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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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30 January 2006



“Play it again, Momma.”

I’d taken them to friends’ for the afternoon and the Peter, Paul & Mary CD I’d bought in New York was playing in the car. While they have little patience for some tunes, I’ve found that the ones which tell a complete story are the ones they enjoy and want to hear over and again.

Having exhausted “Puff, The Magic Dragon,” I skipped forward a few tracks to “Where Have all the Flowers Gone?” I smiled, remembering the way it sounded in Carnegie Hall with the entire audience singing along.

I was singing, keeping the volume down just enough so they could hear my voice, over-enunciating the words so they wouldn’t misunderstand the way they originally did on “Huff, the Magic Dragon.”

They were resistant at first, but the simple, cyclical song drew them in. Within minutes they were both quiet, heads turned, listening.

“Play it again,” called Jack, who was zoned out in his carseat.

“What is that song? Why do they sing about soldiers?” Miles was concerned.

“Peter, Paul & Mary used to sing this song during the Vietnam War when Momma was very small.” I don’t give more information than is warranted; otherwise my answer turns into a lecture. It’s much more effective to spark an interest and build on it.

“Did a lot of soldiers die?”

“Yes, many soldiers and many other people, too.”

“Soldiers are Great Americans,” announced Miles.

“Wow, who told you that?”

“Mrs. Houston. She says soldiers protect our freedom.”

“Well, that is how it is supposed to work.”

“I don’t want to be a soldier; they get killed in wars.”

“Yes, they sometimes do, and that’s why this song makes me sad. War is a bad thing.”

They sat, staring out the windows, speaking only to request the track again.

We had a great afternoon, playing outside in the unseasonably warm weather. When we got into the car, they wanted “Flowers” again. This time they sang along. I cried a little bit.

The next morning, Miles came to me, head cocked, and said, “Momma, I know what the song means! First the young girls pick the flowers to give to their husbands. Then the husbands become soldiers and they go to wars and get killed and get dead. Then they go to graveyards under the dirt and flowers grow on them. Then young girls come again and pick the flowers and nobody ever learns.”

That is exactly it, honey. It seems so simple to us, right? There should be peace and people keep fighting wars. And we look at the leaders of the armies and shake our heads, saying, “Oh, when will they ever learn?”

He giggled.

“Momma, do you have a husband?”


“Are you a young girl?”

“No, she’s an old girl,” deadpans Jack, never looking away from Attack of the Clones.

24 January 2006


Bang, Bang

Editor's Note: A slightly abridged version of this story appears at The Black Table: Waxing Off. Thanks to AJ and the girls for a nice ride.

“marcus. . .”

(she smiles)

“Hi, remember me?”

“I do remember you. I was thinking about you today…duh, of course I are you?”

“I’m okay…how are you?”

“I’m okay, really, but I’ve missed talking to you… Jack has scarlet fever and I wanted to ask your advice about the local boy and Daniel’s girlfriend spent the weekend with the boys and it freaked me out a little and I have missed your voice and how did the opening go? How are the boys? Were the holidays okay? I’m really glad you called.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about not calling you…I didn’t know what else to do, and not speaking to you seemed like the best solution to the problem I was having. The boys are good, holidays were fine and work is fine. Anyway, I really don’t want to talk about all that other stuff; this is hard enough.”

“Talk to me about the problem, honey.”

“I just can’t do this, Madeline. I can’t think about you with Jefferson when I’m not there, and I can’t continue to be involved with someone so far away.”


His voice was calm and measured as he laid out his reasons for ending our relationship.

“Baby, I am cut out for two things: lots of casual sex, and love: one-on-one. And I can’t be in love with you when you’re so far away AND involved with my best friend. It’s too hard.”

My thoughts raced.

But I love you.But you love me.But I said this would happen from the beginning.But you said I was the best thing that happened to you this year.But I want to see you again.But this isn’t fair this is so not fair.

I didn’t say much. I kept my back turned to the kids, wiping my eyes quickly when they wandered into my line of sight, smiling and nodding.

Really, what could I say?

I wish I had a witty, snarky comeback for his arguments. I wish I could say that that’s how it goes and chalk one up to bad luck.

But I can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever feel that knowing marcus was bad luck. Bad timing, maybe.

I'll miss the flash of his smile when he greets me at the airport. The way that, in the middle of a conversation about international politics, he tells me how smart and hot I am. The way he can look at me naked and admire my body and I never feel self-conscious. And damn it, I'm going to miss fucking him.

I don’t wish we’d never met.

I don’t wish we’d never fallen in love.

I do sort of wish I hadn’t puked on his dick that one time.



I got to my parents’ silent house, setting my bag down in the front hall and walking to the master bedroom. I touched my mother on the shoulder.

“Hey, I’m back.”

“Hi, did you have a good flight?”

“Yeah, it was fine…how were the boys?”

“Perfect. Jack wanted to wait up for you, but he fell asleep watching a movie.”

“Okay, I’m gonna go to sleep now. See you in the morning…thanks for everything.”

I walked down to the kids’ room, slowly cracking open the door and peeking in. They were sleeping together on the futon, snuggled close, their breaths synchronized. I kissed each one and went to make myself a bed on the sofa.

The next morning, after opening their presents, Miles and Jack waited patiently as I put their carseats back into my car. After taking them to preschool I got home and turned on the computer.

My Bloglines Notifier had 52 new items. I clicked the icon and saw one new item on “welcome to the fuck house.” I wondered.

Marcus had deleted the post he’d made three days earlier, but it was still saved in my Bloglines. It was a real, touching post about how hard it was for marcus when Jefferson and I were together and he wasn’t there. About why he wasn’t returning my calls. It made me sad, but I was impressed by the depth of feeling and the fact that he’d written about me at all.

I sent him an email, telling him how hard I knew it was for him, and wondering why he’d chosen to remove the post. It didn’t hurt my feelings; it made perfect sense, and it was a naked, hurting post. I wish he’d kept it on the site.

I thought I’d hear from him in the coming days. I didn’t. Then another post, this one just as Tudor (with whom I’ve had much contact lately) was leaving the country for the holidays. This post made it clear that marcus was at an impasse. He would contact me when he was ready.

It made me crazy, but I respected his request for space.

I sent an email a few days before an important work event:

I miss you, but that’s not what this is.
I want to wish you luck on the opening Monday. I know you guys have worked very hard and I hope it’s a success. You deserve it, baby. You know how to reach me when you’re ready. Love, Maddie

Half an hour later, a response:

i miss you. that’s what this is.

In the weeks that followed, I told myself that this was what marcus needed; a break from the daily phone calls that we’d had up until I’d gone to visit Jefferson. He just needed to get right with this in his head…

He loves you, Madeline. Don’t take that for granted.

Meanwhile, life as a single parent was continuing. My kids had a weekend visit with their dad and (a surprise) his girlfriend. That was something new; disconcerting. I couldn’t talk with marcus about it.

New Year’s Eve came and went, I spent it with Maya and Aaron and their friends. I left at 11:40, preferring the quiet of my apartment to the obligatory countdown and ensuing kisses. My boys stayed the night with their grandparents, counting down the New Year at 9:59.

I drove over to pick them up the next day. We spent the day with my siblings and their families playing board games. Nobody wanted to play Scrabble with me. Early in the evening as I was kicking some Cranium ass, little Jack came to sit in my lap.

“Momma, I don’t feel good.”

I put my cheek to his.


He had a fever, so I got both boys into PJs and drove them home, where the next two days were spent pumping Jack with Ibuprofen. On Wednesday I took him to the doctor. The doctor said he’d run a strep culture, and if Jack wasn’t better in a week I should bring him back to be tested for mono. He then pulled Jacks’ pants down and announced, “Nope; we’re not testing him at all…he’s got scarlet fever!”

I gasped, and looked at the doctor like he was crazy.

Scarlet. Fucking. Fever.

“Don’t worry, Madeline, it’s only strep throat with a rash. Most doctors don’t even use the ‘scarlet fever’ diagnosis nowadays because it throws parents into a tizzy…ten days of Amoxicillin and he’ll be good as new. He can go back to school on Friday,” he rattled off the instructions, tearing the prescription off the pad with a flourish.

(Okay, but do I have to burn his velveteen rabbit?)

That was Wednesday morning. I had a client in the afternoon and Jack spent the time sleeping and watching movies with his grampa. I picked him up and brought him home with his brother.

I was a bit freaked about the illness, and talked with Viviane and Jefferson about it. I wished I could talk with marcus.

At 6:45 the phone rang.
Louis XIV.
Still marcus’ ring.

“Boys, can you play together nicely? I have an important call.”

“Yay, it’s marcus! ‘I’m Findin’ Out True Love is Blind!’” They started dancing around the room.

It was not the perfect time to be chatting on the phone, but at this point I’d take whatever I could get. I’d missed him and I’d had a shit week with Jack’s illness, having to juggle clients around, not making as much money as I needed for the week and dealing with a local boy who’d decided to get possessive all of a sudden.

The nice thing about talking with marcus when I'm stressed or upset is that he always makes me feel better. Not like, “oh, poor baby, everything will be okay,” but a very good combination of sympathy and constructive criticism. Whenever I talk with him about a problem I usually hang up feeling more confident, more capable.

I smiled and answered the phone.

21 January 2006


Bitter. Sweet.

It was the morning of my last day. As usual I woke up before Jefferson. Normally I would have gotten out of bed, brushed my teeth and gone to make coffee.

I got up, brushed my teeth and came back to bed, curling up in front of him, his breath on my shoulder.

As I lay there, my eyes scanned my side of the room. I made a mental list of everything that would need to be packed later that afternoon.

You know how you get used to seeing something so often that your brain stops processing it as something new and just sort of glazes over it, like an invitation that’s been stuck on the refrigerator for weeks because you didn’t want to forget it, but you do because you’ve stopped ‘seeing’ it?

My things kind of became like that.

I didn’t want to have to take them back…the special, glycerin-free lube for my sensitive pussy, the knitting project in the chair, the shoes underneath it, my tweezers in the bathroom.

I sighed.

When Jefferson woke, I turned and smiled at him. He put a hand on the side of my face, tracing my eyebrow with his thumb.

He got up and walked to the bathroom.

I stayed in bed, pulling the duvet up under my chin. It was cold.

He didn’t make coffee, either.

Neither of us spoke as he moved inside me, pinning my wrists above my shoulders.

These ‘last days’ are getting harder.

It usually takes a good several days once I return home to get back into my own head, to put ‘Jefferson and Madeline’ back into the place where it needs to be in order for me to be a sane, productive person. This time it would take more than a week.

When you’ve spent your life eating margarine and someone offers you butter, you think, “Can I really do this? Can I actually eat butter? What about the calories? The fat? Is it worth it?” And then you try it and damn, if it isn’t the best goddamned thing and so worth it and you slather it onto every available surface, cooking and baking with it—you become a connoisseur of all things butter. But then there’s a shortage of butter and you have to go back to margarine and we all know that margarine doesn’t satisfy like butter and you can’t help but find yourself dreaming just a little about how nice it will be when you finally have butter again.

Butter makes you feel satisfied, full and happy. Butter knows what you need and it can deliver; it doesn’t have to change what it is. Butter understands you and it knows what it’s doing as it melts its way over your tongue and into your heart. It’s a tough act for any other spread to follow.

At the beginning of this day, I was wondering when I would be cooking with butter again.

My stomach growled. It was nearly lunchtime and we’d made plans to meet Marla Jo downtown near her office for a bite. We dressed quickly and walked outside, pulling our shoulders up against the bitter winds.

We were quiet on the train. My eyes leaked a little.

We saw Marla, sitting at the bar waiting. She waved us over and we kissed hello.

I was again struck by the Marla Package.

She is such a girl…she’s a doll. Hot as fuck, flirty clothes, kick-ass curves, upswept hair and impeccable makeup. She's so pretty I could just like, look at her all day.

Then she opens her mouth and there’s this awesome voice, this Brooklyn accent, switching from throaty laugh to conspiratorial whisper to coy teasing.

Yeah, Marla’s a girl.

She is also one tough motherfucking bitch.

I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side (not that I think she has one….)

We talked about the previous evening with Donny. She made a face.

“Eew…ick. Aw, yuuuck! He’s such an asshole! Ugh!”

“Yeah, but I knew what to expect, thanks to yours and Dacia’s experiences with him. So I guess I owe you one.”

“And, like, he didn’t do anything with you, right?”

“Actually, he finger-fucked my ass,” I stage-whispered, sure that the firefighters sitting behind us would like to hear some details.

“No, really?! Wow, I’m impressed!”

“Eh, it was interesting,” I said.

We told her about the Perverts’ Dinner Party at Viviane’s, which she had been out of town for. She told us stories about her sex life while we fed our faces with lunch specials of soup and sandwiches and breadsticks.

Marla, not missing an opportunity to put a phallus between everyone's lips, had ordered extra.

As the lunch hour ended Marla needed to get back to her office. As she was reapplying lipstick a text message flashed on her phone. She laughed.

“It’s my co-worker. She wants me to bring her ice cream.”

“Now? Today? It’s freezing!”

Marla shrugged, “Yeah, well, girl likes ice cream, what can I tell you?”

We bundled up and trudged back outside, kissing outside the ice cream store, promising to write.

By the time we got back to the apartment there was little time left. Jefferson sat on the bed and watched as I rolled clothing and packed it tightly together. Every so often I would look at him and we would smile sadly.

I was walking around the apartment, double checking that I hadn’t forgotten anything, not stopping to talk, not stopping to sit. I was anxious. I paced, feeling out of control.

He took my hand on one of my many passes through the bedroom. My bags were packed, set up together under the window. There was nothing left to do.

My eyes welled because I didn’t want to look at him and I didn’t want him to touch me because I might just disintegrate and blow away like a vampire that's been burned by the sun but it doesn’t matter because I do want to be held and touched and loved and missed and even though it hurts (it hurts) I want to feel it.

He pulled me to the bed, my head onto his chest. I instinctively looked at the clock. An hour left.

We'd spoken less on that day than on any other day we’ve known each other, I think. Less even, than the days when I email to ask about his lunchdate, or he IMs wanting me to translate something into French. We’d started the morning in silence. Lunch with Marla had been conversation with Marla. By the time we were lying together in his bed neither one of us felt the need to speak.

What could we say?

Platitudes and reassurances that “We’ll see each other soon, don’t worry baby,” when the next visit is always uncertain don't serve any purpose but to annoy and frustrate.

“I love you.”

That we know. That’s not changing. As much as we say it it's not strong enough. Does a word become more powerful the more you repeat it? Or does it lose its significance, become commonplace?

I still haven't found out. But I keep testing.

We lay there, wrapped up, feeling sad to be parting, lucky to know one another.

I needed to be naked.

I sat up, laying my clothes across the chair. He kicked off his pj bottoms and took me back, arms tangling together over bones and flesh and that desperate closeness that has to end despite no one wanting it to.

We made love. We held on tight. I shuddered and bucked in his arms.

At the last possible moment we kissed goodbye. It was so cold and I didn’t want a streetcorner fare-thee-well. I left the apartment, exited the building and crossed the street to catch a taxi headed uptown. I got the first one I flagged.

19 January 2006


They're Suing SpongeBob!

I was clicking around and saw a picture of my favorite gay animated biped, SpongeBob. So of course I stopped to read. Seems this group of parents are suing Nickelodeon’s parent company Viacom and the cereal company Kellogg for marketing junk food to kids.


Seriously, go read the article and tell me if it doesn't leave you laughing and wondering where these people got their parenting licenses.

Oh, riiiight.

I agree that advertising is sneaky and, it would seem, largely beyond our control as parents. Well, guess what, folks? It’s not that difficult to control. Turn off the fucking television.

Yeah, I know, they’re still going to see TV at friends’, or on those days when you just can’t deal. So don’t freak out. Acknowledge their cravings for whatever is being hawked on the screen, and then provide them with tools to make good choices.

Talk to your babies about what commercials ARE, who MAKES them and what they are trying to make us DO. Use that scene from Toy Story where Buzz realizes that he’s "(Not a flying toy)” to explain that commercials make things look lots better than they are in real life.

Talk to your kids about why good food is important and how their bodies use it. I don’t think that it’s just my boys' innate genius showing when they talk about how their cousin Maggie always eats candy and drinks soda and that’s not good; she should be eating protein and vegetables and fiber.

Yes, my children know about fiber. They know it helps their bodies ‘suck up’ vitamins and it keeps their poop soft. Miles once extolled the virtues of Raisin Bran over Froot Loops in the cereal aisle for all to hear. I beamed with pride.

Damn right I brainwash my kids. That’s my job.

Seriously, I am not a fanatic about this. There is white flour in my kitchen and chocolate milk mix in my pantry. And every once in a while I give in to a request for Krispy Kremes. It is always cause for celebrations and high-fives in the store and, once we’ve returned home, very likely forgotten on top of the fridge.

The whole point of advertising is to create a demand and feed that creation. Kids like sweet things. We all do. And advertisers know how easy it is for kids to prey on their parents’ frazzled nerves at the supermarket. Yes, the market is saturated by more types of breakfast cereal than I can name, crackers which are exactly the same as those in the next box, except shaped like Scooby-Doo and cost fifteen cents more, ‘lunch box meals’ (term ‘meal’ used loosely) consisting of processed cheese food, crackers and salami, Capri sun to drink and the reward a bag of mini M&Ms. It grosses me out, but I can see why it’s there. It works. Why should the industry stop doing what works?

Are they contributing to childhood obesity? Indirectly. Are they a major factor in the epidemic? Come on. It is the responsibility of parents, starting in infancy, to make good choices for our children until they are equipped to do it for themselves. Teach them to question what they hear on television. Teach them to not be ruled by outside information.

Don’t get all sanctimonious and say that the junk food industry is preying on the powerless masses, providing an “empty calorie delivery system.” Just don’t. This is not the tobacco companies, folks, and you are not buying cigarettes for your babies (Unless you yourself smoke in your home, and then shame on you).

The real shame is not the proliferation of junk food, but the increasingly weak spot which exists in parents who cave to the demands of three year olds, thereby turning them into more demanding (and persuasive) ten year olds. That’s turning a generation of kids into whiny adults with attitudes of entitlement that make me want to spit nails.

If you think the only thing your kid will eat is junk food, stop fucking buying it. When they get hungry enough they’ll eat whole wheat bread and apples. . . which you will be required to expend some effort to prepare (Hey, I didn’t say it was gonna be easy; slicing apples is tough work- harder than opening a bag of Cheetos.).

Seriously, you are the parent. Your children don’t get to tell you what to do.

Kids are influenced by everything. That's how they learn about life. It's our job to help them sort through it all and get to the good stuff.

Last time we went to the store I told Miles and Jack they could pick out some cereal from a handful of choices. They chose Kellogg’s Corn Flakes. The reason: There was a photo of C-3PO and R2-D2 on the box.

Those crafty Kellogg's advertisers win again!

17 January 2006


Josh Joins Us

After a late lunch at the noodle place, we did some gift shopping. It was around 3:30 and we’d posted for another circle jerk after work that evening, so Jefferson was anxious to get home and check the responses. I still had a couple things left to find, so I sent him back and continued alone.

When I got back to the apartment, he was at the computer.

“Hey, honey! How’s it shaping up?”

“Not as well as we’d have liked, I’m afraid. Lunchtime seems to work best for these scenes, apparently. Seems like folks are just wanting to get home after work.”

“Oh, well, I guess that leaves us free for my last night. What should we do?”

“Well, if nobody shows, do you want to go see Bareback Mountain?”

“Will you STOP calling it that?! Gah!”

He laughed.

As Jefferson worked, I put my gifts into the suitcase and replaced it behind the chair. I looked at the blinds I’d shut that morning and they were dusty. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and noticed that it, too, could use a cleaning. I gathered supplies and carried them to the bathroom.

I scrubbed, thinking that in 24 hours I’d be on a plane home.

When I’d finished, the bathroom gleamed and the bedroom smelled like Murphy’s Oil Soap. The stray ficus leaves were cleaned from the floor and I replaced the bucket and cleaning supplies.

I was anxious. Partly because I was leaving the next day, and partly because marcus had deleted his post about me before I’d had a chance to read it.

But others had read it, and Jefferson was being reassuring to the people who were IMming him, worried about it. We had a brief conversation about it, me voicing my concerns, he understanding and agreeing about the absurdity of it all.

We were on the couch, my head in his lap, “I just wonder when it will end, you know? The speculations about us, the comments about me…”

“Honey, don’t you worry about that. I’ve got it taken care of. Right now, we’ve got one, maybe two guys coming over in a bit to watch us have sex and jerk off. Think you can handle that?”

“Well, it was really hot the other day with the three guys; I guess two wouldn’t be so bad, and I do enjoy fucking you, so…”

I got a glass of wine for myself and a bourbon for Jefferson.

A knock came on the door when Jefferson was in the bathroom. I got up to answer it.

As I pulled the door open and peeked around I was greeted with the sweetest face ever.


“Yeah, hi…”

“Come in. I’m Madeline,” I said, extending my hand. He shook it, smiling, “Nice to meet you, Madeline.”

Jefferson walked down the hallway toward us.

“Jefferson, this is Josh. Josh, this is Jefferson.”

“Hi, how are you?”

“Great! I found the place no problem.”

“Were you worried you might not find it?” I asked.

“I’ve lived in the city a few months, so I’m always careful to allow for extra time to get to unfamiliar places.”

“Cool; where are you from?”

It was just like that; we fell into an easy conversation with this sweet young boy from Illinois. Must have been the Midwestern genes capitalizing on one another.

Josh was slim, with chiseled features made more striking by the chin-length blond waves framing his face. He was genuine and sweet. And he had a secret.

He was thinking about starting a blog.

I balked a bit at that information: Did he know about our blogs? Was this boy someone we could trust? We’d given him our real names.

Jefferson was cool. Josh was cool. We talked about the tricky business of blogging.

Jefferson recounted the story of how we met. It was the first time I’d heard him tell it. I smiled, my toes in his lap the whole time.

I relaxed and offered Josh a drink.

As I was getting his wine in the kitchen, I heard Jefferson telling him that it was possible he’d be the only guest tonight. And if he’d rather not stay, we understood.

As I brought him his cabernet, the boy beamed, “Oh, I’m glad to be here…whatever you guys want to do is cool with me…actually, I’ve been with several couples, so I’m cool with that.”

“Oh, that’s good to know. Do you have any questions, Madeline?”

“Yes, baby, I do. I am interested in Josh’s experiences with couples…were they heterosexual experiences? Did they involve bondage?”

Josh smiled. “Mostly I fucked the woman or watched as the guy did. I’m straight, so I’m not into kissing guys or sucking cock, and I don’t have much experience with bondage…I’d be interested in learning.”

That was all I needed to hear.

We went to the bedroom, where I’d lit candles earlier.

Jefferson suggested we all get comfortable on the bed.

We undressed, Jefferson and I kissing as we shed our clothes.

We were all pretty nonchalant about being naked together, like this was just a natural extension of our conversation on the couch, just with exposed genitalia.

His body was gorgeous. Lanky and sinuous, it gave away his profession as a Pilates instructor. He put his rings and bracelet on the bookcase.

I kissed him. Sweet, sucking, lapping kisses. His hands were on my breasts and his mouth followed. I kissed his nipples and sucked them as Jefferson moved between my legs. I gasped and moved my hand to Josh’s cock, rock hard against his belly.

I took it in my mouth, enjoying the definition of his head above his shaft, sucking long and deep, down to his balls.

“Oh, god, baby, yeah, do that…suck that cock…unnh…suck my cock.”

Sometimes talk like that doesn’t do it for me, but with Josh it sounded sweet and I was more than happy to oblige.

Jefferson licked my clit as I sucked Josh up and down, as he pinched my nipples and said I was hot.

“Unnh, I need to be fucked…” I said, to no one in particular.

Jefferson looked at Josh.

“Could I watch you two for a while?” Josh asked.

“Of course. Come here, Madeline.”

I pulled my mouth off Josh’s dick and he moved to sit in the chair. Jefferson and I knelt on the bed, kissing, our hands traveling their paths over nipples, hips, asses. He tossed me back onto the pillows.

In the time it took from him to flip me onto my knees until he was pushing into me my cunt was on fire. I looked over at the sweet boy in the chair, stroking his shaft. I was pulled away by Jefferson’s cock sliding up, taking my breath away, and fucking me like only he knows how.

“Yeah, fuck her, man. That is hot. You like the way he fucks you?”

I was nodding my head, which is like a reflex when I’m about to cum and I don’t want him to change anything... just keep doing that. I came hard as Jefferson held his cock deep inside and slowly circled his hips.

Josh was smiling, touching his nipple.

My thoughts went to earlier in the evening. Jefferson and I had exchanged glances during our long conversation with Josh on the couch, and when he left to go to the bathroom, Jefferson said, “Okay, he seems great!”

“I know! And he’s not shy or weirded out about anything! Plus, he smells really good. Let’s keep him!”

Josh came back and we set up the boundaries. This was when I raised the bondage and discipline question.

I remembered this now as I came back to myself. I turned to Jefferson and requested a spanking lesson. He got the flogger and riding crop, putting them aside for the moment while I stood facing the door, bracing myself and sticking my ass out.

Jefferson explained with his palms the importance of warming up the area, sensitizing the skin for harder blows. He pointed out the anatomy of the back, which areas to avoid and the proper grip on a riding crop. Josh’s eyes lit up when Jefferson smacked me with the flogger.

“Oh, wow…that is hot! Can I try?”

“Sure…it gives a nice sound effect when you twirl it several times and then let it land. Like this.”


I love that initial stinging, the ensuing warmth floating like smoke up my back and down my thighs and around to my pussy.

After a few practice tries with Jefferson supervising and correcting, Josh started in on my ass and thighs. Jefferson moved up to hold me.

Josh started out well, but then got a bit carried away...easy to do first time out. There wasn’t much variation in rhythm or intensity and everything ran together.

My face was next to Jefferson’s. I whispered, “That’s enough…that’s too much.”

Jefferson stopped the flogging lesson and we took a break to talk.

Josh asked lots of questions and I felt like we were teaching a seminar, taking turns answering. I hoped we weren’t monopolizing the conversation, but it was just so much fun doing what we do and then opening the floor for discussion.

At one point he said, “Madeline, you have a great voice…you should be on the radio or something.”

I wondered if that meant I was talking too much, which happens when I’m excited about a topic.
Speaking of exciting topics, I mentioned that I wanted to have both their cocks in my pussy. Josh looked dumbstruck.

Jefferson smiled and nodded, “I think that’s a fine idea. Josh, what do you think?”

“How does that work?”

“Well,” I began, “it’s like this. You lie on your back, I ride your cock facing you. Jefferson comes behind me and slides his cock alongside yours up into my pussy and you both fuck me.”

“Wow, I think I could do that.”

We started in again, with Josh sitting at the edge of the bed as I blew him and then rolled a condom on, straddling him. I caught him glancing over at Jefferson who was rolling on a condom and lubing his cock.

“Hey, baby,” I turned his head back to me, “Over here.”

As soon as Jefferson stepped between his feet, positioning himself behind me, my rhythm somehow got fucked up and Josh’s cock slipped out, not at all hard.

Oh, poor baby…

We tried a different, thinner condom. No luck. I guess the thought of being tightly pressed to another hard-on and encased in pussy was a bit much for Josh’s penis to process.

“It’s fine, Josh, it happens. Madeline, would you like a little bondage to go with your sex tonight?”

“Yes, please!”

As Jefferson set to lining up ropes of various lengths across the foot of the bed, Josh asked me what I liked about rope, as opposed to the leather or nylon cuffs he’s seen people use.

“God, there are so many more possibilities with rope. I mean, it’s cool to cuff someone’s wrists behind their back so they can’t use them at all, but think about how hot it would be to, say, bind someone’s wrist, pull that arm behind their neck and then connect the other end of the rope around the opposite ankle. Then have the person try to walk. The action of stepping forward pulls the shoulder back, causing the person to be off-balance. It doesn’t work, and they are forced to be creative in finding a solution.

Also, the feel of rope on my skin is just so nice. When done well, the rope feels like part of my body. Rope leaves marks. I like seeing them as a reminder.

Finally, there is an ease to snapping wrists and ankles into cuffs which is fun and quick. But someone who spends the time perfecting a knot, who understands aesthetics and views the bondage as art and a sensuous act in itself, well, damn, that’s just plain hot.”

“God, I never thought about rope like that.”

“Rope is trickier and more time-intensive than the pre-made cuffs. It takes some skill and practice, and the whole process becomes this exercise in trust. I adore being bound.”

I think he gulped.

Jefferson instructed me to get onto all fours on the bed. He told Josh he was going to bind my tits. He got the rope loops ready and fed a breast into each, pulling them tight across my chest and around my back.

A length of rope later my arms were bound behind my back at waist level, wrists to elbows.

A short piece later and the rope binding my arms was attached to the one in the middle of my back.

Jefferson grinned.

“Now she has a handle.”

He grabbed the rope and pulled me back. I laughed, looking down at my tits, squeezed by the ropes, jutting out even more due to my shoulders being held back. It was damn hot.

Jefferson kept me kneeling on the bed, spreading my legs and gently pushing my upper body forward to a pillow. My chest was down, ass up and he held onto the rope, steadying himself and tossing me around as he fucked me from behind.

I had no ability to brace myself, so my hips and pelvis were extremely relaxed. I came in no time. I heard Josh’s breathing quicken. He was standing in front of me. Jefferson unbound my arms and said, “Suck his cock.”

I crawled forward, wetting my mouth and felt his hands on my head as I took his dick down my throat.

I watched his leg muscles contract and lengthen as he thrust his hips forward. One hand on the mattress, I couldn’t resist resting the other on the inguinal crease at the top of his thigh. It’s my favorite spot to touch on a person—that space between the hip and the pubis—it is sensitive to light touch and it is a vulnerable spot on the body. The femoral artery passes through it, fairly close to the surface, pumping blood to the groin and lower body.

When I touch that spot and feel the pulsing of blood beneath my fingers it is such a thrill. I doubt that, during sex most people even think about what it would mean to cut off blood flow from that place or what would happen if the vessel were severed. It’s a big fucking artery. A person could bleed to death in minutes.

And no, I don’t fantasize about tourniquets or razor blades here, but I do equate that feeling of power with another natural phenomenon: when, say, a dog trusts you it lies on its back, exposing its vulnerable underbelly for you to scratch and rub (or kick, as the case may be). That’s pure trust folks, and it’s a risky business.

To expose ourselves, literally and figuratively, takes guts and I always feel a sort of responsible gratitude when people let me rub their bellies. We all take risks when we get naked together and I like to acknowledge that.

As I was sucking Josh’s cock and enjoying his skin close to my face and his hard-as-rock dick in my mouth, Jefferson leaned into my ear and whispered,

“Would you like Josh to fuck you?”


Jefferson handed me a condom and I put it on the wet cock in front of me. Josh pushed me onto my back and pulled me to the edge of the bed by my thighs.

It was a good fuck.

Jefferson bit my nipples as I fingered my clit (Oh, yeah, touch yourself, baby…you love to do that, don’t you?) and Josh slammed into me, holding my legs up to his chest, his hips pounding into mine, his balls slapping my ass.

I felt his body tense, his grip on my ankles tightened and he pulled out, throwing off the condom and jerking fast. He came on his hand and shot onto my belly.

We lounged around for a bit, cleaning ourselves of Josh’s cum. Jefferson and I sat in the chair by the window and watched him get dressed.

“This was so much fun!” I said, “I’m glad no one else showed up.”

“I had a fantastic time…you guys are so cool. And I learned something!”

“Well, we were more than happy to teach,” replied Jefferson. “It’s fun to do things like this with people who are secure with their sexuality.”

“Yeah, it was really cool being with you two. You’re so totally into each other.”

“Baby, that’s just love, pure and simple.”

“Yeah, that’s it, huh? Awesome.”

We said goodbye to our new friend, changed the sheets and Jefferson made us a late supper of gigantic burritos. We ate them naked, the bed tray between us, Comedy Central in front of us. I fell asleep on his chest.

13 January 2006



Viviane and Jefferson have been goading me to post this announcement on my site (Breaking my narrative thread! Horrors!)

I'm a finalist in the Best Sex Blog category over at The Best of Blogs.

Huh? Whut?

I thought it was sweet of Viviane to nominate me, and then I sort of forgot about it (got fucking to write...) until she forwarded the link to me.

I really didn't want to get into the whole self-promotion thing, but since I don't have an agent to do it for me, I just wanted to get the word out.

It's really you readers who give me the extra push to write more, and your comments make me think, which helps me to write. So, this is due in large part to you.

Apparently the reading public can vote for their favorites, and the winner will be chosen by the editors over at the site.

Look at who's nominated with me! Look at all the women! It's cool to be included in that list of smart bitches and fellas. Thanks, BoB!

Ambient Storms Provocative Persiflage –
Fantasy Found –
Madeline in the mirror –
Myths and Metawhores –
Easily Aroused –
Pussy Talk –
Dirty Little Mind –
Rack The Jipper –
Wet Miranda –
Sex and the Second City –

There are lots of other categories besides the NSFW one; go check them out.

After your morning (or evening) fix of fucking, sucking, grinding and cumming, of course.



We were lying in bed, the sound of the morning radio coming from the other room. We had our coffee and were talking, when I sighed, hearing the opening bars of “Like a Rolling Stone.”

“I love this song…”

“Hey, wait, this isn’t Bob Dylan…” Jefferson and I looked at one another incredulously.

We’d made the same mistake. This song started with guitar and harmonica, in the same key as the other one, and we were both ready to start singing:

inyourprime…Didn’t you?

Now it didn’t really matter what the other song was, and I don’t remember it, other than that the singer was a woman. We talked about our memories of sitting in cars listening to Dylan songs. Mine was singing “Everybody Must Get Stoned...” with my dad outside my junior high. His was listening to “Tangled Up in Blue” in his high school parking lot. I was late to track practice, he was late to math class.

In our strange little parallel universes, I wondered if it was on the same day.

He checked his email; I checked mine and went to kneel next to him as he lay on the couch.

“We’re going shopping today, yes?”

“Uh-huh. You need… what? Presents for the boys? Your mom?”

“Yeah, and my brother and sister-in-law who stayed with the boys two extra days when David canceled his visit this weekend.”

“Such a good brother you have…c’mere, li’l sister.”

He pulled me into his lips, my hands stroking over his t-shirt, fingers splayed out over his nipples. I slid my hands under the shirt and moved it up. He shifted and pulled it over his head.

It was late morning and the light in the living room was clear and bright. I leaned forward and traced a nipple with my nose, the reddish-blond hair soft on my skin. I licked slowly, circling and sucking and kissing. I could stay here all day, his hand on my hair, smiling at me.

He reached down and fingered my pussy, wet and barely covered by my shirt. He moistened a finger with my juice and circled my clit. I gasped and caught the sight of his cock twitching behind the fabric of his pjs. I eased down the waistband and freed it. He sighed.

Now, what to do? His other nipple needed attention, and for that I’d need to be between his legs on the couch. On the other hand, his cock would feel mighty good under my tongue, and I would need to be in the same position for that.

We kissed as I climbed up, sitting between his legs and tending to his nipple with my mouth and his cock with my hand. He was quiet, but breathing steadily.

He pulled my mouth off and brought my hand up into his, scooting himself down, positioning his face under my pussy.

As I straddled him, kneeling on the cushions and holding onto the armrest, I was alert to noises from the outer corridor. I suppressed my voice as much as I could while his tongue swirled and sucked, collecting its reward.

I opened my eyes and stroked his hair, looking down at his closed eyes and then ahead to the table by the couch. A square foil pouch had been left there last night. By whom?

Doesn’t matter, I thought, as I tore into it and rolled it onto his cock.

I moved back, poised over him and kissed his mouth. We smiled. I slid down his shaft and felt him deep inside.

“God, that feels so fucking good,” I whispered, and let my hips take over.

We fucked quietly, steadily, an occasional squeal pinching my vocal cords together as I pursed my lips, determined not to yell.

His hips started thrusting, pushing his cock up while I moved forward and back. I reached down to finger my clit and the heel of my hand pressed into my lower abdomen just as his dick found my g-spot.

Nnngh! Oh … Fuck!”

I kept a finger on my clit and used the other hand to press four fingers into my belly, twisting and humming whenever I felt him rubbing against them. My hips moved on their own now, keeping his cock on spot, grinding myself forward and back, massaging my body with both hands until they were a blur.

My body was shuddering, exploding like those time-lapsed videos of flowers blooming one after the other.

My skin was on fire and I heard my voice in my head, and then reverberating off the walls, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…” rising in pitch and volume, the books blurring into one another on the shelves in front of me.

Fuck the neighbors in the hall; I don’t care if Mr. Lansky is perched outside the door listening. I don’t care if Holly’s mom has to fumble with her keys, flustered, in order to get the stroller into her apartment as quickly as possible. This is primal and raw and it is the fucking shit.

I love the way he looks at me when I’ve cum, when I open my eyes and he smiles, searching them for a sign of where I was, touching my face, my cheek pressing into his palm, body slowly returning to its center.

I stared at him, silent, sighing, wanting to speak, but unable.

“I know, baby. Me, too. Crazy much.”

For the second time that day, familiar chords sang out from the speakers:

“Early one morning the sun was shining
I was layin’ in bed
Wond’rin’ if she’d changed at all,
if her hair was still red.
Her folks they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like Mama's homemade dress
Papa's bankbook wasn't big enough.
And I was standin' on the side of the road
Rain fallin' on my shoes
Heading out for the East Coast
Lord knows I've paid some dues gettin' through,
Tangled up in blue.”

We looked at each other and cracked up.

10 January 2006


Focus & Resolution

“You’re fucking amazing. You have to call me when you’re back in town.”

It was 4 AM.

Viviane had come by with my glasses and flogger, both of which I’d forgotten at her place the night before. I’d spent the day half blind with Jefferson, hopping trains to Chinatown for dim sum and walking all over the Lower East Side.

She and I sat on the couch while Jefferson finished up some things on the computer.

“You know, marcus posted today,” she said.

“Oh?” Jefferson turned over his shoulder.

“Yeah, but don’t read it now, come and be with us,” she looked at me and, lowering her voice said, “Maddie, it’s about you.”


Oh, fuck.

Viviane quickly changed the subject, “I am starving! Have you guys eaten dinner?”

“We had dim sum at three, so we aren’t really hungry, but I could fashion something in the kitchen if you’d like to eat, Viviane.”

The two of them went into the kitchen. I went back to the bedroom and started undressing. I had a project I wanted to complete tonight.

I listened to the sounds of cooking from the kitchen, the “Oh, shake some cumin in…that’ll be good. Do you have sour cream?” as I took the lingerie out of the drawer and stepped into my stockings.

A local friend had given me a gift: black bra, g-string, garter belt and stockings. I dressed myself, taking time to savor the feel of the lace on my breasts, the g-string the hold-ups on the back of my thighs as I fastened the stockings into their clips.

As I stepped into my shoes and buckled the ankle straps I thought, “There should be a neighbor across the way with binoculars right now.”

The chatter from the kitchen had stopped.

I walked out to the living room.

Viviane was pantless, walking from the kitchen toward me.

“Hi, baby,” I said, kissing her and letting my hands fall to her hips.

“Holy shit, Madeline! That is hot!” She playfully snapped my garter strap.

Jefferson came out from the kitchen and stopped.

“That’s the gift? From the boy?”


“Good God. He’s got taste. Lemme see.”

I turned slowly, jutting my hip and looking over my shoulder.

The phone rang. Jefferson answered.

“Hey! Yeah, well, I’ve got someone in town visiting…yeah, she’s cool. Actually, there are two lovely ladies here tonight. Yeah, sounds good. Cool, we’ll see you then.”

He ended the call and looked at us.

“Who was that?”

“THAT was Donny. You remember Donny?”

“Good Lord!” I said, “Donny the straight boy model who likes you to fuck him?!”

“The very one!”

“Oh, SHIT!” exclaimed Viviane, “Is he coming over?”

“In a couple of hours. Is that okay with you two?”

“Can I wear my strap-on?”

“Honey, you can wear whatever you damn well please.”

“Well, I am definitely wearing the strap-on... you think he’ll let me fuck him with it? I mean, he did let Marla top him with the dildo, so…”

“I think that’s a fine idea; but don’t we need to take some pictures of you in that outfit you’re wearing first?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Well, Madeline in the Mirror, let’s get to it.”

Viviane acted as photographer while Jefferson arranged lighting. We decided that the best place to start would be in front of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Jefferson called out instructions:

“Bend your right knee…lean forward…arch your back…look over your shoulder…take that picture off the wall in front of you.”

Viviane snapped and snapped, we saved and deleted.

We moved onto the bed and added Jefferson to the mix. Posed shots, some candid photos I don’t remember her taking, all ended up on my camera by the end of the hour. Jefferson excused himself to shave and Viviane took some photos of me in my strap-on, its toughness offset nicely by the scalloped lace edging of my garter belt and panties.

A note about the strap-on fiasco from the previous evening: turns out that the Babelander who brought my new harness from the stock drawer had grabbed a LARGE. I mean, the thing would have needed to be completely retrofitted, more holes punched and ends trimmed if it was to ever fit. I am not a tiny girl by any means, but that thing was way too big. In my sober state that morning I had surmised the mistake. Only one thing to do: take it back.

We were closer to the Rivington St. store. As luck would have it, the same woman who helped me at the Mercer St. location yesterday was working at this one today.

I explained what I thought the problem was and demonstrated that this harness was definitely not the right size. “Oh, Amy must have grabbed a Large instead of the Regular…we can switch it out…do you have the receipt?”

I produced it and she made the trade. Now this one looked more like it. I thanked her and we left, a spring in my step as I swung the bag to and fro, "Lalalalala!"

Strap-on photos taken, Jefferson joined us in the living room and Viviane politely asked if he would fuck her before Donny arrived. I asked where the tealights were kept and set to lighting and dropping them into holders as they undressed in the darkened room.

I walked to the door, smiled back and left them to it.

I ate a couple bites of food from the skillet (black beans and rice…yum.) and washed a few glasses which had accumulated on the countertop.

Standing in the middle of the living room, listening to the heavy breathing emanating from the bedroom I started thinking about marcus. I wanted to read that damn post. Jefferson wouldn’t have minded if I’d used his computer, but the screensaver lock had gone into effect and I wasn’t about to ask him for the password, or to unlock it for me. I figured it could wait.

I shouldn’t get distracted by curiosity when a) the post will be there later and b) I am thirty minutes away from fucking a cute boy with my dick.

Still, I didn’t have a good feeling about it. Nothing to do now but wait.

I knew all about Donny from reading Jefferson’s accounts featuring Marla and Dacia. I knew that he was interested in getting fucked, but not in fucking. He gets his share of girls to fuck; Jefferson provides the stuff they can’t, with hot women thrown in for good measure.

I knew that Marla and Dacia were not terribly fond of Donny. Understandably. The boy cums and he goes. I got the impression from Jefferson that Donny was a bit of a cocky asshole.

Who was about to have my cock in his asshole.

I looked down at my tits swelling behind the black lace push-up bra, the tops of my panties framing the pad of the harness, the black dildo jutting out from my pubis and followed the stockings from their suspenders all the way down to the suede wedge open-toes with a big-ass holiday bow that I’d strapped onto my feet.

I laughed to myself, “I can’t fucking wait for this.”

Once Viviane’s moans had quieted, I walked back to peek into the bedroom. Our guest was due to arrive in 15 minutes and Viviane was putting on clothes.

“You’re leaving?!”

“No, dear, just dressing. I’ve never met the boy, after all.”

“Well, neither have I, but look at me!”

Viv smiled and said sweetly, “Yes, but I am not on the menu for tonight…that cock of yours is.”

Fair enough.

As we sat around talking, the apartment door opened and closed.

He’s here! Let’s let him come and find us!

There was silence. Several minutes’ worth, during which time I called, softly, “Donny! Donnnnny…”

“He is probably smoking on the terrace,” said Jefferson.

Sure enough, we heard the terrace door close and footsteps coming down the hallway. A tall figure walked quickly into the bathroom.

“Do you think he saw my cock?” I asked no one in particular.

Finally he came to the doorway wearing boxer briefs. His broad shoulders set off his slim hips, cut abs and that V shape leading from his hipbones into his shorts. Jefferson stood and greeted him, “How are you, man?”

“I’m drunk, thanks!”

“Donny, say hello to Viviane.”

They exchanged hellos.

“And this,” he said, gesturing, “is Madeline.”

“How do you do, Donny?” I said.

“Hey, Madeline,” he replied.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed it yet, but Madeline is wearing her new strap on harness tonight. She’ll be fucking you with it shortly. Is that alright by you?”

“Yeah, really,” he said, crossing the floor and standing in front of me at the foot of the bed. He pulled my neck toward his face and kissed me. Listerine masked the lingering taste of cigarettes.

“If I’d have known you were having a smoke I’d have come and joined you.”

His dick was hard through his underwear and he ran his hands over my lingerie, kissing, murmuring. Jefferson and Viviane were sitting together on the bed, watching.

“You look amazing.”

“Thank you,” I said, releasing his cock and leading him to the bed.

“Can we keep kissing?”

“Of course.”

I laid on top, kissing his mouth. He reached around and unhooked my bra, tossing it aside and pulling me forward, his mouth grabbing nipple and suckling. My stockinged thigh was rubbing into the underside of his cock and I reached down to roll my hand around its head. He sighed. My tongue traced its way to his nipples and finally his shaft. As I blew him I stole glances at Jefferson, who was making out with Viviane next to us. He looked at me and smiled.

I jerked the boy, sucked his balls and flicked his ass with my tongue. As I came back to his mouth he whispered, “Gah, this is awesome . . . Smoke break?”

Viviane was sucking Jefferson’s cock. He was well taken care of.

“Sure,” I said, and we walked to the hall.

“I’m gonna piss,” he said, “I’ll be right out.”

I went to the terrace door, throwing Jefferson’s fleece over my head, and walked out.

Donny’s cigarettes were lying on the table. I took one and lit it. Soon after, he joined me, naked. I handed him one and held the lighter for him. He stood there, freezing.

“So, where’re you from? Jersey? Connecticut?”

“Midwest, actually.”

“No, shit? And you came here to visit Jefferson? Wow. Well, I don’t know what he’s told you about me…”

“I know all I need to know. You’re a bartender, right?”

“Yeah, and work was such a bitch tonight. But this is a fucking awesome surprise.”

It was very cold. I was shivering inside the fleece. His teeth were chattering.

“Let’s go back in.”

We walked in to find Jefferson and Viviane walking toward the living room.

“What happened to you guys?”

“Smoke break,” I said, and smiled.

Jefferson looked at me, “Baby, you don’t smoke.”

“No, I don’t. But I don’t fuck many boys in the ass, either, so I can make an exception here and there, no?”

He kissed me, “Of course.”

Viviane and Donny sat on the sofa and Jefferson sat in the chair. I stood, feeling sexy underneath the pullover I was still wearing. We talked for a while and I asked Donny how he felt about beatings.

“I’m not sure if I’m into that stuff; I haven’t had much experience.”

“Well, I’m into it. And Jefferson is quite good at it.”

Viviane snapped to attention and handed the flogger to Jefferson.

He took it in his hand as Donny stood, requesting the fleece I was wearing. He wanted another smoke.

“That’s fine, Donny,” said Jefferson, “you can watch through the window while I flog Madeline’s ass.”

I braced myself, palms on the coffee table, ass pointed toward the terrace. Jefferson smacked me with the flogger as I sighed and wiggled. Every once in awhile I glanced over my shoulder at the boy standing outside.

When he’d finished he came back in, suggesting we return to the bedroom.

Donny had an agenda, and his ass was ready to be fucked.

I fucked him on all fours and watched as Jefferson did the same. I watched the movement of Jefferson’s torso above Donny’s ass, watching their hips pushing into each other; I kissed Donny as my baby was reaming him.

“He’s good, right?”

“He’s awesome.”

Donny had had enough fucking from behind. Jefferson instructed me to lie on my back. He moved around to straddle my face and feed me his cock. At the same time, Donny straddled my dildo.

I had my arms wrapped around Jefferson’s thighs, my head off the side of the bed. Donny caught a rhythm on my cock and started riding. I was so turned on by this; I wanted to watch the boy as he moved up and down. I moaned into Jefferson’s cock and pulled away to look.

He slapped my face, saying sternly, “I don’t see what’s so hard, Madeline. You have two jobs to do: suck my cock and fuck his ass. What is the problem?”

I started thrusting my hips upward while Jefferson resumed fucking my face. On a particularly hard thrust of my hips, the minivibe which was tucked into the base of the dildo started buzzing, pressing into my clit. Donny and I moaned in unison.

“Shit, kids, that is hot,” Viviane said, standing at the foot of the bed, blocking the glare from “Secretary,” which Donny had started playing, thinking it was porn. She and Jefferson kissed above me.

We took a break and Viviane left. Jefferson walked her to the door. I took off my shoes and unrolled my stockings.

“Madeline, those stockings are nice!”

“You like? They feel good, right?”

“Yeah. I love them.”

“I think you should wear them.”

I slid the stockings onto Donny’s legs and smiled, walking to the bathroom. Jefferson was splashing water onto his face.

He turned and kissed me, “You having fun, baby?” I nodded, “We should go back to the bedroom. Donny’s wearing my stockings.”

He was lying on his back, hands behind his neck. I moved between his legs to suck his cock. Jefferson pushed my knees apart and I felt his tongue taking long licks from my clit up to my ass. I hummed around Donny’s cock.

Jefferson turned over onto his back positioned himself under my pussy. I stroked Donny’s cock, letting the head slap against my tits. He grabbed me, kissed me hard and I felt his hand on my ass.

Was he going to spank me? That thought, along with Jefferson’s ministrations to my cunt, made me shiver.

He ran his finger along my ass and slipped it in. I gasped. I thought he didn’t do this. Well, maybe if he’s drunk enough he’ll do anything.

As Donny finger-fucked my ass, Jefferson’s sucking intensified on my clit. I was on all fours, my legs spread wide, my body lowered to Jefferson’s mouth, rocking forward and back, sighing.

I came hard, pushing the finger from my ass and giving Jefferson a face full.

“Jesus, girl, you are intense,” said Donny. I was still cumming and couldn’t speak. He rolled out from under me and went to the bathroom to shower.

Once the waves subsided, I moved down to thank Jefferson, kissing my taste from his lips, inhaling the scent of my pussy on his skin.

“I could really use a dick in me,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“I think that can be arranged,” said Jefferson, already prepping his cock and moving over me.

Donny came back to the bedroom and sat in the chair as Jefferson fucked my lights out.

“Yeah, man, that is hot.”

He was finished. We chatted as he got dressed, pulling his jeans and t-shirt over his taut skin. Jefferson put on pajama bottoms and Donny came to the bed to say goodbye. It was 4 AM.

All in all, it had been a pleasant evening, with Donny making a few remarks that would have pissed me off had I not been warned of this tendency beforehand.

The only one I remember clearly came when he was running his hand up my bare shin. He looked at me, totally serious, and said, “You need to shave your legs.”

“Honey, I don’t shave; I wax. But if you’re wanting something shaven, I could do YOUR legs.”

That shut him up.

After he was gone Jefferson came to bed. We held each other and he fell asleep.

I was itching to cum again. As I stroked my pussy I watched Jefferson sleeping, his soft snores blowing on my shoulder. I sandwiched one of his feet between mine as I got more turned on.

My breathing was heavier, my back arching involuntarily, the pressure of my fingers reaching the maximum. I was hot.

I kicked the duvet off, doubling it over Jefferson and reached down to my bag. I had brought a few toys with me and I smiled as my Orchid G emerged at the end of my fist. I turned the dial and laid it over my clit, the shaft clenched in my right hand, my left fingers resting on top of the bulb, gently pressing it down.

I’d had so much stimulation from Jefferson’s tongue and lips and my own fingers that it didn’t take long at all before my hips were raising up from the mattress, pushing my shoulders back into Jefferson’s arm, still flung across the pillows.

Circles of warmth spread through my pelvis, moans escaping through my nose. My legs were shaking and I was cumming, feeling the wetness collecting at the entrance of my pussy.

This was a good ride; I kept cumming and gyrating, eventually straightening my legs, my lips closing around the egg-shaped plastic head, still on my clit.

I extended my fingers down and stuck two in, keeping the heel of my hand on the bulb. I could pick myself up like this; like a bowling ball, my fingers curled up to my g-spot, moans uncontrollable now, hips thrashing, grinding up and around the vibrator.

I breathed deeply and let go, holding on, thinking I knew what was coming: a flood of juice to soak my hands and the sheet.

I howled and looked up as a spray of fluid rushed from my cunt.

I am a gusher. This is well do cu men ted. I cum like a freaking dam bursting. But I have never forcibly squirted ejaculate from my body… I’d told Jefferson once that it was a little goal of mine. He thought it admirable.

“Holy FUCK! Jefferson! Baby, look what I’m doing!!!” I slugged him, dead to the world. He groaned and readjusted. Goddamn, I thought, this is fucking amazing! And Jefferson was not going to wake up.

Too bad, I thought, I’m not stopping, cos here it comes again……

I watched as the spray arced up, illuminated by the blue light of the empty television screen.

“Fuck! Gah! Fuuuuck!!”

My clit was spent, my forehead sweaty, my body trembling. I turned the vibe off, came down from the intensity of it and sat up to look at the damage. The space under my ass was damp and the area near my feet was wet. I bent down to sniff the sheets. Odorless. High-five!

My fucking god, I just squirted for the first time ever.

Cross that off my to-do list for 2005.

Got that sucker in under the wire.

01 January 2006


Pas de Trois, Pas de Deux

The door clicked shut.

I turned to Jefferson, who already had his hand on the back of my neck. He kissed me, hard. I kissed him back.

Viviane's hands went straight to his belt. In no time she had his pants off. She looked up at me.

“Jefferson’s wearing boxers?!”

“Baby, it’s cold outside.”

“Cute turtles.”

I unbuttoned his shirt and he was naked. That made two of us.

“Viviane! Why are you still dressed?”

“Come on, you two.”

Viviane led us into her enormous bedroom, lit with candles.

Jefferson was kissing Viviane and undressed her. Viviane had one arm around each of us and kissed me. I felt Jefferson’s hand on my ass, rubbing, warming up. I smiled into Viviane’s lips, “I need to bend over the bed now.”

She took my hand and sat on the edge of the bed, scooting back so I was kneeling over her.

“Girl, what are you doing?” Jefferson asked.

I looked over my shoulder at him smirking mischievously.

“I told you I wasn’t going to beat you yet.”

I bent down and kissed Viviane, ignoring Jefferson and taunting him with my ass.


Silence. Kisses.

He sighs.



I yelped and Viviane and I giggled.

More slaps to my asscheeks, burning bright red, my clit swelling.

Viviane moved over to my side to watch, getting excited, going to my bag and retrieving the flogger for Jefferson.

“Get under her.”

Viviane scooted back into position. I started sucking her clit as Jefferson flogged my ass and thighs, causing my breath to catch in my throat, my tongue to inadvertently press her clit and labia toward my teeth.

She sucked her breath.

Jefferson finished flogging me and spread my cheeks with his hands. His soft, wet, warm tongue teased my asshole and I writhed, face down, hips up.

“God, please fuck me,” I said.

Wordlessly, he covered his dick and slid it hard into my cunt.

I couldn’t concentrate on Viviane’s cunt while my own was being invaded.

She moved her legs to the side and her body down to kiss my mouth and suck on my tits. As she pinched and rolled and sucked my nipples, she gasped.

I looked down to my right. Jefferson, while fucking me from behind, had a finger in Viviane.

“Jesus, he’s fucking both of us,” I said, and laughed.

I moved a couple of fingers to my clit, pushing back into Jefferson's hips and ground myself around to cumming.

“I need to be fucked,” Viviane said.

“Fuck her, baby,” Jefferson said, and sat at the head of the bed with his water, watching. He tossed me a condom and lube.

I pressed into Viviane’s pussy and her legs lifted and closed around me. As I moved into her faster and faster, the harness started slipping. I put my hand around the base of the dildo to steady it.

Goddamn straps…

I adjusted my body to fuck faster. As I got into a good rhythm and Viviane was moaning, cumming, the dildo came out of the O ring.


I finished her off, manually working the dildo in and out of her pussy, my hand pressing on her lower abdomen.

“Oh, okay, okay... Jesus!”

I withdrew the dildo and she pulled me into her kiss, flipping me over.

Jefferson was stroking my hair as Viviane went to work on my tits.

A word about Viviane: The girl likes to bite.

After she’d had her fill of licking and sucking and biting and massaging my breasts she reached down to her nightstand. There was a click and a whirring and her Hitachi Magic Wand was pressing into my clit.


My back arched and I guided Viviane around with my hand until she had the head right where it needed to be. I came, gushing onto the sheets and Viviane rotated the wand around. She’d put on the straight attachment and now slid it inside.

I’d never used a Hitachi, let alone one with attachments and I have to say I wasn’t that impressed with the straight penetrative one. Maybe the g-spot head would have worked better; all I know is that after a few minutes I’d had enough of that and pulled it out. Bringing the tennis-ball sized head up to my clit I rolled onto my side, legs together, holding the wand just where I wanted it.

This is my favorite jerking off position when I’m just working my clit. It doesn’t expose my pussy to the cool air; everything stays warm and wet between my closed legs. There is also a nice level of friction attainable on my outer labia, which I love very much and which ain’t so easy to do if I am spread open.

I held the wand with my hands, my thighs keeping the head in position, my hips rocking back and forth.

Goddamn, I want one of these.

Viviane sat back, touching me and said, “Look who’s asleep.”

I looked over, and sure enough, Jefferson was asleep, propped up on pillows, his hand on my head.

Whatever, I needed to cum. I rammed the vibe straight onto my clit, yowling and laughing.

Viviane went to wash the attachment and turn out lights.

We had just gotten comfortable in bed. It was 2 AM.

Jefferson stirred, stretched, sat up and said, “It’s so late! We need to go home!”

“Are you kidding me?” said Viviane, “It’s two o’clock in the morning! Just stay in bed and go home tomorrow!”

But there was no entreating Jefferson. He walked to the living room and started getting dressed.

“I think we’re leaving, Viviane,” I said.

“That is so dumb. Jefferson, you two really should stay.”

I was dressing, gathering my things into the Babeland shopping bag. Viviane pulled on her robe and got our coats. Jefferson loaded some additional things into the bag and we stood by the door.

“Thank you for a great evening, baby,” I said, “I had a great time!”

“You’re welcome, dear. It was fun, wasn’t it? And you fucked me so well.”

We kissed her goodbye and walked out.

In the elevator, I realized how inebriated we were. Jefferson was on a mission to get back home, to wake up in his own bed. We both did that ‘I’m-quite-drunk-but-you-can’t-tell-can-you?’ super-fast, purposeful walk past the doorman and hailed a taxi. We leaned against each other, kissing in the back of the cab. I paid the driver when we pulled up and we got out.

Back in the apartment. We took off our shoes, I left the bag by the door and Jefferson went to hang his coat as I threw mine onto the couch. His back was turned, the closet door opened. I pulled my jeans down and tossed my top and bra to the floor.

When he turned I was completely nude.

We stood together, kissing, as I removed his clothes for the second time that evening, walking backwards toward the bedroom.

His hands stroked my face, my breasts, my waist, down to my cunt. He lowered me to the flannel sheets and I propped myself onto some pillows.

As he kissed and licked and sucked, his face between my legs, I put my hand on his head. I stroked his hair, pulling it when he made me gasp.

All the stimulation earlier had made me hornier than hell.

When he finally entered me I was insane with the wiggling. Underneath, on top, forward, backward, I wanted his cock from every angle.

My legs were straight, his face in my neck, the sweat on our bodies creating a suction which was broken with every thrust, making a ‘raspberry’ sound between our chests.

My feet fell to the sides, and I pressed the balls of them into Jefferson’s arches, perfectly aligned.

My toes pressed into his feet as I came. He came soon after, sitting straight up and holding his cock as his shoulders shuddered and he covered my belly with squiggles of cum.

The blinds were open, allowing some light to filter into the room. We lay on the pillows, smiling.

As my eyes began to close I grabbed the pillow from under my head and tossed it to the floor. Jefferson had his two pillows under his head and an arm slung over my hips. I held his forearm and turned my back to him, moving into the shape of his body and brought his hand up to my heart.

He sighed and kissed the top of my head.


Hardly Ever Heard

If you search for tenderness
It isn't hard to find.

You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

It’s been nearly a month since marcus and I spoke. Well, I’ve spoken to his voicemail and his answering machine, but not to the man himself.

Those of you who follow this blog and those of Jefferson and marcus already know this; marcus wrote about it weeks ago. You probably also know that it’s not the first time marcus’s feelings for me got the better of him. It’s frustrating for him to see me with Jefferson, more frustrating, I think, to read about it when he wasn’t there at all.

It’s become a topic of little discussion between marcus and I, and between marcus and Jefferson. Jefferson and I talk about it often, mainly because it frustrates me.

Originally I wasn’t going to address the marcus issue publicly. I still think better of it.

But the fact is that I’ve been hurt by his unilateral decision to cut off communication with me. And that affects my life. It affects my ability to write. It’s started having an effect on how much I choose to share about my relationships with him and with Jefferson.



I’ve done that. I did that for months before my visit to Jefferson in July. We talked about who would be affected once we wrote about love. We knew it was a risk. So we made sure to prepare the way with certain other people, just to give a heads-up that it was coming. Because we don’t want to hurt those we care about.

Still, some people choose to see this relationship as a threat. Even though we write about it openly, there are things which are, and will remain, private. That’s the way it needs to be, otherwise we are just another experiment, documented for the voyeuristic masses.

In the last few months I have been less and less inclined to write the actual mechanics of every sexual encounter with Jefferson and with marcus. I think that my reluctance comes mostly because I don’t want to be taking mental notes when I could be drowning in the experience. And like I said before, some of it is just too personal.

Those are the things I choose to keep private. The problem is that there are things I’d like to share but am cautious about. My relationship with Jefferson is evolving, as it should, and I want to document that. But it’s troubling when each time we’re together or writing separately about those experiences, the backlash starts. The drama starts. It really is exhausting.

I know that if I saw marcus today, face to face, we could talk about it and settle things, one way or the other. It just makes me sad that he can’t bring himself to talk to me. I love him, and this limbo sucks. I want to give him his space and to be understanding and everything, but the last thing I want is for our relationship to quietly fade away, unresolved.

I am grateful for the comments people send. I appreciate the encouragement on the blog and in private conversations with Viviane, Dacia, Jordan and others.

I know that the people who fret about the stories about Jefferson and me are going to continue to do so; I can’t help that. It mostly comes out on Jefferson’s end and he’s fine with it. They can choose not to read and should know that I don’t write to gloat or hurt or spite.

I write to fucking write.

This blog and the relationships herein exist because I choose to write honestly about my life. I never realized how rare that is. Honesty should work. Some people appreciate it. For others it comes at too high a personal price. For that I am sorry.

It’s not going to stop me from writing what I choose. It can’t, because then there’s no point to any of this.

When I feel like writing about being in love, I will.

Art? Just did that.

Sadness? Beatings? Jealousy? Kids?

Hang on, they’re all coming.


Yeah, I feel like writing about fucking now.