Recreation

We spent the afternoon and evening eating crepes and snaking through Chelsea galleries. Cool, cos it’s free. Cool, cos you never know what you’ll see.

Jefferson spied the blinking of monitors in a darkened gallery front across the street.

“Hey, something’s going on over there. Let’s go look.”

We walked into the space, which was a cacophonous mass of screens, strobe lights and tableaux. We tried to make sense of it all, we really did. But after about five minutes he said, “I’m gonna go find out what the fuck this IS.”

I stayed and roamed around, feeling a little icky and sick from the images and sounds. There were photographs of young people dressed in costumes, like, really stupid costumes. A teenaged girl was singing, badly. A desk and table spun like dervishes, attached to the floor. There were video screens showing two dance troupes in leotards performing identical choreography. I was at once drawn to it and hated it.

He returned with a smirk. “Know what it is?”

“Yeah, you know, I think it’s Hell.”

“Close, baby. It’s High School.”

It was kind of awful. And unsettling. The artist had collected photos from high school yearbooks and recreated the scenes for the installation. The old photos were mounted side by side with the recreations. Scary. I half expected Sissy Spacek to show up around the next corner, covered in blood.

We signed the guestbook “Jefferson and Madeline” and left to catch the sunset near the Chelsea Piers.

As we made our way to Babeland we stopped at our last gallery of the evening: Deitch Projects' gallery on Grand Street. The small space was filled with enormous canvases by Kehinde Wiley. The paintings were revisions of classic paintings of generals on horseback such as Jacques-Louis David’s Napoleon Crossing the Alps, except that the general's hat and coat had been replaced by a bandana and a basketball jersey. In all the paintings the models were young black men from Harlem.

The details were amazing; and even more impressive when we watched the short film on the making of the exhibit. The men were approached on the street by Wiley and asked to pose for the paintings. Horses and trainers were brought in to recreate the poses of the original works. Pretty damn impressive, considering that none of the men had ever been on a horse and here they were, saddled up, while stallions pranced and reared.







Wiley's art is full of the familiar postures of religious and historical figures in every Art History text. His twist is the replacement of the subject. Even in recreating serene scenes like Raphael's The Three Graces Wiley places black men in an atypical role, a study of masculine beauty, power and an underlying vulnerability.

These canvases were eight feet tall and taller. It was truly stunning. Beautiful, sexy, powerful and smart. Nice way to round out the art thing. And Deitch has a fantastic stable of artists. Be sure to go look next time you’re in SoHo.

We stepped up to Babeland’s door. I have never seen a toy store so busy. The place was packed, but I knew just what I wanted. We weaved between middle aged women learning about the merits of silicone sex toys and college students stocking up on condoms and lube and made a beeline to the rear of the store.

I scanned the display for the Terra Firma Buckling Harness and then decided it would be best to enlist some help. We were on a schedule, after all, and thus far had arrived on time or even slightly early for our engagements. We couldn’t be late for Viviane’s dinner party.

The girl who came to my assistance was totally helpful (they all are, really. If you’ve never been to Babeland, you should go in just for the customer service). She found the harness I wanted and offered to let me try it on “over clothes, of course.”

“Of course!”

“Would your friend like to come into the dressing room, too?”

“Excuse me, ‘friend,’ would you care to join me?”

Jefferson and I walked in and I hung up my coat. I wasn’t wearing panties, so I put the harness on over my jeans. I stepped into it, buckling the straps and pulling it tight. Jefferson took his black house dildo out of the bag we’d packed and I shoved it through the O ring.

I turned.

“Oh, my, honey, that is hot.”

“Right? I look so fucking tough!”

“Uh-huh. Viviane’s not gonna know what hit her.”

I shot him a look, posing with my dick.

“Shit, Maddie, with the right dong, I might even let you fuck me with that thing.”

“Sold!”

At the counter, the helpful salesperson sent another Babelander to pull my harness from the stock drawers. I picked up another nice little double bullet vibrator with interchangeable jacks and separate controls for each egg. Quite nice, pretty, and a steal.

We were the first to arrive at Viviane’s, who was pleasantly surprised that we got there before anyone else.

“It’s me,” I shrugged, “Jefferson’s clock just doesn’t run like ours, honey.”

We kissed her hello. A bottle of white wine was opened and we all poured a glass.

“Salut, baby. Here’s to a good evening.”

Jefferson put his eggs on to boil and started cooking bacon. Viv was chopping Brussels sprouts and I stood at the other end of the kitchen next to Jefferson, marveling at the pork sizzling in the skillet.

Dacia arrived, bearing a box of cupcakes and looking hot. It was our first meeting, but I’ll echo her sentiment that it really didn’t feel that way.

But let me just wax a bit about this girl.

The first thing I noticed after her boots, naturally, was that she is tall. Okay, I’m short, but she has this great combination of willowy height and brick shithouse going on. Long legs, long torso, long fingers with an ass and tits that must have superpowers.

Yeah, I’ve had a little crush on Dacia. What’s not to like? She’s hot and smart and comfortable in her skin. Jefferson adores her. Of course, I hoped she’d like me a little.

We stood around the kitchen as the dinner preparations continued. Dacia sipped her bourbon and inquired after the Babeland shopping bag by the door.

“Well, Madeline just bought herself a new harness,” Jefferson said.

She smiled.

“Ooooh! Does this mean Jefferson is gonna get…”

“Not so fast, missy! But, you know, she really did want to get it before we came to visit Viviane tonight.”

Viviane smirked as she chopped and shot me a look.

Seth, Dacia’s boyfriend, who we were all meeting for the first time, arrived. I poured him a glass of wine and we all hung out in the kitchen.

Seth (Can I wax a little on Seth, too?) has a very cool exterior. He looks very tough with his full sleeve tattoos on each arm and is clearly not to be messed with. Still, all I could think was how cute he was, how cute they were together, all smitten and such. He was genuine and interesting and nice. Well, he’s also sexy, but that’s got to be a given, right?

Dacia, Seth and I went to the living room with our drinks.

Viviane proffered olives stuffed with almonds. Seth politely declined, saying that they’re one of only two foods he doesn’t like.

“What’s the other food?” I asked.

“Hard boiled eggs.”

I nearly choked on my drink.

“Jesus, the two foods you don’t like are both being served tonight! That is rich.”

Being a good sport, though, Seth tried one of the olives and a deviled egg, several of which slid to the carpet when Jefferson brought them to the coffee table. We all watched in glee as Dacia made Jefferson lick yellow filling off her boot.

Viviane called from the kitchen, “Maddie! Come help me cut up the bacon!”

I stood at attention hearing her call my name and made haste to the kitchen. It was almost Pavlovian.

The bacon was awesome, having retained its shape and thickness. I cut it into little pieces and brought some out to Dacia. She ate it out of my hand. I licked the remaining ‘bacon juice’ from my palm.

Oh, it was a good evening.

Dinner was served. There was pork tenderloin, rubbed with garlic and fennel and Viviane’s Brussels sprouts sautéed with bacon.

Another bottle of wine was opened by yours truly.
.
Dacia demanded to see my tits.

I flashed her. I love my tits; I can’t help it. And it was only fair, really, since we’ve all seen hers.

Viviane was gracious.

Seth was engaging.

Jefferson was on.

I ate my food as Jefferson’s hand reached under the table for my leg. He was around the corner, so it was a stretch. I put my legs in his lap and he played with my toes.

When Seth announced that he had to go to work, we were all sad. Dacia walked him out.

We gushed about him when she came back.

Cos he’s so cute.

“Okay, stop, you guys…”

“Shall I serve the cupcakes?” Viv yelled from the kitchen.

“Hell, yes you should! Bring ‘em on!”

“I have milk, too…who wants milk?”

Dacia: I’ve got bourbon, who needs milk?

Madeline: Me, too. Bourbon and cupcakes…yum.

Jefferson: I’m staying with my drink of choice. No point in switching now, is there?

Soon I was convinced, though I’m not sure by whom, that I should model the new harness. I undressed in the bathroom and stepped into it. I couldn’t get the leg straps tight, and the hip strap was loose as well, even though it was buckled through the last hole. I figured it was a simple matter of my being a bit drunk. I shrugged and walked out to the living room asking for help, I couldn’t get the straps tight enough and oh, who could help me?

Viviane jumped up and went looking for her sewing basket. Dacia said something about growing a bigger ass. Jefferson sat in the leather chair.

Not finding the seam ripper she wanted to use to poke more holes in the straps, Viviane helped me tie up the leg straps. I was naked but for the black leather, leaning over the back of Jefferson’s chair during a conversation and he, while speaking, absentmindedly reached back and fingered my clit. I leaned forward and kissed him. Viviane and Dacia smiled at us. It was getting warm in the apartment.

Dacia had to leave.

“Oh, can’t you stay a little longer?” Viviane asked

“Nope, I promised the boy that I wouldn’t stay for the rest of the festivities. Looks like fun, though. Have at it, folks!”

We all stood and kissed her goodbye.


sex sex blogs polyamory New York City Deitch Kehinde Wiley strap-on cupcakes bacon

Rise

I was awake, my headache a memory. I was restless. After a night without fucking how could I wake up otherwise? Jefferson was asleep. I left him there, putting on my pajamas and padding out to the kitchen.

There were dishes. I did them, all the while thinking how nice it’d be to have a sound beating. Sure, he’d slapped my ass a bit for the circle jerks, but you know that’s not what I’m talking about.

There were coffee beans. I ground them as the kettle boiled.

As the coffee steeped I sat on the couch to knit.

I fixed my coffee and filled a water glass, carrying both into the bedroom. I set them on Jefferson’s nightstand and touched his shoulder.

“Hey… what time is it?”

“It’s early. Nine. You want me to let you sleep?”

“No, I’m up. How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to do the dishes and make coffee.”

“You did dishes? Come here,” he pulled me over to spoon.

“Yes, I did nearly all the dishes. But, Jefferson, I haven’t done the cast iron skillet…I, well, I don’t know where you keep the grease can.”

“Where do you think it should be?”

“Um, under the sink.”

“And what type of container do you think it should be?”

“Well, um, a coffee can?”

“That’s exactly right. So you didn’t really look for it, did you? If you had, you’d have found a coffee can under the sink reserved for that purpose. Nice try, Madeline. But you’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to beat you.”

Damn it!

Of course I knew where the grease can was kept. And not only am I the world’s worst tourist, I am also its worst liar.

“Okay, fine! You caught me. Goody for you. D’you want some coffee or what?”

“Yes, please. Coffee would be lovely.”

I heard him laughing as I walked out to fill his cup. He was sitting up when I returned. I handed him the mug and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Why won’t you beat me??” I fake whined.

“Girl, you are not gonna get a beating out of me this early in your trip. I don’t wanna have to look at all them bruises for another four days!”

Sometimes I wish I didn’t bruise so easily. If someone so much as grabs my upper arm firmly, I am marked.

Actually I was enjoying the comfort and closeness, the ease with which we fell into our own rhythm. But I didn’t want him to forget that I do like me some rough sex.

“It’s okay, honey, I can wait. I have patience to spare. So, we don’t have anything planned today until Viviane’s dinner party at 8, right?”

“That’s right, baby. The day is ours. Want to go for brunch in Chelsea? We can go to the galleries afterwards.”

“That sounds great. And it’s a gorgeous day. I would like to pick up a few things at Babeland before we get to Viv’s, though.”

“Not a problem. We’ve got plenty of time.”

It was still early and he pulled me back into bed. We fucked, long and slow, my orgasms building on one another.

I straightened my legs as his cock pushed upward. Long and short, deep and shallow, it was all good.

Suddenly my hips were writhing beneath him and I wanted him as far inside as he could be.

“Sshhh…don’t move,” I whispered, pulling him very close.

His body was on mine, his cock pressed against my g-spot, his hand on my face. A few breaths later it started: the feeling in the pit of my stomach stretching down to the pulsing of my clit, electricity moving back to the walls of my pussy and swirling up my spine. My back arched and I wailed, my body shuddering and contracting repeatedly, forcefully.

We hadn’t moved.

It’s not a secret that I cum easily, and that I experience different types of orgasms. Many are small, sweet and encouraging. These happen frequently during sex and masturbation. There are larger ones which curl my toes and explode through my body which are quite exhausting. Those happen very regularly as well. I have no complaints whatsoever about these orgasms. They are fantastic, and I know how lucky I am to have one, let alone many in one go.

Then there is the Kundalini Rising.

Kundalini means “coiled serpent” in Sanskrit. It is believed that the universal life energy, or prana, lies dormant, coiled at the base of the spine. Through yoga, meditation and tantric practice it can be awakened, powerfully raising one’s consciousness.

Starting at the first chakra the energy spirals upward through the next six chakras toward enlightenment, effectively flooding--I mean flooding--the nervous system with, fuck, I don’t know what. It can take seconds or minutes. I've heard of yogis who have controlled it for hours.

Jefferson held onto me as it happened, my body bucking over and over, my voice crying out. I have no idea for how long.

When I’d finished, I couldn’t move. I looked at him, my eyes wide. He was smiling down at me.

“Did you feel that?”

“Oh, honey, I sure did.” He was breathless.

“Fuck, Jefferson… tell me! What did you feel?”

“It was,” he swallowed and moved his hand up and down in front of his body, “like, waves…”



sex sex blogs polyamory fucking erotica orgasm yoga tantric sex Kundalini Rising

Accidental Tourist

I am the world’s worst tourist.

When my ex and I traveled to Turkey one vacation, he photographed the sites. I photographed the people. My favorite is a shot of an old man sitting on a stool in the middle of a sidewalk, carving wooden spoons. I guess I am just inclined to look past the obvious for the unusual/weird/bizarre.

I once made a pilgrimage to the world’s largest ball of twine. I have vacationed in Cleveland because I thought it sounded...unexpected. I tend to seek out the hidden spots, the funny shops which sell party favors and antiques side by side where you can sit and talk with the owner whose cat is roaming the dusty shelves, navigating between cans of Silly String and the sunbleached skulls of large animals.

New York has plenty of weirdness. It’s also filled with tourist spots, naturally, and when I was planning this visit I let it slip that I’d never visited the city in December. I think I heard Viviane’s ass hit the floor in front of her computer.

“Oh, my dog! Maddie, we have to take you to see the tree in Rockefeller Center! It’s gorgeous! And the ice skaters!”

Viviane has appointed herself my culture guru on everything NYC. I think it’s great, and I’m game to see the tree (I can take a photo and show my kids, right?). Better not let her know that I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building (oops…too late).

After the concert, we were all so high. Viviane had a few people to say hello to, and Jefferson and I said we’d meet her outside. We had our coats draped over our arms as we started down the stairs. Halfway down we were stopped by our reflections in the enormous mirror on the opposite wall.

“Hot damn, we look good!”

“Let’s go back up and walk down again!”

Jefferson went to find the men’s room while I stood watching a group of students wearing jeans and Birkenstocks and handknitted scarves, their arms wrapped around each other. Suddenly I was thirsty. I turned and walked a few steps toward the drinking fountain.

Around the corner came the senator and Mrs. Kerry. They walked quickly and he nodded at me as they passed. Maybe I smiled. Of course, I was smiling already.

By the time my brain registered what had just happened, they were several yards away, his pink scarf around his neck. I turned to look back at them.

“Hah, John Kerry, you don’t know it, but I was there, on the back of your neck just a little bit ago, and you smelled good.”

I got my drink and saw Jefferson walking toward me.

“Jefferson! Did you see who just passed?”

“Oh, you mean John Kerry? Yes, I just blew him in the men’s room. He said to tell you hello.”

“Shut up! He just looked down my dress and said to tell you thanks.”

We walked outside, pushing through the people gathered to watch as the Kerrys got into their Escalade and were driven away. We met Viviane out there.

“Did you see John Kerry?”

“Yes, we did. It has got to be such a drag for him…all those people coming up and shaking his hand saying, ‘Hey, man, sorry you lost the election.’”

I laughed as we walked down Seventh Avenue, stopping for swigs from Jefferson’s flask. My headache was returning. I tried to ignore it, cursing the cold air and my uncooperative sinuses. We rounded the corner into Rockefeller Plaza and Viviane announced, “There it is!”

The plaza was alive with people standing around, snapping photos of the tree.

I looked up and thought to myself, ‘Now that’s a big fucking tree.’

Sort of like the time I went to the Grand Canyon, got out of the car and stood at the edge, thinking, “This is one big fucking hole.”

Not because it wasn’t impressive. It is damn impressive. Only I’d seen so many pictures and film footage and had studied it in Geology classes, the magic was lost.

The tree was sort of like that. Viviane posed us and took photos. (“For the boys!”) She sent me the best photo the next day. Jefferson and I look like a very respectable couple, out for a stroll after a show. I almost don’t recognize us.

We moved closer into the plaza, past the tree and Viviane said, “Come see the skaters! Ooh, Madeline, come over here, you can get a better view!”

“Why, did somebody wipe out?”

“Ach, you’re impossible!”

“I know, I’m sorry…it’s just that I have this headache and it’s fucking cold. Can we go home now?”

“Of course; you guys wanna come back to my place? I’m way too energized by that concert; I’m gonna be up for hours.”

“Do you have food? Because we haven’t eaten dinner.”

“Of course,” Viviane said as we walked, “Oh, Maddie…look! Christmas Window Displays! But, then, you’re not interested…”

Actually, I thought the displays were pretty cool. And if the night were slightly less frigid I’d have stayed to look.

We took a cab to Viviane’s place. She poured drinks and set out a late supper of soup and baguette. We talked about the concert and the Gay Sex DVD we’d watched earlier. I was quiet. My head and neck hurt and I was goddamned tired.

“Let’s move to the couch; I want to put my feet up. Maddie, I can work on your headache if you’d like.”

I sat on the sofa between Jefferson and Viviane. She pressed on the acupressure points at the base of my skull. Jefferson held my hand.

“This is actually supposed to hurt …let me see if I can get more leverage.”

“No, baby, you’re fine. I can take a lot of pain, remember? It’s working; it’s just that I am so tired. I want to go to bed.”

“Why don’t you go lie down in the bedroom? You two can sleep here.”

Viviane’s arm was across my shoulders, my head on her chest.

“I think I should take Madeline home, honey. It’s late, and we’ll be back tomorrow night for dinner, right?”

“Of course. Just know that it’s no trouble at all, you know, if you don’t feel like schlepping across town this late.”

“We know, thanks. Come on, headache girl. Let’s get you home to bed.”

I felt a little guilty leaving Viviane alone, energized as she was from the evening, but I also knew that leaving her place the next morning in the same clothes I was wearing tonight, without having brushed my teeth would have felt worse.

We hailed a cab and I leaned against Jefferson’s shoulder, closing my eyes. He petted my hair and kissed my forehead and roused me when we were about to drive through the park, because the snow was so pretty.

My accidental tourist mind recalled the group of people we’d passed in a crosswalk earlier, each one wearing a santa claus hat. The life-sized SpongeBob SquarePants hanging out at the entrance to Rockefeller Plaza. The judge sitting next to me in our box at the concert who let it be known, in no uncertain terms that she marries people, casting a sideways look to Jefferson.

We got a lot of mileage from that exchange during my visit.

We walked into the apartment and he took my coat. He led me to the bedroom where we both undressed. I joined him in the bathroom where teeth were brushed and faces washed. I stayed an extra few minutes removing the mascara from my eyes and smoothing on moisturizer.

When I walked into the bedroom the lights were off and he was in bed. He held out his hand and I took it, climbing over him, sliding beneath the duvet.

“How’s the head?”

“It’s feeling better; Viv’s thumbs and the Tylenol I took seem to have worked.”

“Pauvre chere. Your face smells…citrus-y!”

“It’s my new moisturizer…baby, I had such a nice time tonight. It really was wonderful. Thank you.”

“Honey, any excuse to get dressed up with you I’ll take, but seeing you in a box at Carnegie Hall…well, that was my joy.”

And for the first time, an evening with Jefferson was not ending in sex. We were relaxed, exhausted and warm, my head on his chest, his arm behind me, talking quietly as we do.

We kissed and fell asleep.


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Two Thousand Voices

The cab pulled up and we exited, avoiding the piles of snow and pushing past the throngs of people on Seventh Avenue, arm in arm as we entered the building. The energy was palpable; there was electricity in the air. Jefferson walked to the reservations counter to pick up our tickets and I watched the action. Families moved serpentine-like through the lobby, kids lined up between their parents. Older couples and groups congregated, smiling and chatting. College students and young professionals hung out by the stairs.

We walked up the stairs to our box. Second tier, center. How on earth did Viviane score such great seats? We hung our coats in the outer room and leafed through the Playbill. The theatre was filling up and our box mates started arriving. Where was Viviane? She wouldn’t be late; that’s not like her.

There she was; she walked in and sat down. We said hellos, smiling like crazy. The orchestra was assembling, the choir in formation behind them.

And then they walked out, arm in arm, slowly navigating over microphone cords and past chairs to center stage.

Applause. There was so much applause. A full two minutes’ worth, I think. A standing ovation for Peter. For Paul. For Mary.

For Mary, who had been fighting Leukemia for the past year and who had undergone a bone marrow transplant in April. For Mary, who was significantly thinner, with wispy blonde pixie hair and who tired easily. She was gorgeous in a long sleeved blue and green silk dress with a wide scooped neckline, beaming at the crowd which could barely contain its joy at seeing them—at seeing her—singing again.

In September, when Viviane told me that Peter, Paul & Mary were performing their Holiday Concert with the New York Choral Society this year at Carnegie Hall, I knew I had to come. I know this concert. I’ve watched the 1985 performance on PBS every December since, well, 1986. Before that, at age eleven I heard “Lemon Tree” and went to the record store to buy every tape I could. I memorized every song, every harmony. I made my father play PP&M every time we got into the car. Of course I grew up singing Puff, The Magic Dragon, and choking up during the last verse. Damn it if I still don’t cry hearing it now.

The applause finally quieted and the audience took their seats. Then the familiar strains of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” started. I smiled and my eyes welled. And yes, Jefferson was there, sitting behind me like a gentleman, and yes, Viviane was up front and off to the right. But for the most part I was there, weaving between the fingers of Peter and Noel Paul on their guitar strings. I was lying in front of the cellos in the orchestra, feeling the vibrations in my chest. I was the breath of the singers in the chorus, rising upward to the coffers. I was the memory of Mary’s formerly long blonde hair, swaying as she did, taken away by the music.

I even took a detour through the audience and brushed the neck of Senator John Kerry, who was on the parquet seating with his wife. We’d watched him walk in, surrounded by enthusiastic concertgoers who pumped his hand and trapped him in the aisle before the concert got underway.

There are over two thousand seats in the Isaac Stern concert hall and yet I suspect that every person there felt as close to the performers as I did. The chorus was in mixed formation: sopranos interspersed with baritones, tenors, basses and altos. It’s a very difficult way to sing, separated from one’s section, but it results in a gorgeous, blended sound. As I type tonight, I am listening to the live recording from ’85 and reliving December 9th, twenty years later. Tears mix with smiles and laughter, and I am daunted by the task of conveying how absolutely wonderful it was.

I don’t know if I thanked Viviane properly for arranging the tickets. I don’t know if I thanked Jefferson enough for arranging a free weekend when he was to have the children. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see Peter, Paul and Mary perform again in my lifetime. And for this gift, I am so grateful.

That the songs of this trio, some of them forty years old, were shared by parents and their children, is the purest definition of folk music. It transcends age and time, reminding us that we are still responsible for one another. When a father holding his daughter, leans his head into hers as they both sing “Light One Candle,” my heart is broken and filled back up. It makes me thankful that my father indulged my obsession many years ago. It makes me proud that my children know these songs and hopeful that they’ll remember them when they are adults, when they have children.

When we’ve all gone to graveyards, every one.


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Peter, Paul & Mary
New York City

Dress Up

It was cold as we made our way to Jefferson’s neighborhood diner. We walked arm in arm, my boots sliding occasionally on the wet snow and ice. Jefferson pulled out a hat and smashed it down over his ears. ‘Damn,’ I thought, ‘why are we out here? It’s fucking freezing! Oh, right, because we’re fucking starving.’

The manager smiled as we entered the joint, leading us to a booth dressed with paper placemats. We didn’t even look at the menus.

“I’d like a cheeseburger, medium well, French fries and a coke.”

“And I’ll have the cheeseburger deluxe with bacon and swiss, onion rings and coffee, please”

We handed the menus over, smiling at each other. Our conversation consisted mostly of play-by-plays from the lunchtime gathering, peppered with a few of the choice exclamations that Mike had written in his post-jerk email. Turns out he'd had a very, very good time.

When the food arrived we reverted to autopilot: pickles and cole slaw changed places.

We dressed our burgers and devoured our food.

Jefferson recited some favorite riddles of Lillie’s: What has eyes but can’t see? A potato! What kind of flower can talk? A tulip!

I was swinging my legs under the table and realized that it was supported by two legs underneath.

“This is superfluous, no? It’s a small table! Why does it need two supports?”

“So that I can bring my kids here and say, 'Children, do you know what has two legs and can’t walk? This table!'”

a-hahahahahahaha! That’s the spirit, baby. Take the inane jokes and make 'em your own.

We finished eating. Somehow it didn’t occur to either of us to ask for the check or, once we’d gotten it, to stand and leave. We just sort of sat there grinning.

On the walk home we passed several people out walking their dogs. Mostly small dogs. Mostly wearing coats and boots.

“Ugh, that makes me totally crazy.”

“You have an opinion about dressing dogs?”

“I have an opinion about treating dogs like babies. The clothes, the little carrying bags, the fucking doggie-snuglis… they are DOGS.”

“Do you also have an opinion about doggie Halloween costumes?”
“Fuck, man, don’t even get me started…”

"What about baby Halloween costumes?”

“You mean, like, those little pea pod costumes? Ack…listen, I don’t mean to sound like a negative bitch, and I get the baby stuff to an extent (Because when else is your child gonna let you dress them up as a legume?), but the whole glamour dog thing is just out of control. It’s just more evidence of gross American consumerism. I find it tedious and stupid. Blech.”

“Well, who knew you’d have such a strong opinion?!”

“Yeah, that’s really the only opinion I have. You know that I don’t read papers or watch TV or speak with adults, so this is really all I am equipped to discuss.”

“Dork.”

“Weinie.”

Back home we had a few hours to kill before leaving for the concert. Jefferson poured bourbons and we got comfortable on the bed to watch a DVD he’d been sent: Gay Sex in the Seventies. It’s a documentary about gay culture in New York from Stonewall until AIDS erupted in 1981, using interviews and footage from the period of ‘cruising,’ bath houses and clubs.

What is it about gay men that fascinates me so much?

I think it’s the attitude which was fostered by the Stonewall riots in 1969. Gay men were still living in an in-between world of passing and nondisclosure until then. Codespeak, looks and gestures served to identify one to another as ‘bent.’ Until suddenly, being gay became less a personal issue and a more political one. Reveling in this new freedom, their collective nose was thumbed at society’s preconceived notions. Freedom to live as they wanted, to love and fuck whomever they wanted became an matter of pride and entitlement. No, promiscuity in the gay community was not a new phenomenon, but with this invigorated sense of community came a sense of pride in living the life they wanted. I get it.

We watched as the interviewees reminisced about the Christopher Street Baths, the Westside piers and trucks, gay clubs and parties. Their memories were interspersed at times by thoughts of lovers lost, of orgies missed, of relationships formed.

When the movie ended we talked about its merits and shortcomings. My head had started to ache; not enough food, maybe? Too long between meals? Sinuses? Damn it, I didn’t need a headache tonight. I pressed on some acupressure points and massaged my temples.

The clock read nearly seven PM. We had to be at the theatre by eight. I went to the bathroom, took two Tylenol, dusted my face with powder and put on mascara. It’s about as much makeup as I can stand. While Jefferson shaved I stepped into stockings and a strapless black Lycra slip.

“I think you should wear just that,” he joked.

“Ha! Are you saying you have a Lycra fetish I don’t know about?”

He just grinned and pulled a black suit from the closet.

I padded to the back bedroom where I’d hung my dress. As I fastened the strap behind my neck I returned to check on Jefferson’s progress. I peeked around the corner, hiding in the doorway. He was changing his shirt. Damn, he looked handsome.

I have a thing for men in suits. More specifically, I have a thing for the dressing ritual a suit requires. I love seeing the pieces building upon each other, culminating in the jacket being swung around the shoulders, the shrugging and collar straightening/head turning/tie knotting.

I love a man dressed in a suit.

He caught me watching him. I smiled, “You look hot.”

“Whoa, look at you…you clean up real good. Lemme see.”

I turned slowly, his eyes traveling down the halter with the sheer fabric covering my shoulder blades to the fluted hemline just past my knees... around and up to the deep neckline which, had I worn a demi bra, would have been swelling. Instead, the barest trace of soft flesh was visible: an understatement. My preference.

He whistled, “Very nice, darling.”

“Thank you. Now, for the accessories.”

I put on my shoes: black slingbacks with a kitten heel, and held up two necklaces. The first was bold: a slim collar from which hung a hammered silver and bronze medallion surrounding a large slice of jasper. This is the piece that draws attention to itself; the rest of the outfit quietly fading into the background. The second necklace was a cascade of garnet beads threaded onto a ribbon, drawing the eye downward to whatever lay beyond the neckline of my dress.

“The red. That’s gorgeous.”

“I thought so, too,” I said, as I fastened the clasp and hooked the earrings into my ears.

“Ready. I’m so excited for this, baby.”

He held my coat and I slid my arms into it.

“Me, too. Let’s go.”


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Circle Jerks

We got up eventually and Jefferson went to the computer. He’d been working on a project for a couple of days in preparation for my arrival.

Viviane had been the only other person present when we had sex during my last visit. But I’ve discovered that I really enjoy being watched while I’m fucking. Jefferson said he had the perfect solution, something he’d been testing recently. I was game.

Final email arrangements were made and we made haste to the bedroom, putting sex sheets on the bed. Jefferson was naked on his back and pulled me toward him, his head off the edge. I was standing beside the bed straddling his face when he suggested I ride his cock before our guests showed up.

I was happy to oblige, and twenty minutes later went to the bathroom to wash my face and swish my mouth. I made sure I smelled good and put my pajamas back on. No point in getting dressed for this.

Around one o’clock the boys started to arrive. First was Mitch, a cute, preppy straight boy with brown chin-length curls and glasses. He walked in and shook my hand nervously, standing in the middle of the room, glancing at the art on the walls, “You a teacher?”

“What? Oh, no,” replied Jefferson, “Why?”

“The artwork on the walls.”

“Ah, I have three children. That one over there is a picture of me, as you can tell.”

Lillie drew it last February, during Winter Recess. I remember because Jefferson described it to me when she did it. It’s still hanging at a five-year-old’s eye level where she’d taped it. It’s a figure with a head of yellow hair and enormous blue eyes. She’d filled the background with little hearts.

Ed arrived next, all the way from Jersey. Jefferson made introductions, and I gestured to a chair, “Have a seat if you’d like…” Ed nodded to Mitch: that unmistakable straight boy nod which says, “’sup?”

Jefferson asked if they had ever done this sort of thing before, or ever been in a group situation. Mitch said yes, but nothing like this, Ed was new to it.

“Well, I think you’ll find it fun,” Jefferson said.

Another knock on the door and Mike walked in, confidently. He was very handsome and seemed more at ease than the others. He looked at Jefferson the same way he looked at me: intrigued, attracted, interested. He laid his overcoat on the back of a chair and sat down, resting his feet on a basketball, smiling.

Jefferson and I sat on the couch, holding hands and chatting with the boys. I got up for water and offered to get some for the others. Mike looked me in the eye and said, “Thanks, Maddie, I’d love some water.”

When I got back to the couch, it was ten past one. There were two other men who were slated to join us, but they hadn’t arrived yet. Since this was a lunch date, we decided it was time to start. I laid out the rules.

You may touch Jefferson, but no touching me without permission, and then never below the waist.
We enjoy putting on a show, and love to hear your comments. We don’t take direction, but please don’t be shy about telling us what turns you on.
When you’re ready to shoot, please don’t do it on my face. You can cum anywhere else: on him, on me, on both of us, but I’ve had cum in my eyes and it is no fun.

“Have I left anything out, baby?”

“Nope, that all sounds pretty fair, wouldn’t you all say?”

The boys nodded. With that taken care of, I announced, “Let the Bukkake Circle Jerk Begin!” (Okay, I really didn’t say that, but wouldn’t it have been cool if I had?!)

We went into the bedroom and I told them all to get naked. They were silent, undressing down to nothing, each standing in a different spot around the bed. Jefferson undressed, too, and pulled me into a kiss.

I stole a glance back at the boys, smiling, enjoying their expectant gazes as Jefferson turned me to face them, kissing my neck and unbuttoning my top slowly, then pulling it, almost uncovering my breasts and gently caressing them through the shirt.

He turned me toward him again, and kissing me, slid my pants off exposing my legs and a tiny bit of ass. Someone inhaled as I spread my feet and stood on tiptoe, my leg muscles flexed and the hem of the shirt barely covering my ass.

Jefferson pushed the shirt past my shoulders letting it fall to the floor. He walked me backwards to the bed, lying on top of me, taking my face in his hands.

“Hey, baby…”
“Hey..”

We kissed, his hand cupping a breast, his mouth moving down to suck my nipples. I turned my head and saw two boys standing in silence, stroking their cocks. I stretched my arms above my head, arching my back as Jefferson lowered his face to my pussy.

I could hear the boys breathing as I came.

Jefferson put a pillow under my shoulders and straddled me, pulling my head up,

“Suck my cock.”

I had already wet my mouth and took his cock in deeply. As he fucked my face, Mike moved behind him .

“Spread your legs, Madeline. Mike wants to look at your pussy.”

I did, wishing I could see the handsome boy getting an eyeful of Jefferson’s ass pushing forward to my head and my legs lifting my hips up to a better viewing angle.

“She’s got a pretty pussy, doesn’t she?”
“God, yes.”

Jefferson’s cock was rock hard in my mouth and he pulled out, stepping off the bed and bringing me to the edge, flipping me over. My knees were bent, ass up. I pulled a pillow under my torso and he grabbed my hips, slicing into me hard and fast. I was growling, reaching forward to grab the far edge of the mattress.

I lifted my eyes and saw preppy Mitch, naked and sitting in the chair by the window, staring intently at me. I smiled and turned my head to the side, closing my eyes, getting lost.

Jefferson slapped my ass. I gasped.

So did the boys, their cocks responding.

“More…”

He did a great number on my ass, reddening it and pulling the pillow out from underneath me.

“Madeline, look at that beautiful cock,” he said, turning my head to face Mike. Mike was stroking his dick, which I hadn’t paid much attention to before. It was, well, it was beautiful. And big. He was holding it from beneath with one hand and stroking it with the other.

“That is a very nice cock…” I looked around at the other two, also jerking rock-hard dicks, “Actually, they are all very nice cocks!”

I’d done the thing I do so often during sex, which is to go deeply into myself, shutting out everything except my own sensations. I forgot a little bit about putting on a show. Shame on me.

He pulled me up by my hair and I braced myself with my arms. He laid a hand across my throat, pretending to choke me. I moaned as his fucking intensified and then slowed and he pulled out, tossing the condom to the trash.

He gathered me up and rolled me onto my side. We kissed. He lay on his back and guided my hips as I moved to sit on his face and suck his cock, which was not has hard as I’d have liked. I smiled, because sucking on a soft cock is one of my favorite things.

Jefferson was eating me, my hums intensifying around his cock, which was getting bigger and harder with every stroke. This was definitely a turn-on for the boys. Once he was nice and stiff I pulled up and reached for a condom, grinning.

“You have something you want to do to me now?”
“Yes I do. I am going to fuck you,” I said, as I rolled it on and climbed on top.

I lowered myself onto his cock and started rocking my hips. His cock was pressing into my g-spot, producing little whimpers at the back of my throat with every push. Jefferson scooted back a bit and beckoned to Mike, who came and stood at his head.

"Watch this."

“Aw, yeah,” I mumbled, as Mike slid his cock into Jefferson’s mouth. Jefferson’s hands wrapped around Mike’s thighs and Mike moved his hips slowly, looking from my eyes to his cock. I smiled and bent forward, kissing Jefferson’s nipples and looking up at Mike.

Ed was standing to my left as I sat up and continued riding Jefferson. He leaned toward me, whispering, “Can I touch your breasts?”

“Of course.”

He stepped forward, stroking his (monster) dick and gently laid a hand on my right breast, squeezing softly.

“You can be rougher if you’d like…you can pinch my nipples…”

Jefferson had stopped sucking Mike and said, “Pinch her nipples hard; she likes that.”

Everyone was very quiet; it’s like that with boys.

Ed’s breathing got faster and he asked if I’d like him to cum on my tits.

“Yes, please!”

He reached behind him and dragged the chair closer to the bed. (What the fuck is he doing?) He stepped up, one foot on the chair, the other on the mattress, his bazooka dick aiming at my chest. He steadied himself with one hand on the ceiling (more fingerprints to add to the collection) and I grabbed my ass with my hands, arching my back and sticking out my chest. I was still rocking Jefferson inside me.

He moaned and shot, spurts of cum covering my tits and neck.

“Nicely done, Ed!” Jefferson exclaimed.

“Heh. Can I use the restroom?”

“Sure; there are some washcloths there for you to use, if you like.”

Two minutes later he was gone, thanking us for a great time.

Jefferson flipped me over onto my back and fucked me hard, pulling my legs straight down and angling his cock up to my g-spot. I came, my cervix protesting, my muscles convulsing. He kept his cock inside and sat back on his heels, pulling my hips up to rest on his thighs. There was a cock being jerked above my face which I prayed would not be lowered to my mouth. It was Mike, who started cumming, shooting onto my tits and belly. I opened my eyes and his hand was hovering over my face.

(Aww, he was protecting my face! Could he be any sweeter?)

Mitch was standing to my left, poised, jerking his (monster!) dick. I swear, for a skinny boy, he was packing a baseball bat in his Dockers. He started to shoot. And shoot. And shoot! Fuck, I thought, will he ever stop?

When he’d finished, he stepped back and I smiled up at him, then at Mike, and then I raised my head to look at the load they’d sprayed. My skin was pearly and slippery and cum was starting to drip down my sides to the mattress.

Mike went to the bathroom to wash. Jefferson was as impressed as I was with young Mitch.

“Damn, honey, did you see that money shot?”
“That was amazing!”

Mitch blushed a little, saying, “Yeah, I guess it’s a good thing…it’s healthy, anyway, right?”

“I’ll say,” I said.

As the remaining two got dressed, Jefferson and I stayed on the bed and I told them all about my dream the other night of doing drugs with Jimmy Carter. At first I’d thought I was having sex with Jimmy Carter, but then I realized that it was just a bunch of people standing in a circle doing I’m not sure what…Coke? Heroin? I have never done either, and the last time I smoked pot was back in June, on my divorce night.

Jefferson thought a threesome with Jimmy Carter sounded hot. I agreed and when he asked if I’d have a threesome with him and Ros, I said, “oh, Hell yes!”

But, really, could anything be hotter than a threesome with Johnny and June Carter Cash? We concluded that Rosalind and Jimmy Carter would definitely lose to June Carter Cash and her man, John, in a group sex competition.

We were feeling good, laughing and playing with each other’s fingers as Mike and Mitch thanked their hosts and took their leave.

Jefferson and I were quiet, “Baby, that was fun!”

“Wasn’t it, though? They were a good group of boys. Too bad for the two who knocked on the door after we started. That’ll teach them to be on time for our bukkake circle jerks.”

“Yeah, we don’t mess around with people’s lunch schedules.”

“Speaking of lunch, I’m starving!”

“Christ, me, too!”

“Wanna grab a cheeseburger?”

“After that sex? You bet, muthafuckah.”


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Snow Day

Viviane kissed me goodbye, saying, “See you tonight, dear.”

I’d arrived last night and we’d had dinner, wine and, um, conversation until very late. Now I turned the key to Jefferson’s apartment which would be empty for a couple of hours while he took the kids to school. Time enough for me to shower and unpack.

I rolled my small suitcase to the bedroom and unzipped it. There was the drawer, cleared of t-shirts in preparation, and several empty hangers in the closet. I put my things in order, set the bag behind the chair by the window, undressed and took my bag of ablutions into the bathroom.

I toweled off after my shower and walked naked and steaming to the living room.

Standing in the middle of the floor I smiled. There was the coffee table, stacked with books and journals, atop which floated Lillie’s latest art project, a photo of her, a Scholastic Book Club order form. Here are the plants brought in from the terrace where I’d watered them in July.

I walked over to the window and looked down at the street. It was still snowing and people were bundled; sidestepping puddles and lakes of slush in the crosswalks.

My breath fogged up the glass. I shivered. I went back to the bedroom, put on my pajamas(yes, I know), and got under the covers. I dozed off, which is so easy for me to do here.

Until a chilly body slid under the covers and nestled up to me.

I smiled and rolled to face him. My arms went around him and he pulled me close.

“Hey, baby…” I whispered.
“Welcome back, honey. God, I've missed you. What’s this...Jammies?!”

I laughed, “Aren’t they sexy?”
“They’re actually pretty hot,” he took a cuff between his fingers.

I’m not a bedtime pajama girl, but I love lounging around in the winter wearing men’s style pajamas. These are white cotton sateen. If they were sheets they’d be, like 800 threadcount. They feel like fucking butter.

Jefferson pushed the hair out of my face and smiled when it fell right back over my left eye.

“How were the conferences?”

“I was distracted. I kept thinking about getting home and seeing you.”

“But you did pay attention, right?”

“Yes. Never fear, my children are all doing just fine in school.”

“Is Lillie adjusting well to the first grade?”

“That girl is too smart for her own damn good. And she likes to talk, like someone else I know. Now, be quiet and kiss me.”

I smiled and offered my face to him. Arms and legs and lips and tongues all tangled together. Soon my pj bottoms were around my ankles and we were both trying to kick them off as our fingers worked to unbutton the top.

He parted the front, exposing my breasts. He smiled, inhaled and took the right one in his mouth, sucking and twisting the nipple as his head circled over the pale skin, scratching it with his stubble, turning it pink.

My back arched as he found a spot and latched on; my thigh pressed up and found his cock hard between our bodies. I ground my leg into him as he bit down on my nipple, my hands moving around to his back, his ass.

It was so quiet I could almost hear the big fat snowflakes blanketing the trees and sidewalks. I smiled, pulling my lover close, smelling his neck, letting him rock me in his arms. His eyes were closed and he brought his forehead to mine.

Someone whispered, “I love you.”

His wrapped cock pressed into my cunt slowly. We did that simultaneous gasping thing and his cock moved in me. We started slowly, rocking back and forth, my hips rising to meet his. Eventually we were moving in and out in circles and in waves. The whole thing was like a symphony, each movement with its own character and pace.

My knees were pushed back to my chest or slung over his shoulders, my ankles crossed behind him. Our faces were close, chests rising against one another when we came to a quiet spot.

It was late morning and the giant snowflakes had stopped falling. Our bodies were slick, the sounds of our breathing punctuated with my sighs.

I thought, ‘How lucky we are that we can do this, when other people are avoiding eye contact with their bosses and praying for the week to end.’

We were warm, sated, naked and wrapped around each other while outside New Yorkers turned their heads down and their collars up against the wind whipping around the street corners of Manhattan.




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Neal

My doorbell rang at 10:10.

I padded over, barefoot, and squeezed the childproof doorknob cover, turning it and standing behind the door as I pulled it open. He stood in the glaring sunlight holding a duffel bag and smiling.

He walked in and I turned the deadbolt. I offered him a drink. He took the glass of water and drank it, walking into the kitchen.

I stood in the living room in my robe, my hair still damp from the shower.

He took my hands.

“I’m excited to be here, Madeline.”

“I’m a little nervous.”

“Oh, I like that you are.”

“I know you do,” I blushed and looked down.

He stood in front of me, my hands on his hips, his fingers brushing my hair.

“Do you have any questions? Any requests?”

I thought for a moment, “I don’t want any bruises…okay?”

“I know you bruise easily. I’ll be very careful. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You and marcus play with different safewords, right?”

“Yes.”

“With me, it’s a little different. Red and Yellow: ‘Stop’ and ‘Ease Up.’ Okay?”

“Yes.”

His fingers raked through my hair as we stood there, quietly, lulling me into a relaxed state.

He took a handful of my hair at the nape of my neck, bending my head to the left. His mouth found my stretched-taut muscles and I felt the easy, steady pressure of his teeth on my neck.

I sucked my breath.

“Mmm-hmmmm.”

His grip shifted and my head was turned and twisted and pulled to the other side.

As he bit and kissed my neck and the top of my shoulder my breathing deepened, and I sighed.

He pulled back and took my hand, leading me to a closet door. He whipped my body around to face the door and pulled my hands up.

“I thought you said you usually walk around your house naked.”

“I do.”

“Why the robe?”

“You could have been my creepy landlord.”

“But I wasn’t, and you knew that, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“No? You didn’t know I was coming?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Then you knew it was me. Didn’t you.”

“Yes.”

“So this clothing is really an unnecessary barrier, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He pulled the robe down past my shoulders and untied the front. He stepped back to lay it across the futon and I stood, half-turned, looking over my shoulder at him.

“God, that’s beautiful.”

I smiled.

He came back to me, his finger tracing my spine.

“Was that a compliment, Madeline?”

“Yes.”

He slapped my ass.

“What do you say when someone pays you a compliment?”

“Thank you.”

Another slap.

“Thank you, what?”

His hand reached around and started slapping my labia; light little stinging slaps. My breath caught in my throat.

“Thank you WHAT?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s better.”

He slapped me some more, his body bent over mine. My body shuddered. I felt his cotton sweater on my back. I felt his cock through his pants. His finger went to my clit. My back arched as I pushed toward him.

He took my hair and spun me around, catching me with his kiss. He led me to the table, set up in the middle of the room.

“Bend over. Spread your legs. Oh, that’s good.” He moved my legs apart and walked around the table to his bag. I watched him slowly walk back, holding a long, thin switch. I smiled.

He bent down, getting a close view of my raised ass and chose a spot, holding the switch against the backs of my legs where ass and thigh meet.

patpatpatpatpatpatpatpatWHAP!

“Ohhhh!”

I closed my eyes and let the warmth spread.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes…sir.”

He crossed my bottom with the switch as I squirmed, grabbing the sheet and moaning.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw his hand reach for something else. I felt the tails of a suede flogger smack across my back and move down to my ass. He swatted one cheek and then the other and just when I thought I was drifting away he switched targets and my pussy was being flogged from below with a satisfying “thwack.”

With every swish and smack I got redder, more swollen, and wetter. This was a very good buildup.

“Get onto the table.”

He helped me up and I slid toward the top, glad I’d thought to put on my favorite polar fleece sheets.

“Spread your legs,” He took my left hand above my head and put my right hand on my cunt, “show me how you touch yourself.”

I grinned and switched hands.

I licked two fingers, rolling them around my clit, playing. He moved behind me and rummaged in his bag, returned with a purple cuff and wrapped it around my right wrist. He took a length of rope and tied it to the table leg. He looked down at my body and saw my left hand cupping my pussy.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

I continued petting myself.

He cuffed my ankles in black leather and pulled my legs down, spreading them to the corners, lashing them to the table. As he stepped toward my face I saw a gleam in his eyes.

He pulled up a roll of duct tape and tore off a short piece.

“Yes?”

“Yes, please.”

I swallowed and tried to moisten my mouth before it was covered.

He laid the tape across my lips and smoothed it with his fingers. A wicked, wicked smile on his lips, he let out an involuntary sigh.

“That is so lovely.”

I nodded my agreement and continued to masturbate as he sat beside me on the edge of the table and took a nipple in his mouth. Between his teeth. Pulling, biting. He did the same with the other nipple and I turned my head, the pain searing through me, flooding me. I was moaning from behind the tape.

“Let me hear your sounds. That’s right. I want to hear you.”

The suede flogger circled around in the air, striking my nipples on its downturn. It was a good rhythm; a good intensity. I wanted to close my eyes, but the sight of his wrist twisting in time was too compelling.

He slapped my breasts with a short sandpaper-tipped crop. He moved my hand away and tapped at my clit. I was so wet.

He reached between my legs and felt the slickness he’d created. Again, he smiled. He removed the duct tape and kissed me, his fingers circling my clit and pressing inside.

He took off his sweater. He held my left hand down on the mattress and rolled his hand around the entrance to my pussy. I thought to myself, he is not going to fist me, is he?

But he was. Two fingers, then three and four and I could feel his knuckles and the widest part of his hand pressing against my opening. I tried to relax, not to strain against the ankle cuffs. I was breathing deeply, but forgetting to exhale occasionally. I started to hyperventilate as he was pushing, pushing…

I gasped, my head jerked up and I must have looked wild-eyed at him because he said, “breathe…breathe…”

I was groaning, yowling, trying to let go, head turned and then he was in. Tears were running into my ears and he was pumping his fist inside me as I writhed on the table. He moaned as I came into his hand. My wrist broke free from the cuff.

And then it was enough; it was too much.

“That’s it, that’s far. Please stop…”

“Last I heard, ‘please stop’ is not an agreed-upon safeword.”

“Red. Red. I can’t do anymore.”

He pulled his hand out of my cunt quickly. I howled. His hand went to my head, resting on my right temple. I could smell the sweet, slightly metallic scent of my cum from his wrist.

I was stroked and coddled, brought back down.

He helped me up to sitting and released my ankles. Stood me up at the foot of the table.

“Bend over on your elbows,” he said, unbuckling his belt and removing it from his pants.

I was shaking on my toes, ass raised as the doubled-over strap smacked my bottom, first one side and then the other.

“Look up!”

The strap stung and I wriggled against it, bending my knees, moving my hips downward and backward.

“You can do this. Hold your position…very good. See?”

Whap! Whap! Whap!

He tore open a condom, grabbed some lube and started stroking his cock.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“God, yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me, sir.”

“Good. Get on the floor and show me how you want to be fucked.”

I knelt and positioned myself on all fours with my ass facing him. He knelt behind me, one knee on the floor, the other leg bent up. He held my hips and caught a rhythm. I tried to push back to match it, but as soon as I did, I fucked it up. This is still about your submission, I reminded myself, just let him toss you around.

He pushed me onto my stomach and I straightened my legs. He picked up speed and I could feel his cock stiffen suddenly, ready to shoot. He fucked through his orgasm, finally collapsing beside me on the floor.

He pulled the blanket off the table and covered our bodies with it. After a while we moved onto the futon, talking about our kids, movies, books and bdsm. He and his wife have been polyamorous for ten years. He knows about Jefferson and marcus and Jordan. I was nice to not have those kinds of secrets, nice that everything is out in the open.

He got up to look at the clock. Time to go.

As he collected his supplies and began packing his bag I showed him a couple of my favorite toys, including the penis whip that marcus and I had each bought on my trip to DC. He pulled out some other, more intimidating items “for some other time, perhaps,” and got dressed after teasing me with a couple good smacks with a bendy rubber stick. Ouch!

He said he enjoys the way I sound when I gasp. He said he wants to hear it some more. As I’ve said before, I’m not a screamer in these scenes. But I agree that those gasps are pretty hot.

It’s not hard for me to imagine him in his Dom Space, hearing my cries and sighs and moans and seeing my ass raised into the air in front of him, red from the switch… Just that visual, and knowing it’s all there for him is powerful.

He took me into the kitchen to examine my body by the window.

“You have a few nice red marks, but nothing that’s in danger of bruising, I don’t think.”

“Thank you for taking care of me!”

And then he was gone, holding his bag, looking like a guy on his way to the gym. I had 25 minutes before the arrival of my client. I changed the sheets, Febreezed the room and went to shower. I looked into the mirror and checked out the marks across my bottom. I squinted to see what the hell was in my hair. Pale. Dried. Ginger strands crusted together into strings along my right temple.

For the rest of that day and into the next I was reminded of him with every step I took, at the end of each stride when the backs of my legs pressed upward into the space below my bottom and I felt the line of rosy heat left by his switch.



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