THE HOLY VESSEL

•December 27, 2017 • Leave a Comment

the holy vessel

But do those things ever actually stay in the past?

She sipped her espresso and looked about the café, anywhere but into the eyes across the table.  She couldn’t quite go there either.  “….no, I didn’t see him.”

“Pour quoi?   C’etait l’appel du vide?

“English, please, Simone.  You know my French is rusty.”

Simone huffed in disdain.  “Because you do not practice, mon amie.  You Americans….”  She ceased her muttering long enough to affix a cigarette between her lips.  “… always making promises you do not keep.”  She exhaled a cloud of white and gave her companion an appraising look.  “He very much wanted to see you, comprenez-vous?  Jean –Miche… ”

“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand.  “Don’t even say his name.”  She couldn’t bear to hear it spoken.  For her, he was only Monsieur.

“You come to Paris… you travel all these miles… you take a taxi to his door and you do not ring the bell.”  Simone pointed the cigarette like a finger.  “Why do you refuse a man dying?”

She looked up sharply.  “You never said he was dying.”

Simone shrugged a Gallic shoulder.  “He cannot live forever.

“Is he sick?  What aren’t you telling me?

Simone took a long drag before answering.  “Maybe he has … a little of the cancer.  Did not Pere Mathieu tell you?”

“Father Matthew?”

“Oui, Pere Mathieu.”  Simone stubbed out her cigarette, swearing softly under her breath.  “I suppose he, too, you forgot?”

“No,” she said, turning her coffee cup slowly around its saucer confines.  “I haven’t forgotten him.”

No, probably never would.  How could she when he had occasionally joined the games she played with Monsieur.  But she wouldn’t allow herself to think about that.

Simone rattled on, spewing her disgust of all things Americain and their patent disregard for etiquette until her babble became a white noise backdrop to the creeping memories which refused to lie still.  Why did she come Paris if not to face her past?   Surely she could stand to remember that particular event, so many years ago…

It happened in her last year of high school. When her school mates were gossiping, full of giggles and sighs for the new parish priest, she was oblivious, caught tightly in web with her own piece of forbidden fruit.  She had no time for her friends after school because all her afternoons were spent naked with Monsieur, either diligently bent over her school work, or bent over his pleasure bench diligently taking him into her body.  He was a hard task master because he desired that she excel at both.

He made her quit her part-time job at the bookstore that she could devote herself more fully to both studies with her tutor.  He drove her to a discreet physician outside of Paris and had her fitted with an IUD to prevent “unpleasant mishaps” from spoiling her training.  Her grades improved so dramatically that her mother was ecstatic, giving full credit for her daughter’s academic turnaround to the novenas she recited nightly. Monsieur, too, was pleased, promising a special treat if she scored well in spring examinations.

When she arrived at his townhome one May afternoon, the proof of her diligence was in hand:  She passed with high honors and proudly showed him her certificate.  He embraced her with all the tenderness he could muster and told her to quickly undress as her treat was already waiting.

He trussed her like a game bird and suspended her from the ceiling.  When she was dangling in space, the door to the bedroom quietly opened and a naked man with stiffly swollen cock entered.  Unable to shrink away from him, Monsieur was still able to read her apprehension and soothed her with soft words.  She was reluctant, as always when faced with a new step in their sexual tango, but yielded to his requests, no matter how shameful she initially thought them.

The newcomer spent an inordinate amount of time pulling on her nipples and sucking greedily at her clitoris, wringing so many orgasms from her that a puddle formed on the marble floor beneath her.

He lapped up the puddle and politely asked Monsieur if he might have permission to fuck her pussy.  She was lowered from her perch and fastened to the bench where her new playfellow opened her up and pushed into her body.

Monsieur strolled to the bench and stroked her cheek with a tender finger.  “You may fuck her as long and as roughly as you desire, Mathieu.  She has been well-trained.  But take care not to mark her body; we don’t want to leave any clues for her maman to follow.”

His hand drifted gently to her breasts, bouncing wildly from the motion below.  “When she is 18, we will pierce these nipples together, my dearest friend, and maybe, if we choose, her little rosebud as well.

Fingers slid over her belly, lingering a moment before slipping past her mons and into the wetness beyond.  Monsieur probed softly, forcing another climax.  “That’s my good girl.  Take him inside you,” he said, soothing her as the thrusting continued.  “He fills you up well, does he not?”

Monsieur closely observed as the man fucked her, occasionally offering encouragement and frequently forcing orgasm to keep her soft and slick.  Her head was spinning with sensation and, to keep her acquiescent, he kept her drowning in it.

“I should so like to see this lovely belly ripe with our seed, Mathieu.  Wouldn’t that be an interesting little game? We could take turns filling her up.  When we tire of her, we ask new friends to join.”  He stopped to caress her belly.  “And you, my little princess, would this not please you?  Would this finally satisfy your hunger?

She could only whimper as Monsieur forced another climax.  “Did I not tell you, Mathieu, how obedient she is?  Look how easily she comes, how willingly she opens her legs and allows you to fuck her.  What fun we will have playing house with our little wife.”

The man paused mid-thrust.  “And what of the children born from our play?  You know I am not in a position to claim them.”

“Do not concern yourself with such things now, Mathieu.  Take your pleasure and fill her little hole as many times as you please. “

And he did. Several times until the man finally detached himself and lay panting on the marble floor. Monsieur positioned a goblet at her slit and told her to bear down, collecting their mingled fluids and topping it off with a splash of champagne.  “Drink this tonic, my sweet dove,” he said, holding it to her lips.  “Drink and be well.”

She drank and Monsieur removed the restraints.  He gathered her into his arms and carried her to the bathroom where the two men prepared a bubble bath and took turns bathing and petting her.  “Relax for a bit, cherie, but you must be dressed in your school uniform and home before six.  Your mother will be expecting you.”

And so the spring and summer passed, as the toy of both Monsieur and his quiet friend, until the autumn when she prepared to leave Paris to begin her freshman year at Stanford.  Her mother, worried that she would fall victim to horny American surfer boys, insisted she go to confession and be blessed before her  trip.

In the quiet of the confessional, she unburdened herself of everything and when the priest finally spoke, his low deep voice was familiar.  It rang a bell, and like a bitch in Pavlov’s laboratory, wetness suddenly welled and pooled in the crotch of her prim white cotton panties.

“You’re wet now, my child, are you not?”

“Yes, Pere Mathieu.”

“Show me,” he demanded.  And she lifted the hem of her plaid skirt, spreading her thighs to show the dark stain growing on the fabric.

“A quoi penses-tu, imbecile?”

“Uh, excuse me?”

Simone lit up another cigarette.  “Why do I talk when you do not listen?”  She motioned to waiter to bring another coffee.  “I was talking about Pere Mathieu, the one you forgot.”

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I USED TO WANT TO BELIEVE: The Vanilla Files

•December 19, 2017 • Leave a Comment

i used to want to

Case No. 452:  The Assman Cometh

Or not, in this case.  Mr. F, a fit and reasonably attractive man in this early 30s approaches his wife of five years and announces in a petulant voice that their sex life has become rote and anal sex is the solution.  He asks his wife to undress and immediately accommodate his request.

Mrs. F, an equally fit and open-minded woman, is dismayed not with the act, but with the brusque manner in which it was presented.  Reflecting on her own limited experience (see File 451:  High School Hijinx), Mrs. F asks her husband what knowledge or training he might have as her own was unreliable.

Enraged that his wife would doubt his ability, he avoids answering the question by repeating his demand that she strip and present her ass for immediate consumption.

Mrs. F attempts to defuse the situation by suggesting they both take some time to research the topic before engagement, if only to ensure safety and that a pleasurable experience might be had by all.

Mr. F is puzzled by the suggestion, prompting Mrs. F to realize that her health and pleasure were not factors in his decision.

Further dismayed and now wounded to the heart, Mrs. F tries to contain her anger and explains (using very small words) that if preparation had no intrinsic value, then surely he wouldn’t mind being pegged.

Mr. F becomes alarmed, perhaps because he finds her idea appealing, and rejects it violently, and instead delivers an ultimatum:  Give up the ass or face immediate replacement.

Though shellshocked, Mrs. F recognizes this event as a tipping point and must make a critical decision:  Either protect her health and sanity by walking, or endure anal rape by the man who was her lawful husband.

Choosing self-preservation, Mrs. F packs her bags and departs the marital residence that very night.  Six months later, the marriage is dissolved and the newly-single former Mrs. F reflects on her wasted years spent in vanilla marriage.  Were their conflicts representative of fundamental incompatibility or of simple ignorance of the other’s expectations, sexual or otherwise?  Would their marriage have survived had they engaged in frank discussions and written contracts before legally committing themselves?

The answers may never be known, and for that reason the case is here, buried in THE VANILLA FILES.

POST-COITAL SMOKE

•December 17, 2017 • Leave a Comment

post coital smoke

He listened, actually listened without offering commentary, while the floodgates opened and the deluge of past events that shaped me poured out.  Some were odd, others poignant, and more than a few were hilarious.

But curiously, and fortunately because I didn’t want to appear like a total loser, I didn’t cry.  Even when relating the painful ones.  They, too, were only ephemeral.  This completely new perspective made me suddenly question why I held onto the pain and singled it out in the long chain of memory.

When the flood sputtered to a close, he asked me about my years in captivity and I had to laugh.  Yeah, that’s what they were, all right.

Nearly 30 years of coitus interruptus.  Sure, I was sexually active, even had a husband or two.  But was I really alive?  Did I truly give all of myself to these friends and lovers, or only a portion?

I recounted my experiences, counting them out on my fingers like a child and with each addition, I felt myself drawing closer to an elusive something.  And I paused.  Suspended.

Mr. Green Eyes watched me hang in the moment and I knew he was edging me.  “You’re almost there, aren’t you?  You know what that something is.”

Yes, I did.  And I could feel it growing closer by the minute, yet it remained indistinct.

“When did the cage door open?”  His voice was a murky as the mists he wove.

Down and down, I swirled into them and then my legs and scalp were burning as the sentences in a letter became clearer and the unrepentant desire within them set my skin on fire.  And I saw the man who wrote them open my cage only to draw me out and fuck me so masterfully that the orgasmic tsunami hurled me miles beyond my vanilla prison and spit me out onto a far shore, weak and shaking like a newly born infant.

The key fell out of mist and dropped, bright and shiny, into my hand.  “I could never go back,” I said, refocusing on my date.  He was wearing a fine wool suit with a pale pinstripe.  Why hadn’t I noticed this before?

“You know,” he said, leaning in with a smile, “back in the day, a story this juicy would merit a post-coital smoke.”

I laughed and suddenly thought of the farewell scene in that old black and white film, Now Voyager, where Paul Henreid lights up two cigarettes, one for himself and one for Bette Davis.  Even if I did smoke, did I really want to say goodbye?

I looked at Mr. Gorgeously Attired who was elegantly sprawled against the leather banquette and thanked my lucky stars that I could see him in all his brilliant Technicolor Dom glory.

“Maybe so, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather do without all the smoke and mirrors.”

BARING IT ALL

•December 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

baring it all

After the drinks were served, he leaned back in his chair.  “Why don’t you start?  Tell me about yourself.”

His eyes were very green, or maybe that was just a trick of the overhead lighting.

“I’m not sure I can expound at will like that,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too aloof.  “Maybe if you asked me specific questions…”

“Well, when were you first introduced to this variation?”  The way he pointedly avoided the acronym BDSM made me wonder if he was equally as reserved or just accommodating me.  Yikes.  This did not bode well, and the trickle of sweat between my boobs agreed.   For the umpteenth time, I silently cursed my utter lack of poker face.

“Uh…, it’s that obvious, huh?”  Sheepish was the very little least of what I felt.  “Couldn’t I just write everything down and email it later?”  I took a shaky sip of my cocktail.  “It might be easier for me.”

“Where’s the challenge in that?”

Was he laughing at me?  I could have sworn his eyes were twinkling under those goddamned LED lights. “It’s really difficult for me to talk about ….me.”  Okay, now I really sounded like an idiot.

“You look beautiful tonight.  That color really suits you.”

Oh Kee-rist, now with the flattery.  “I found this at a vintage shop.  The fabric is amazing, isn’t it?”

“The woman who’s wearing it is more so.”

Yeah, I needed to hit the ladies room pronto.  A strategic wad of TP might slow the runoff in my cleavage.  Besides, the timeout would give me a few minutes to assemble some better answers than er and um.  Did I remember to put a pen in this clutch?

I felt a gentle hand on my arm.  “You’re not leaving because of me, are you?”

Oops.  I was already standing and halfway to goal.  It would have been better, or at least more understandable, if I had actually informed him where I was going.  “I just need to use the ladies…uh…room…”

I’ll just splash some cold water on my neck.  Or maybe lock myself into a toilet cubicle for a few precious moments alone and I could recapture my poise and not think how incredibly hot my date was or how I suddenly remembered sneaking into my mother’s underwear drawer when I was 10, and finding a paperback copy of The Sensuous Woman hidden between the sachet packets and worn-out girdles, and stealing away to devour it in private.  Or how at 16, I’d spend hours looking into a mirror and self-rigging.  Or at 19, finding my first partner, a college boy who found the experience as exhilarating as I did, and then shutting down completely at 21.  No, I wasn’t sure he would understand that I threw myself head-long into the vanilla world because I was young and frightened, scared by the power and terrified that I might be exploited.  Would he judge me for selling out?

I steeled my shoulders and returned to our table.  He was waiting.  Patiently and with a smile.  He rose when I approached.  “All better now?”

I felt as if I’d ripped off a serious Band-Aid and somehow not only survived, but was the better for it. “Yes.  I think I’m ready to tell you my story now…”

PRISONER OF WAR

•November 28, 2017 • Leave a Comment

drabble3

“A gift from General Assad, M’am.”

She uncoiled her long legs and slunk over to the prisoner.  “He’s not the usual kind I like.”

The quartermaster shrugged.  “There weren’t many left after the General was finished.

She nodded, circling the bedraggled man like a shark.  “So, he’s the only one to survive questioning… who is he?”

“No idea.  All NATO pigs look alike to me.

The circles grew tighter, then suddenly stopped.  “You could have cleaned him up!”

“He was hosed down, M’am.”“That I can see,” she said, admiring the shapes within his wet underclothes.  He wasn’t a bad specimen, probably from the United Kingdom judging from his pallor and freckled skin.  She had heard tales that these Northern savages had tremendous stamina.

“He will do,” she said, dismissing the escort with a flick of her wrist.

She took up her crop and rested it lightly on his shoulder.  “Tell me, soldier, how long have you been away from home?”The man turned toward her voice, but said nothing.

He probably spoke no Arabic; none of these ill-educated Westerners did.  She repeated the question in English, letting her full-throated voice caress each vowel.

He stood mute, but there was movement behind the blindfold.

“A very long time, no?  A long time away from your home… and from your woman.”His jaw worked silently as the crop drifted down his chest.  “You lay awake many nights, thinking about her, dreaming about her…”  She slipped the crop into his waistband.  “How good she feels in your arms, her skin so soft, her pussy so wet…”

The riding crop grazed him and he swallowed hard.  “So far away in a desert land… what can a man do?” she whispered, pressing the crop into his groin.  It buckled against the movement stirring there.  “Restraint is so difficult…”

The bulge within his wet pants was promising.  He hissed as she snatched the crop away.  “And now you suffer at the hands of your captor,” she laughed.  “Desire is a cruel mistress, no?”He grimaced and mumbled something unintelligible.  This one hadn’t been completely silenced by Assad.  That pleased her.

She struck him sharply across the thighs and he fell to his knees.  “If you wish to speak, it would be wise to be polite,” she said calmly, tracing his jawline with the crop.  She wondered what kind of devil eyes were hidden behind the fold.

It was more exciting not to know.  “I am not unkind,” she said softly.  “I can ease your suffering; provided you… ease mine.”

He wet his lips.  “What would you have me do?” he croaked.

“Do as you are told, without question.”

“And will you unshackle me?”

“Only if the service of your hands is needed.”

His lips curled slightly and the trap sprang shut.  Curiosity would be his undoing.

She hiked up her skirt.  “I have something here for you.  Would you like to know what it is?”

He murmured a faint assent.  She slipped off her panties and brushed them against his lips.  “Can you guess?”

He jerked at the touch, nostrils flaring.  “I can guess well enough.”

“Very good!  You are a fast learner.”  She seated herself in front of him and opened her legs.  “Let us see what other skills you possess.”

With her crop she guided him forward.  “Lick my clitoris with your tongue,” she said, tapping him lightly on the back.  “Gently now, as a kitten at a bowl of cream…”

She threw her head back as he performed, cautiously at first, then with a marked enthusiasm.  It was not unfounded rumor that these foreign men delighted in the pussy.  But this one was particularly skilled, much more so than the others.  He needed no specific instruction.  He mumbled in his guttural dialect as his tongue washed over her, flicking softly. She did not want to take her pleasure too quickly.  “Stop now,” she ordered and pulled down his pants.   His cock sprang up, long and hard.  She hoped he drilled as well as he dined.

“You will fuck me now, but slowly and deeply.  And you will withhold your orgasm,” she warned, “or I shall send you back to Assad.  Do you understand?”

He nodded, panting now.  He shifted forward and sank his cock like a stone.  She moaned as it slid in and churned slowly back and forth.  This man knew how to properly fuck the pussy; she might have to reassign him.  It would be a waste to let this talent rot in one of Assad’s holding cells.

Without prompting, he bucked his hips and drove into the upper reaches of her pussy, drawing out her climax like a long-winded scream.  It rolled over her, quashing self-control.  She dropped her riding crop and howled.

“Stop now!” she cried as the last of the rolls ebbed away.  He obeyed and pulled out his swollen cock as she rang for her staff.

“Tell the General that I have decided to keep this man in my service,” she said, heedless of her state of undress.  “And make the arrangements immediately!”

Her assistant scuttled away.  She turned and regarded her captive for a moment.  “And now,” she said, reaching down between his legs, “let’s see what other pleasures we might find….”

HALLEY’S COMET

•January 8, 2017 • Leave a Comment

comet

He showed up again last night and in spite of my self-promises, I stood next to him and could have wept with relief.

That he was actually standing at my side, willingly and in an easy stance of relaxed familiarity, made me question my decision to forbid him access and instead contemplate with wonder how such a transformation was possible.  And didn’t he look handsome standing next to me, so tall and composed, fielding questions and blithely conversing with a grace that I hadn’t before witnessed.  Was this my true David, all ease and friendliness, who curled a proprietary arm around my waist and pulled me to his side without breaking momentum?

Was this truly him, or just the version I desired?

I didn’t allow myself much reflection after our guests left and we were abed once again, and my legs were open and I urged him to enter.

Well, it wasn’t that polite actually.  I believe the phrase ‘fuck me NOW’ was uttered at least several times before he complied.

Tentatively at first, I’ll admit, as though we were both teenage virgins fumbling in the backseat.  Awkward, yet urgent, and with the same adolescent potency as well for I counted at least four discarded condoms before I succumbed to my own climax.  That too, was different, vaginal this time, and from my dreamy prospect, I could both feel and watch the geyser.  Clear liquid waves arcing across the bed, matching pace with the piston which pumped them out of me.

Consumed with my pleasure, I lost focus and failed to see him depart.  He’s left me, yet again, and now and only now do I take time to reflect.

After all these many years, I still want to capture the comet when its orbit swings near.   But all that I love in that force of nature would be lost in captivity, or worse, I’d never survive the constant exposure to its disruptive influence.

THE PUSSYMAN

•August 21, 2016 • Leave a Comment

“They call him The PussyMan for obvious reasons, but he’s really an awesome guy. You’ll like him.”

“With a moniker like that, who wouldn’t?”

“No, I mean, he’s really nice,” she stressed. “It’s like he’s performing a public service.”

“Pubic service?”

“No. Well… kinda, yeah, in a way, but he’s much more than that. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

We climbed a flight of stairs and wound through a series of beige hallways, each identical to me, but somehow unique to my guide.

She waved a hand. “Sheri lives in 4B, and loves a good multiple. Her ex tried to get her to join a swinger’s group in St Louis, but that didn’t go so well.”

“Didn’t want to share him with others?”

“Nah, didn’t want him anymore. After she got a taste of freak side, he didn’t measure up. She divorced him a few years ago. Been the head of the local swinger’s chapter ever since.”

“Ambitious woman.”

“I told you she liked a good multiple.”

The hallway jogged left and she nodded to the right. “Erica and Dana used to live across the hall, but we had to ask them to leave.”

“Fell behind on the rent?”

“No, too greedy. Sometimes the PussyMan was locked in there for days on end!” she said indignantly. “I mean, how is he supposed to complete his rounds if he’s monopolized?”

We turned another corner. “Amy’s in 4L. Husband’s a trader for Goldman Sachs. Made a fortune then lost it in 2008. Had to sell most everything, including their lakefront condo in Chicago. Amy still hasn’t forgiven him, that’s why the PussyMan visits her every morning at 9.”

She led me to the door of 4L and turned with a dimply smile. “Go on in; he’s expecting you.”

The door was unlocked. I entered and the PussyMan, a bald man in faded coveralls, pointed to the couch. “I usually service her over there, so if you want a good prospect without getting in the way, stand behind this door.”

I took my assigned post and waited. It didn’t take long. ‘Amy’, a cherubic blonde in a tight black teddy sauntered in and perched on the sofa. “Who were you talking to, Dave?”

The PussyMan managed a wink my way before turning to answer. ‘Just work, darlin’. I’ll turn off my phone if it bothers you.”

She pawed at his shoulder with manicured toes. “I wish you would. You know how it ruins my concentration.”

Before I knew it, her nightie was discarded and the PussyMan was at work, tonguing his blonde cherub into a frenzy. I was, quite frankly, impressed with his technique. I was acquainted with few men of this caliber, apparently, for it wasn’t but a few minutes before she was spent.

He wiped his chin and gently patted a plump white thigh. “See you tomorrow, baby.”

We slipped out quietly as she dozed. “That must have set a record! Did you actually make her come in under ten?”

“Yeah. Must be a slow day for me.”