessica standing at the bedroom door. Jessica, your wife’s best friend. Jessica’s lips are twisted into a lewd grin. She is shaking her head, like she is disgusted with you, perhaps even finds you pitiful. She mouths the words, “You are so fucked.”

“Read it out loud for me and Jessica.”

And you do.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a panty slut. I am not a real man. I am panty slut Andy.”

As humiliating, as embarrassing as your dilemma is, you are more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. Your prick is leaking into the panties, a gray bloom spreading across and down the front of them.

“Now, Andy Panties, show Jessica how hot you are. Rub the front of those wet panties. Yes, you’ve leaked all over them, haven’t you? Now rub them and read your little mantra again and again until you cum in those panties in front of us.”

You know you should stop this. But you can’t, because you want this, you need this. And so you begin rubbing.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a….”

But it’s too late. Because you are coming so hard that your knees are buckling, your asshole and balls are twitching.

“I told you that would happen,” Jessica tells your wife.

“Now you’ve got him by the balls. Forever.”

Mary’s queer, the kids said. She’s fat and queer and stupid and ugly.

They made fun of her crush on Michelle, the class princess. Teased her, taunted her, harassed her. Called her Pussy Breath and Muff Diver. Michelle laughed it off, even was kind to Mary — at least when no one was around to see.

So long ago and far away, yet the scars linger, fading and blooming as childhood wounds forever do.

This is Manhattan. This is today. Now see Mary:

Tall and blonde, successful and happy. Loved by Elizabeth who kisses the scars on those rare occasions when they make an appearance. Mary is making love to Elizabeth in the bed of a thousand roses. That’s what they call it, after the rose petals, Elizabeth’s romantic gesture on their first anniversary.

Mary is touching the quiet slope of her lover’s breast, watching the goose flesh quiver in response. She runs her thumbnail across the raspberry nipple, watching it spring from under the enamel edge. Elizabeth moans, whispers, I love you. Mary knows this is true, yet it still fills her with wonder, with awe, that love runs this deep, this true for her.

I love you, too, she whispers back, spreading Elizabeth’s legs. Let me show you how much. I am going to make you cum with my mouth, darling.

She lowers her face to the moist labia before her. Ever so slowly, just so she can savor the scent of her lover’s arousal.

Somewhere far away a woman named Michelle — whose story is of sadness and betrayal, and not to be told here — would give all to be loved like Mary for just one day.

She is watching you. You feel her eyes, lasers watching every move, every nuance, even the breaths you take. Yes, you paid her for this. To be here, to make you do this. But she is enjoying it. She likes her work. She likes making you do this dirty deed. This realization excites you.

You are on your knees in an alley off Garfield street. Not a very nice neighborhood. You can hear the music, the noise of the crowd from the biker bar on the corner. “Soon they will come,” she says. The gravel crunches as she moves closer, cupping your chin, pulling your face up to look at her. She studies you, stares into your eyes, her mouth a twist of a smile and a sneer.

“What do you say?”

You heart quickens in your chest. You know what she wants to hear. You swallow. You aren’t quick enough. She slaps you. Slaps you hard with her leather gloved fingers.

“Say it, you dirty, fucking, piece of shit scumbag.”

“I am a cunt-fag, Sir. Use me.”

“That’s more like it. And I expect you to say it every time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She starts to raise her hand and this time you know better. “Yes, Mistress.”

You think of the hotel room on the other side of town. The business conference you spoke at this afternoon. The wife. The three children. The birthday dinner at your in-laws last week. Your woodshop. I’m a normal guy, you think to yourself. With a normal life, a good life, a happy life. Yet, here you are on your knees when two guys stumble out from the bar and turn into the alley.

You watch them wallking towards you, leather vests, tight jeans. One of them, the one with the beard, is already unzipping his pants.

Echo, Mistress Echo, grabs your shoulder.

“Here comes dinner,” she says tightening her grip. “Now lets get busy.”

pretty things
the things that make us dream
and pray and sing and dance

this is you

my prettiest thing of all

i shall drape you ’round my neck
or wind you through the tresses of my hair
or smooth you like lotion into my skin

you will be the blush that tints
the sovereign scent
the sun-hued tan
the one true smile line
the pink scar that fades not ever
the birth bruise that stays forever

and i will be a pretty thing
your pretty thing
the pretty thing we made together

I am watching you watching her. You aren’t even aware of me as you press your arm against your crotch, thinking nobody will see. Just a little rub. Ahhh.

But I see.

You waited there at the fountain watching her shop. Waited until she finally bent over to retrieve her dropped sunglasses. The flash of her white panties. That was what you were waiting for.

I wonder how often you do that. Waiting to see if you will get a little peek. A peek at something you can’t have.

Because you’re a pervert. A wreck of a little man that can’t get laid. Aren’t you?

How many pairs have you stolen? I know you have. Your sisters? Your aunts? Perhaps you watched a friend’s house while he vacationed and rummaged though his wife’s hamper? Finding a soiled pair at the bottom, then masturbating as you sniffed the still-moist crotch.

Pathetic little wanker, aren’t you? But I can almost understand. Because that’s about as close as you’ll ever get to pussy, isn’t it?

Well?