HALLEY’S COMET

•January 8, 2017 • Leave a Comment

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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.”

DREAMSTATE PEN

•May 15, 2014 • Leave a Comment

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I didn’t know I was still sleeping when I awoke this morning. It seemed real. The clock was ticking. The cat was snuggled against my shoulder. Everything was in its usual early morning spot. Everything, that is, except my pelvis which was aching as if it had been ravaged during the night.

My hand drifted absently between my legs. I sat up in surprise when I discovered I was wet. Seriously wet. And swollen.

What had happened? How was it possible I had no memory of the obvious? I tried to piece together the events from the evening before, but somehow couldn’t recall any of them. The more I pondered, the sleepier I became and before long, I drifted off and began to dream…

…of a figure crouched over me, encircling me with long marble limbs, and the distinct sensation of being slowly filled and emptied. Lips covering mine. Someone speaking low in an unfamiliar language.

And just like that, I was living it. Beneath a powerful man whom I knew very well. His head was clean shaven and sweat shimmered on his shoulders. He smiled down and called me by name, a name I recognized immediately, but can’t remember now.

“Open your mouth,” he said, and when I did, his tongue slipped past my lips. My ears were ringing, buzzing with the sound of the strange language we spoke together with one tongue.

I felt weak with desire. My body was coming apart in pieces, and I watched them float away. My clitoris, without skipping its beat, winked at me from the head of the glistening cock which gradually phased and reappeared. Each time it disappeared within, the circuit was complete and I thrummed with a pleasure that was more electrical than carnal. It crackled up my spine like alternating current, spiking my brain as the circuit looped and ebbed.

The man’s voice became more urgent and his weight pressed me like a flower between the pages of a book. Fluid seeped then poured from my body as he crushed my physical form into oblivion.

And I welcomed it. He slingshot me beyond the reaches of my stifling mortal shell and I freefloated, just as the pieces of my body once had, on a breeze which settled me back in my bed and to the sun rising high in the window.

The cat was sound asleep and my pj’s were dry. It seems I hadn’t awakened to a puddle and a flurry of self cross-examination after all. It was only a dream within a dream.

AFTERNOONS WITH DAVID

•April 3, 2014 • 2 Comments

 

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“We’re finally gonna do this,” he said nervously, pulling off his clothes. They fell into a pile next to the bed. “I feel a little strange. . .”

So did she, but excitement was greater than her apprehension. She stripped off her clothes and lay naked beneath him. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

He loomed over her, even larger than she remembered. She couldn’t see his eyes in the dim light, only the brow line which stood out like a dark slash against his forehead. It was one of the features she loved best about his face. She reached up and smoothed it with a thumb.

He snatched up her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to. . .” His voice trailed off.

He didn’t have to say it; she knew exactly what he meant. In the twenty years they had known each other, she had learned to read his mind fairly well. She rolled to her side and fished a small bottle from her purse.

“Astroglide,” she said in a low voice. “I come prepared.”

He chuckled. “It might be a little easier if you actually came first.”

“I know, but I can’t wait any longer. How many years of foreplay can I take?”

He laughed and submitted to the buttering; it was a relief not having to apologize for his size. He arched back and displayed it like a lance. “Not bad, huh?”

“Beautiful,” she said, sliding her hands down its length. “It’s like K2. I simply have to scale it.”

She leaned back into the pillows and trembling, opened her legs. He dropped to his knees and pressed forward, filling her slowly but inexorably deep. Her shaking became more violent. It seemed that he moved beyond the confines of her body, into a vaguely familiar but little travelled area.

“Am I hurting you?” The dark slash knitted with concern.

“Are you kidding?” She straightened her legs and lengthened them against his chest, tucking her ankles around his neck. “Have you forgotten how flexible I am?”

He latched onto her legs and began to thrust hard. “God, I love yoga!”

ACTING WITH RESTRAINT

•February 24, 2013 • 1 Comment

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I can’t tell him what’s going on in my mind, so I’ll have to show him, sprawled before me like a living sex doll with long legs and smirking lips.  I’ll wait a little while before I kiss them, not because I want to tease him but to pace myself.  If I latch onto to them too soon, I might lose my identity in delirium and rush to the finish, and there’s an eternity of time yawning between his toes and the succulence in his mouth.

So I begin at the bottom, with the soles of his feet which are a perfect place to nip.  He’s ticklish and bound to squirm, so he’d better behave or I’ll have to restrain him.  Who am I kidding?  I can’t wait to strap him down and savor him slowly, so I’ll make it impossible to keep still.  Some bites behind the knee ought to do it.  By the time I turn my assault to the inside of his thighs, his hips will be rocking.

Just as I predicted, he can’t keep still.  What a pity I have to cuff his wrists and ankles.  Now he’ll have to do as I say and endure the pleasures I have planned for the night.  On goes the blindfold and though I’m tempted to gag him and silence his tongue, there are better uses for it.  Besides, when properly motivated, he can string together a provocative litany of dirty words.  And there’s nothing finer than hearing them from his proper lips.

But tonight he’s my playground and I want to slip and slide.  I’ll oil him down and slither over his body like a cat in heat until he’s growling, struggling against his restraints and mad with desire.  Only when I’ve tasted myself on his tongue will I end his agony and ride him slowly until dawn.

DINNER AT EIGHT

•November 4, 2012 • Leave a Comment

 

 

She agreed to go only because it seemed a novel idea at the time.  It was rumored to be exclusive and notoriously difficult to find, but he had no trouble steering the car along the dark streets to a gray townhouse just north of downtown.  The windows were lit and the muffled sounds of laughter and music cut through the gloom.

He parked at the curb and asked if she was sure.  Why not, she thought; she was perfectly able to conduct herself in any setting.  She smiled and gave him a confident nod before her door was opened by a tall valet who silently helped her from the car. The valet escorted her up the front stair, pausing only to scan her figure wordlessly before acknowledging her companion.

“The guests are in the great hall,” he said, eyes lingering on her hips.  “Dinner begins at eight, sir.”

The doors swung open and the scent of woodfire and gardenia rolled toward them.  He remarked how inviting it seemed and she had to agree, looking about the foyer that led them to a spacious, high-ceilinged room thronging with people.   Elegantly attired, relaxed and welcoming, they milled about the room, sipping champagne and talking in small groups that ebbed and flowed into each other without design.

A group nearest the entrance beckoned and they joined them.    A broad-shouldered man and two svelte brunettes, they were engaging and polite, proffering lighthearted conversation along with champagne and before she knew it, she had downed two glasses and was waltzing lazily with the man whose shoulders were as soft as they were broad.

She rested her head on one and blinked in slow, unfocused way.  She couldn’t quite remember where she was, or where her companion might be.   He was across the room, sandwiched between the brunettes, grinding slowly to the floor.  She saw only the long flash of leg coiling around a figure lying prone and she heaved a sigh, snuggling more closely against the man.

What happens out of time doesn’t really matter, she thought as he steered her away from the others and pressed her against a wall.  The marble felt cool, soothing against skin which felt increasingly warm.  He pinned her tightly with his chest, freeing his hands to slip beneath her dress.  She didn’t protest when he probed intimately or when he hastily unzipped his trousers and guided his cock into her.  She only felt the throb between her legs matching the speed of his thrust, and wanting more.

There were others.  Many others.  Faces she couldn’t remember, only the taste of them on her tongue and the feel of them inside her body.  Body heat and words, ringing deep and low in her ears, urging her to let go, to abandon herself to the sensations being succulently called forth.  And she did, opening her legs to countless hungry mouths demanding entry.

She fed them all from her fountain, flowing liberally all night to those skilled enough to find the spring.  The more it flowed, the more she cried for it to continue, one after another pumping and drinking from the well, until the waves ceased and she rode a continuously unbroken crest until morning when the tall valet from the night before took his turn.

The night’s fuzziness gradually cleared and she realized she was being fucked hard by the man who parked the car.

“The keys are in the ignition,” he said breathlessly.  “And don’t worry about the tip.”

 

PICTURE THIS

•July 14, 2012 • Leave a Comment

“Can you be discreet?”

I thought about hanging up, but needed the work more.  “What does your client have in mind?”

There was a pause.  “Before we discuss anything further, I must know whether you are discreet.”

“Absolutely… but I won’t shoot anything illegal, got it?”

He chuckled.  “I assure you my clients are consenting and law-abiding adults.  Where shall I mail the contract?”

I had moved to New York only a few months prior when I was first contacted by their attorney.  He sent a cryptic email stating that he represented a party who admired my work and inquired if I was interested in taking some action stills.  Since I hadn’t been in town long, I assumed it was a referral from my website and that usually put me on my guard.  With all the freaks and cyberstalkers, it was a rarity to actually land a legitimate, and paying, client.

This inquiry was genuine.  I checked out the attorney’s credentials; he was a partner at a mid-town firm and well-respected, so I wasn’t surprised when the first of several letters arrived with a lengthy contract and a hefty up-front deposit:  a cashier’s check for ten grand.  At least I could pay the rent for my crappy apartment for the next six months.

The contract terms were standard, but the action was not.  It seems the parties of the second part, a certain Mr. and Mrs. X, were determined to preserve their intimate moments for posterity on film and wanted me behind the camera.  I guess Mrs. X liked the way I photographed women.

They had thought of everything.  I’d provide the camera, lights and alleged artistry, and they’d provide the bodies, location and USB cards which were to be immediately surrendered at the shoot’s conclusion.  Not likely I’d try and sell them to a tabloid even if they were a rather high-profile couple.  Not my style, and I’m not fond of prison, the other location threatened if confidentiality was broken on my part.

I didn’t know much about them, so I did a little cursory research.  Both were wealthy, privileged and attractive.  Beyond that, I didn’t care.  Too much knowledge was dangerous, and all I wanted was to complete the job and get the remainder of my fee.

The terms agreed, we met at the Hotel XXX, a four-star boutique.  I set up the lights, as unforgiving and clinical as they had requested, around the bed and waited.  It didn’t take long.  She arrived first, long and lean, in an expensive fur which hit the floor as soon as the door closed.  Clad only in her Louboutin heels, she strode to the bed, positioned herself in the middle and opened her legs.

“Take a few shots of my pussy,” she said blandly.  “I want some before and after pictures, just to see how red and swollen I get after a hard fucking.”

She might have been ordering a deli platter for a church gathering, her voice was so disinterested.  I complied, snapping away while she contorted and pleasured herself with a rather large, but well-oiled instrument. 

“Might as well get started,” she said dully.  “I like to come a few times before he fucks me.” 

Which she proceeded to do, in short order, screaming and working her tool overtime.  I was grateful her husband arrived between the shrieks and didn’t alert hotel security.  He, too, dropped his clothing unceremoniously and stood at full attention, giving me last minute instructions before climbing atop his wife.

“Make sure my cock is photographed at its best angle,” he said in a voice equally as flat.  “I want it to appear like it’s splitting her apart.”

Not that that was difficult, judging from the disparity of the objects in question.  For the next two hours, I photographed them copulating in every conceivable position.  They carried on as if I didn’t exist.  Sweaty, loud and with a fierce dispassion that I wouldn’t have believed possible had I not witnessed it with my own eyes.

When they had their fill, I was requested to take close-up shots of the wreckage between her legs.  Pink, swollen and running with fluid, like the inside of a flower.  I stared in spite of myself and wondered if her clitoris tasted as good as it looked.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you took a few licks,” said Mr. X with a nudge and a wink.  “She’s the best fuck this side of the Mississippi.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” she said with a yawn.   “I could use a little tongue action after all that pounding.”

I was tempted, I admit, but not a complete idiot.  I thanked them both and turned over the USB cards as agreed.  That was the last I heard of them, or their pimp attorney.  Never found out if they liked the shots or not, but that probably wasn’t their motive anyway.  Sometimes you just need an audience.