Teacher's Pet

“We want light-savers! Momma! I want the green one like Yoda the Master!”

“Momma, I want the red one! I’m Dark Vader, Sith LORD!”

“We are not buying toys today, guys. I have one more thing to get and we’re outta here. Please sit in the cart and make sure Momma doesn’t hit anything.”

I should have known better than to venture into Target on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, but damn it, the boys are out of pull-ups and I needed a shoe organizer for my closet—all sparkling clean and organized after a week of wardrobe purging.

I round the corner to head to the pharmacy and nearly run into another red plastic cart.

“Pardon me,” I say, flipping my cart to the left and pushing on.

“Not a problem, Madeline.”

I jerk to a stop. I don't recognize the voice, and hadn't even looked at the person pushing the other cart. I turn to look behind me and my heart does a little flip. It’s Max Piazza, my high school American Lit teacher.

Walt Whitman. Emily Dickinson. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Mark Twain. Harper Lee. Arthur Miller.

It was his second or third year teaching and I was completely out of my element, sitting in his classroom with twenty other students, the majority of who were bored stiff. They had little interest in or experience reading, much less discussing literature and poetry. He was enthusiastic about the material and tried to engage the students in every way possible.

I lived for that class.

Mr. Piazza was cool. Gum was allowed, and we could even eat and drink as long as it wasn’t a distraction from our shared purpose. Desks were optional. Most of the time I sat with Erin and Amber on the window ledge and Mr. Piazza and I waxed on about Huck Finn or Abigail Williams. Early on I knew I’d found a friend. He knew he could always count on me to have something to say.

He was tall and thin. His straight dark hair was gelled and spiked. He wore tortoise framed glasses and his adam’s apple moved when he spoke. I remember his chicken-scratch handwriting on the whiteboard (one of the first teachers to use one at our school). We had a relationship that he’s never had with a student since.

When I was in junior high, I lived in another state. I was in the honors program, which meant that I had the same English teacher from seventh to ninth grade: Mrs. Reese. She was the most amazing teacher. From the ages of twelve to fifteen I learned to read critically. I learned to write effectively. I learned that even the smallest observation was important when discussing Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. I thought seriously about becoming a teacher.

My family moved the summer before I started high school. I got academically tested, joined the ranks of the honors students here and went about my business, thrilled that I’d found another English teacher who was as excited about literature as I was.

I had to leave early for a swim meet one day. Mr. Piazza wanted to discuss my paper on The Scarlet Letter. I arranged to meet with him the next morning before first period.

It was raining, and I arrived just after he did, shaking out his umbrella and wiping the mist from his glasses. I watched him hang his coat in the office and unbuckle his briefcase on the desk.

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“I have your paper, Madeline, and I have to say, it’s very good. I’m curious about why you chose to write about Pearl, Hester’s daughter, instead of Hester or Dimmesdale or even Chillingworth.”

Am I in trouble? Should I have focused on Hester? I swallowed.

“Well, as I say in the paper, Pearl is the most interesting character to me. She is the physical embodiment of the scarlet letter. Without her, it wouldn’t have existed. If Pearl hadn’t been born, no one would have known about Hester's adultery. She had this preconceived notion thrust upon her, and I think that we become that which is expected of us; what we expect from ourselves…and Pearl is a burden to her mother, something uncontrollable, just like the letter sewn onto her dress.”

He smiled, “I know. You’re the only student who wrote about that.”

“Maybe it’s because I have a close relationship with my mother. I mean, sometimes it seems like we are the same person, you know? So I think mother-daughter dynamics are interesting. I can see the unjustness of Hester’s situation, but I also see the unfairness of Pearl’s life, living in the shadow of something that never goes away.”

“I’m glad you’re in this class, Madeline. I’ve shared your paper with the Senior English faculty and they agree that you are insightful and talented…which junior high did you go to?”

“We just moved here; I went to junior high in Illinois. Springfield.”

“Not Jefferson Middle School?!”

“Yes! How do you know that?”

“I was a student teacher there a few years ago. Who was your English teacher?”

“Mrs. Reese…”

He shook his head, smiling, “I worked with her ninth graders in ’86.”

“I THOUGHT you looked familiar!” (Of course, I was in eighth grade and much too busy flirting with Jeffrey with the Flock of Seagulls hair to take much notice.)

“Tell me, and I know it’s three years ago and a long shot, but did you write an essay on Les Miserables?”

“yes….”

“It had to be you. You were the only Madeline in your class, right?”

“I was the only Madeline in the school. Why?”

“I read that paper. Mrs. Reese gave it to me. It was better than any of the Ninth graders’. She was really proud of you.”

So that sealed it. I was blushing and looking down at the tile, occasionally looking up at him, wanting to burst into laughter or tears. He knows me. He understands.

I missed Mrs. Reese; missed knowing that I could stop into her office anytime if something was troubling me and she’d put her hand on my arm and hug me and tell me everything would be alright.

Like the time my parents nearly split up and my mother told me after the fact that they’d even picked a day for my father to move out.

I was so upset and angry at her for doing that.

She sometimes forgot that I was her daughter, and not her best friend. So she confided in me.
When I was twelve.

I wanted to lean in, to put my cheek against Mr. Piazza (Max)’s chest and feel his arms cross behind my back. I wanted someone to understand that I was smart and observant and talented and not all together. I was sixteen. I wanted someone who understood and would be my friend.

So he understood. And he was my friend. Nothing inappropriate whatsoever.
Not that I didn't think about it.

I flirted shamelessly with him as high school girls do—at school dances, on Saturdays building sets for whatever play I was in, asking him to help me with the circular saw, feeling his hand guiding mine as we fed a piece of lumber forward—and if he was ever uncomfortable he never said so.

During college I babysat for his daughter. His wife was sweet, and the little girl wore a gold baby bracelet. I treasured her. I was thrilled to be in their home, happy to have an ongoing connection with him. And yeah, I had a fantasy that we'd have a hot affair when I was nineteen or so, and it would be a defining event in my life.

And even though that never happened, I know now that my instincts were right on about him. He was very attracted to me. If I ever had any doubts, they were dispelled when we stood, inches from each other in Target, while my boys bonked each other over the head.

He looks the same. The glasses are gone and he was wearing a baseball cap, and when I recognized him it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing my arms around him. He talked to my kids. He was truly sorry to hear about my divorce.

We chatted for several minutes. Occasionally I touched his arm for emphasis. Neither one of us knew how to end the conversation and continue with our shopping. Finally I gave him my card, you know, if he ever gets a free moment and would like to meet for coffee.

“That’d be great! I’ve thought about you a lot over the years—what’s going on in your life, that sort of thing.”

“That is sweet, and it means a lot to me. Thanks. It was so great to see you again.”

“Have a happy holiday, Madeline. Bye.”

As I strap the boys into their carseats, Miles asks me, “Momma, what was that man’s name again? Mr…..”

“Mr. Piazza,” I say as I pull out of the parking space and shift into first.

“Hahahah! I thought you were going to say his name was Mr. PIZZA!”

Miles and Jack are laughing in the back seat, repeating “Mr. Pizza, Mr. Pizza…Oh, do you know the Pizza Man, the Pizza Man, the Pizza Man….”

I shake my head, smiling to myself.

I turn on the radio, those adolescent thoughts still bouncing around my head.

And then I really lose it, listening to the song that haunted me through my teens:

She wants him, so badly, knows what she wants to be

“Pleeeease….dooon’t….staaand…..sooo…..clooose….tooo…..meee.”




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America's Sweetheart

I slide out of the cab; marcus wraps his arm around me as we enter the building.

I am so content. It had been an evening of good things.

Dinner at Komi. A bottle of Riesling and the most amazing quail I’ve ever eaten. Figs stuffed with mascarpone and cooked in butter. The two most beautiful people there. Mad for each other. Rushed for the theatre.

Kiki and Herb at the Woolly Mammoth and the most gay boys per square inch I’ve ever witnessed. We laughed so hard we cried.

Was marcus wearing leather pants? I don’t remember. I was miniskirted in purple corduroy. Terra cotta sweater. Argyle tights and knee boots. He’d dressed me, after our photo shoot. I’d fretted so much about what to wear; I’d brought so many things.

We walk into the apartment.
This is becoming routine.

Shoes come off at the door and I go into the bathroom, leaving my tights on the dressing room floor. He is in the kitchen making drinks.

Cape Codders in hand, marcus emerges. I am kneeling on the bed. He hands me my drink and I take a short sip. We kiss. marcus stands before me.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Just like that?!”

His expression is serious, and so I do as I am told. Off comes the sweater, over my head. I unclasp my bra and toss it aside. The skirt is unsnapped down the front with a well-executed yank, like a stripper’s costume.

I am naked, ripe for him. Smiling.

He hands me a glass. I drink, and pass it back.

He takes the lid off the bedside storage table. Pulls out a plastic bag.

My breathing quickens. I’ve seen this look before. He is intent. Intent on using me. On dominating me. On making me submit to him.

I see the blindfold. Small. Black. Leather. I bite my lip.

It is secured behind my head. I smile.

I lie back, spreading my arms and legs as instructed. marcus makes quick work of securing my wrists and ankles to the bed frame.

I hear him moving about the room, pulling things out of bags, taking a drink from his glass.

Suddenly, I am thirsty. I remember the last time I was tied up with him. I need to wet my mouth.

“Baby? May I please have a drink?”

“Oh, jesus. Don’t start that shit. What the fuck is that?”

“I’m thirsty; could I have some water?”

He lifts my lips to the bottle and then sets me back down.

I lie there, anticipating everything, catching tiny noises here and there. I sense he is crouched at the stereo to my right. I swallow in the blackness, adjusting my wrists in the restraints.

Breathing.

Waiting.

Back arching, hips squirming, anticipation building.

The stereo kicks on,

“HAI!!”

The flogger hits my hip. I buck, and then relax. He’s prepared a soundtrack: Courtney Love’s “America’s Sweetheart.”

I relish the feeling of the leather strips on my skin, gasping with every strike.

...didja miss me?
Didja miss me? Yeh yeh yeh….

My skin is on fire, warmth spreading across my thighs, my cunt.

He flogs me harder now, moving up to my tits. The stinging bite of leather as it whaps against my chest, my belly- fuck- my clit

I’m already wet, insane. My skin is burning, my ass clenches, my fists open and close. The throbbing of my cunt is almost too much to take.

My nipples stand at attention.

Oh god just give me one more song so I can prove to You that I’m so much better than them…

I just want him here, close to me so I can feel his heat, hear him breathing…

He is straddling me, slapping my face.

His feet are planted on either side of me, and I sense his cock is close.

I lift my head, searching for a taste. My lips reach the tip of his cock, but he is too far.

I raise my neck and shoulders, finding marcus’s head, taking it into my mouth. He pulls away, teasing me.

I want that cock in my mouth. Want to run my tongue and lips around its head, holding on. I want it to push inside. I want it to fuck my throat.

marcus pulls back and sits on my hips.

His hands go to my tits, grabbing and smashing them against each other, pinching my nipples so hard I feel the flush rising to my face.

I already miss the taste of his cock in my mouth.

The flogger stings the side of my face as he flicks it onto my cheekbones.

I am in heaven.

Love you baby girl you know, cos I can read your mind

The gag isn’t needed to keep me quiet; I do not yell or scream when I’m like this. Moans and hums resonate from my throat. I am deep inside myself, aware of the physical constraints on my body and trusting marcus to keep it safe while I’m away.

It is a meditative state. Without visual distractions I can go deep down, past the waves of pain crashing above, down where the water is calm. I am so good at this that, when I was in labor with Jack, my midwife suggested that I’d better start acting like I was in some kind of pain, or the floor nurses were liable to give my coveted Jacuzzi birthing suite to someone who was more clearly in active labor.

Sometimes ya gotta say shut up

I feel the crystal pink rubber ball behind my teeth and lift my head so marcus can tighten the strap. I know that this is a powerful visual.

I know that now. Then, I was glad to have the new sensation of the ball there for me to bite if I wanted. I was glad to be this available to marcus. I could give him anything. He could take it... take me. Wherever. However.
He starts slapping my tits, each stinging smack causing my conscience to bob upward, smacked head-on by the surf and then retreating quickly to my sunken utopia.

I feel marcus’s hand reach out beside me. I hear the slicking on of lube. I feel something pushing at my back door. It is my new buttplug. marcus puts it in and turns the dial to a very nice ‘low.’

“unnngggg….”

His mouth is on my clit as he slips two fingers into my cunt.

My knees are straining to bend, my pelvis pushing up to him, eyes rolled back behind the blindfold, jaws clenching the ball like a vice.

In the dead of winter, dead of night, he’s all that I can see, hold onto me…Ahhhh, hold onto me…

I’m cumming, and it’s like fire. Like a demon has possessed me and my toes are curling and my body is writhing and I shove myself up, begging for more, his fingers on my g-spot and my sins are washed away by the waves crashing through my soul.

I can’t hear anything; sound is cold, metal. I think I’m dying, I am so hot and wet and shuddering and alive and helpless against this thing.

Now you’re the center of the universe…

I’m the center of the universe.

I cum so hard I push the plug from my ass.

I wonder if the neighbors hear me. I hope they do. I hope they forever walk past this apartment and get little chills remembering the noises from this weekend.

...in the house where the red light’s always on alone
I will fuck you up
I will feel no guilt

marcus unbinds my ankles and my knees bend up together, shielding my cunt.

He covers his cock and moves up to my face, removing the gag.

My lips are tight and dry. He streams liquid from his mouth into mine. I suck on his tongue and kiss his lips. My knees are parted by his hands. He moves between my legs, pulling them up over his shoulders.

I am still blindfolded, arms outstretched, wrists bound.

He is finally fucking me, our hips rolling over each other, my back arching, aching to fold myself around him, straining against the cuffs.

I am smiling, craving kisses, swimming to shore as he thrusts deeply, my ankles crossed behind his neck. My breasts shudder as the ripples make their way blissfully through my core.

Hush, your highness
don’t you leave
Baby, hold me in your arms
I'm shivering
But what's all that for?
If I was the battle
Baby, you have won the war

When marcus releases my wrists and then removes the blindfold, kissing my eyelids, I am still. My thoughts are still swirling, my lips parted. My eyes are half-closed in the dim light of his apartment. He lies on his side next to me, cradling my head in his hands.


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marcus gets shot

I walked into the apartment. Marcus had just showered. It was late afternoon, and we had theatre tickets for the evening. As I took off my boots marcus nodded to the camera, sitting out on the bed.

“Wanna take some pictures?”

We’d been talking about the photo shoot we wanted to do, with one photograph in particular as our goal. I was game.

He was already naked and I set about setting the studio for our little project.

“Baby, can you help me with this light? I want to move it over there…can we turn the shade towards you? That’s no good; it needs to be higher. Just a sec…”

I went to the kitchen and brought out the stepstool. He lifted the floor lamp up and adjusted the height. marcus sat on his perch. The light shone down at an angle, illuminating the front of his shoulder, casting a shadow across his leg. His muscles were on display, the light and shadow bringing them into full focus.

I am accustomed to the other side of cameras. I know what poses, lighting and angles make me look good on film. I suppose that made it easier to do my part now, as the photographer. I recognized the little surge of delight that comes when I take charge of a situation.

It doesn’t happen often during sex with marcus or with Jefferson or with anyone to whom I’ve been submissive. I guess it’s because I’m comfortable in that role with them. I have been the dominant partner with a few people, but only from the very beginning.

Now marcus was submitting his naked body to me in a different way. I liked it.

I stepped back, looking through the camera, making adjustments to the drapes, his feet, his shoulders. I would take a series of shots, tell him he could release his pose and we would critique the digital images together. Some just didn’t work, and we agreed on those. There were others on which we disagreed, but in the end we chose two: his favorite and mine.

There was a time when the only photos I cared about were the ones with me in them: school photos, candid shots from parties, me and my boyfriend at a tourist spot. I used to dream of meeting a photographer (Italian, of course), who would make black and white prints of me and us and our children and dog and hang them throughout the house.

Like a great big Calvin Klein ad.

what the world needs now is love, sweet love…

I haven’t met the photographer. And I have precious few photos of myself, save the self-portraits with shutter-timers and camera phones. None of those are hanging in my house.

I adored photographing marcus. I adored documenting the aftermath of Jefferson’s bedroom following Viviane’s first threesome. I love composing self-portraits and posting them here for the world to see.

But I don’t have the passion for it that a photographer needs. I do it because; in a way it’s necessary. There are a few sights I want to remember when I am eighty. I don't have the compulsion to photograph every interesting or beautiful or terrible thing. That's not me.

I'm on the other side. The exhibitionist. The submissive. The girl who likes to follow instructions. Just put me in front of a camera and tell me what to do. That makes me feel alive. That gets me off.

That being said, given the right model, I take a hot picture.

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Pledge of Allegiance

It is a windy day. The air is chilly and the sun makes brief, welcome appearances from behind the clouds.

We walk a few blocks to a sandwich place for lunch with Arthur, a friend of his. While marcus is waiting for his quesadilla, I have a couple minutes alone with Arthur at the table. I have to be careful about what I say to Arthur, since he knows nothing about marcus’ sex work or that he has an apartment in the city.

I am a terrible liar. I just am. I get flustered and nervous and I talk way too much if I’m not telling the truth. That is the trickiest part of being me in this “we.” marcus is very private. He uses pseudonyms for work. It’s hard for me to keep track of what people know and don’t know. marcus understands this and has tried to prepare me with answers to the more common questions people have.

“So, Madeline, how did you and marcus meet?”

Then the standard answer, issued to our family and not-so-close friends:

“We met through a mutual friend in New York City.”

“How do you like his place in the country?”

“Oh, it’s great! Very peaceful and quiet. It’s a bit of a drive into the city, though.”

The truth is, I’ve never even been to marcus’ house, though in photos it does look lovely and peaceful.

It's just part of the unspoken pledge of allegiance between sex bloggers. We keep each others' identities protected. This is even more important when worlds collide and we meet each others' friends, families and lovers, many of whom have no idea about the other parts of our lives. Sometimes I think I should make a flow chart for myself, as the stories of our many identities intersect.

marcus joins us at the table and the conversation turns to more mundane topics: work, travel, music. I excuse myself to go to the restroom and discover that my period has finally arrived, a full three days after I’d expected it.

“Damn,” I mutter, as I unzip my purse and dig for the tampon.

We tell Arthur goodbye at the corner and continue to the apartment. marcus needs to drop off his laptop and take inventory before we go shopping. I suddenly feel wiped out, but I know that I’ll be fine if I just walk around. He makes his list and we head back down to the street. We walk to the rainbow-stickered sex shop, where marcus buys them out of Maximus lube and seven boxes of Crown condoms. I swear, if prostitution is ever legalized, that boy will have one hell of a deduction for business expenses.

I am looking for a good leather strap-on harness. Sadly, they don’t carry the one I want, but I manage to find a lovely vibrating butt plug and the sweetest black leather flogger I’ve ever seen. marcus and I each decide to buy one.

Loaded down with discreet plastic shopping bags we head out, stopping at a couple of stores. marcus buys a hat.

My body feels heavy. I’m tired of walking in these boots and my back and pelvis are aching from my period. We fall into a hotel pub and order calamari and irish coffees. Strange combination, but it hits the spot. It cracks me up that marcus is checking the big bag on the banquette to make certain it doesn’t fall over and reveal its contents to the gentleman sitting a few feet away.

It’s just a couple blocks to the apartment and we have about 20 minutes until his client arrives. We put fresh sheets on the bed, shut my things into the closet, light candles and put our purchases away. I grab the laptop, kiss the boy goodbye and walk to a nearby Internet café to write for 90 minutes.

The place is crowded, and filled with smoke, which I couldn’t stand. I order my tea and go outside to sit at one of the tables in front. It is chilly, but the fresh air feels good. I love watching people on their way home from work or meeting friends for dinner. I look off to my right and see a familiar face walking toward me, his dog keeping step.

Arthur.

I have about a second to think, “I am here without marcus; where would marcus be right now, and me by myself in this neighborhood with his laptop? Shit, maddie, think of something fast!”

Arthur is surprised to see me. “Madeline, what are you doing?”

“Hey, Arthur! Oh, I’m just writing a little bit…what are you doing?”

“My dry cleaner is just next door; I live around the corner…where’s marcus?”

“Oh, he’s at a meeting…”

“Wow, he’s still working? What are you two doing tonight?”

“I’m still not sure; we talked about maybe seeing a movie or something low-key like that.”

“Nice! Well, tell him hi, and if you two are going to be in DC on Saturday evening, some friends and I are going out to a club. It’d be great if you could join us!”

“That sounds nice; I’ll tell him! Good to see you again!”

“You, too! Have fun tonight, and be careful driving back to the country!”

He walks away and passes with a wave a few minutes later, a plastic dry cleaning bag slung over his shoulder.

Fuck, that was close.

Dusk turns to dark and marcus calls with the “all clear.” I pack up and walk back to the apartment. He opens the door, naked and freshly showered. My cheeks are cold as we kiss, his clean scent filling my nostrils.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“Hi, you… so when I was sitting at the café I saw someone I know!”

“No, really?!”

“I know! Crazy that in a city this size I’d run into anyone, but I did!”

“Who was it? Someone from college?”

“No, baby, it was Arthur.”

“Oh, my god. You know, he lives around here.”

“So he said. I told him you were in a meeting; it was the only thing I could think of...”

“Whoa, that was a close call. I should probably start setting the stage to tell him I have a pied-a-terre in DC.”

“Well, especially since you live in the same neighborhood, yeah, that’s probably a good idea. After all, you wouldn’t be the only Washingtonian with a place in the city and another in the country.”

“True. So, what do you want to do tonight?”

“You want to see a movie? I’m feeling like doing something low-key.”

We get online and check movie listings, deciding on Tony Takitani, a Japanese film by Jun Ichikawa which had received accolades at Sundance this year. It is a melancholic dream of a movie, slow and artful and sad, with an amazing score and perfect characters.

We choose our seats on the right, toward the rear of the theatre. We hold hands and I put my cheek against marcus’ shoulder. There are a total of eight people here.

Here is my problem: I’m very tactile. I love to have my hands on other people. I know it is one of the reasons I’m so good at what I do, so in that sense it isn't a problem at all. But being a massage therapist and then being this close to someone whom I love to touch is hard. Especially in public places when courtesy dictates a certain restraint.

I don’t want to hold back. My left hand is in his, my thumb stroking the back of his hand. I bring my other arm across to his thigh, and then slowly move it toward his cock. I think, “I can’t believe I’m doing this; I’ve never done this in a movie theatre before.” Back of a cab, yes, but never during a movie.

marcus adjusts his body in the seat and I start rubbing his cock, one eye on the screen, the other watching his face. He is hard now, and I reach into his waistband, careful not to jangle his belt buckle. He inhales deeply, quietly as I stroke his dick. I kiss his neck and he bends his face down to mine.

We are very quiet.



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Head to Toe

marcus finished my massage, and then it was my turn to work on him. He instructed me on the delicate placement of my knees to his back and, while I use my elbows to do this in my actual job, there is nothing like the slip of oil on one’s knees- arm and ab muscles contracted- keeping the body steady so as not to cross over bone and inflict pain.

I was getting the hang of it; moving my knees up marcus’s back, lifting over his shoulder blades and bringing my knees down to the mattress on either side of his neck, my smooth pussy resting, rubbing his nape. He talked me through pivoting around, this time sitting on him with my ass, and sliding back down. I do this a couple of times.

On my next venture up, I straddled marcus’s neck and ground myself forward onto the back of his head. He sighed, then moaned.

I moved further up and began circling my clit on the top of his head. I don’t know where I came up with this, but it just seemed natural. We were both getting off on the heat and intensity of me using his skull, his hair, rubbing one off.

His arm reached for me.

God, I wanted to fuck.

I bent down, kissing him hard, turning him over. Leaned over to get a condom. Straddling his torso, looking him in the eye, I reached behind me and rolled it onto his cock. I lowered myself onto him and threw my head back. This is bliss, folks.

marcus was pinching my nipples. I was grabbing my own ass, riding him slowly. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d have worried about the acrobatics I was causing his cock to perform. But this cock is like a fucking joystick; marcus loves it when it’s pulled, circled, stretched, extended straight down toward his feet.

I was lost in myself and the lever I’m playing with. My hands were on his chest, my hips speeding toward I don’t know what, my feet tucked under his thighs as I came, leaning back toward the foot of the bed.

I extended my legs straight, so that my ankles were resting on his shoulders. I let my head and torso fall onto the bed between his straight legs. His cock was the fulcrum in this living physics equation. We were outstretched, his dick pulsing in my pussy, which was contracting around its sweet invader.

I took his feet in my hands, pressing on the soles, on his solar plexus reflex. I couldn't get his cock out of my mind. I wanted it in my mouth.

Before I could do anything about it, though, marcus grabbed my hands and pulled me up to sitting, my legs still straight over his torso, feet on either side of his face. He started thrusting up, I bounced, laughing, as his cock worked its way around my g-spot. I was having so much fun.

I shoved my feet into his face, suffocating him with the soles. It is only recently that I’ve discovered the joys of foot worship, and marcus wasted no time in worshipping mine, taking toes into his mouth, sucking and biting them.

"God, Maddie, you have perfect feet," his head kept one or the other rubbing against it as we fucked.

“I want you to cum,” I say, “I want to see you cum for me.”

I slid off his cock, took off the condom and watched as he started to jerk.

But I couldn't stand idly by.

I put my right foot on his perineum, toes grabbing his balls, pulling, tugging, stretching. Watching his movements, listening to his breathing, I took his balls into my mouth, sucking them hard.

“Awww, yeah, suck my balls…”

I wrapped my hand around them and squeezed.

marcus uses an overhand grip to jerk off. When he needed more lube, I spit onto his cock. The closer he got, the more excited I became.

“unnh, I’m gonna cum…”

I wanted it on my body.

I moved up between his legs and he shot, hitting my breasts, neck, shoulders. It was fucking gorgeous.

So gorgeous he grabbed his phone and took a photo.

Cum to think of it, he still hasn’t sent me THAT one.


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