Oct 022015

You sit next to me. Well, not next to me, exactly. We sit at adjacent tables. I’m on my laptop. You’re on your phone.

The coffee shop is full.

I text you, from my laptop. (I do this all the time, incidentally. I send texts from either my Verizon desktop app – which sucks – or from Google Hangouts – which also sucks – but both are better than typing on my phone.)

“Don’t look at me, please.”

“I won’t.”

“Please spread your legs a little for me.”

You’re wearing jeans. You open them, just a bit.

“Good girl. Thank you. Is your pussy wet yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I see.”

“Is it wet yet?”

“No! You have to make it wet, silly.”

“I do?”

“You do.”

“You mean that my simply asking if it’s wet, asking if you can feel sensations in your cunt in anticipation of my tongue, of my fingers, of my cock, doesn’t do it for you?”


“That imagining the sensation of my tongue pressing against your clit, as I slide a finger deep up inside of you, doesn’t make you wet?”


“That imagining how hard my cock is (you can steal a glance, you know – from where you’re sitting, you can see that it’s bulging in my jeans) doesn’t make you wet?”


“That imagining me feeding you my cock, slowly, trailing it down your cheek, across your lips, doesn’t make you wet?”


“That imagining swirling your tongue around the head of my cock doesn’t make you wet? That imagining me asking you to touch your clit while you lick my cock doesn’t make you wet? That imagining taking my entire cock in your mouth doesn’t make you wet?”


“Please spread your legs a little wider for me, now.”

You do as I ask.

“Good girl. Is your pussy wet yet?”



“Um…. please can we leave now?”

“Leave? Where would we go? What would we do?”


“Do you want me to tell you where we’re going? What we’ll do? Or do you want me to surprise you?”


“Do you want simply to follow me? For me to lead you to our destination? And, once there, to direct you? To use you? To collect the pleasure from you that I need? To deliver to you the pleasure that you need?”


At this, I stand, and walk out.

Do you follow?


Oct 012015

I like seeing up a woman’s skirt or dress. I think this is a nearly universal phenomenon, at least among straight men. I’m not a sociopath. Back when I was taking creep shots, I didn’t snap furtive upskirt shots of the kind that are illegal in many jurisdictions. But if I find myself sitting across from an attractive woman in a skirt or dress, I can’t help myself from trying to sneak a peek.

A friend (not a straight male) recently said to me, “But N., you’ve seen what a woman’s thighs and crotch look like. What is it that’s so compelling? It’s not like you can’t perfectly well imagine what you would see. What do you gain by actually seeing it?”

I have a couple of thoughts. First, in many instances, seeing up a woman’s skirt, seeing higher on her thighs than she intended, seeing the panties she didn’t intend me to see, seeing her pussy, if she’s not wearing panties, is a theft. It’s transgressive. It’s seeing something that’s meant to be hidden. Every toddler knows the fun of discovering what’s hidden. It’s called peekaboo, and it’s just about the most fun many kids know. Until they graduate to the more mature, but equally compelling, version of the game, now called “hide and seek.”

It’s fun to discover what’s hidden, even if we know what it is. (Watch an unboxing video for a particularly stark demonstration.) This video has a gazillion views. People clearly like seeing not just what isn’t meant to be seen, but what is revealed, willingly.

This is my preference, honestly. If you send me pictures, it’s a safe bet that I’ll ask you to show me your thighs under your skirt, to open your legs for me, to show me your panties.

What’s sexy about this to me is much like what’s sexy about fishnets: you’re simultaneously hiding and revealing, and, what’s more, you’re doing as I ask, you’re demonstrating your trust of me, you’re giving me privileged access to what you normally (I presume) keep private, or at least, mostly so.

For this reason, the willingly provided glance up your skirt is infinitely hotter to me than a chance glance stolen from an unwilling stranger. While I find transgression, theft, hot, I find trust and compliance and privileged access infinitely more so.

P.S. I’d like to add a few photos to this post. I’d very much like it if you sent me one for inclusion.

Sep 302015

We’ve never met.

We’ve exchanged just enough e-mails to know that I make you wet, that you make me hard.

We pick a movie – maybe an action movie, maybe a thriller. Not one either of us really wants or needs to see.

You arrive before I do. You text me – “I’m in the back row, on the left.” You’re wearing a short dress. Boyshorts.

At some point – during the previews? Five minutes in? Fifty minutes in? I take my place next to you. “Look straight ahead,” I whisper to you, reminding you of what I’d told you to do in advance.

By now, your panties are soaked. There’s nothing hotter than waiting, than anticipating, and that is precisely what you’ve been doing. You haven’t seen my face. You barely know me. But you know that, shortly, as you sit in this movie that you don’t want to see, my fingers will be brushing against, pushing against, the fabric that covers your panties, the fabric that’s absorbing the evidence your body is producing, involuntarily, of how much you want me.

Because you haven’t seen my face, you turn your head, ever so slightly, toward me. Your eyes slide to the left, trying, trying to take me in in the darkness. But as you do this, you feel my hand on your chin, gently, firmly, guiding your face back to center. “Look straight ahead,” I whisper. This time, my tone is unmistakably firmer. You don’t dare do other than as I say, and you fix your eyes, rigidly, on the image on the screen.

Some moments pass. Minutes? And you feel my hand on your knee. First, it’s just a gentle touch, resting there, almost weightless. But slowly, imperceptibly, my grip tightens. “You are mine,” my hand is telling you, “and I will do with you what I wish.”

I pull your knee toward me, just slightly, opening your legs a little. Your thighs come apart. You feel the air of the theater on the inside of your thighs, under your dress – a light, soft sundress that I had asked you specifically to wear. As I guide your knee, you respond. You respond with your knee, taking it exactly as far as I want it to go, and you respond in your cunt, a spasm of anticipation surging through it.

More moments pass.

My grip loosens, loosens. I’m now barely touching your knee, but my hand is moving. Slowly. Slowly. Up your leg, under your dress. My thumb drags along the outside of your thigh, my fingers, on the inside. Up, up, up, my hand goes, stopping just before my pinkie would reach your panties. Involuntarily, you open your legs just a little wider.

I squeeze – not hard, not long – just to tell you that I like where my hand is, that I know where my hand is, and that I want all of your attention on my hand. (Well, not your eyes – they are to remain on the screen. You know this.)

My hand rests there, just a few millimeters from your pussy, and you find yourself sliding forward, trying to reach my pinkie with your cunt, trying to get the touch that is elusive. So far. But my hand moves with you. “Sit back, please,” I whisper. “Sit up straight.”

You do as I ask.

“Good girl,” I whisper.

More moments pass. Too many more moments. For both of us. My cock is stiff in my jeans. I want my fingers in your pussy as much as (more than) you do. But I like (hate) waiting.

Finally, finally, I move just a tiny bit more. I touch the elastic of your panties, just under your pussy. It’s wet. I slide my finger under – not far enough to do anything other than collect a little of the wetness. Then, back out, and up. My hand now rests fully on your panties, pressing against you. With my thumb, I find where your clit must be under your panties, and apply just a little pressure.

Do you let out a sigh? A moan? Do you press up against me?

We’re all of fifteen minutes into this encounter and already, I’m dying. Aren’t you?

Sep 282015

That is all.

Sep 282015

I haven’t written much about Sofia lately. We went through a difficult period. We seem to be emerging from it. And today, I find myself wishing that I could see her – posing for me, touching herself for me – each of these ways:

Dressed as a bridesmaid
Wearing a suit, for an interview
In leggings
In jeans
In shorts – denim shorts, hotpants, spandex shorts – any shorts (she has great legs, and a great ass – as you know)
In (and out of) a sundress

Not to mention:

Serving me

Just sayin’. (And if it turned her on for me to show you her, in any of these ways, it would make my cock oh so hard to do so.)

Sep 272015

Growing up, I didn’t have a clear mental image of a vagina. Playboy confused me, as did poor sex ed. I thought vaginas were vulvas, mounds of flesh covered with hair. I knew there was a hole – for pee, for penises. But I think I imagined it was something like the hole at the end of my urethra – a little, obscure thing, that existed solely for the purpose of the entry of a penis, the exit of urine. And, I suppose I knew, blood.

I had no idea the vagina was a complicated, glorious thing, with lips, a clitoris, folds, and character.

When I first started to understand vaginas were more complicated, it was porn that taught me – Color Climax, which showed me fucking, and High Society, which showed me labia, clits, folds. My first reaction was horror: I felt the victim of a bait and switch.

Today, I’m intimately familiar with vaginas, vulvas, clitorises, labia, etc. I love them. I love to see them, touch them, lick them. To finger them, fuck them. Worship them. They are, truly, one of my favorite things.

But not in porn.

When it comes to pictures, I’m very much my younger self. I want to see everything else, but just as Playboy hid the grail from me, so do I want it hidden today. I want to see your thighs, legs, breasts, eyes, hair, mouths. Everything. But when it comes to pussy, I want it obscured. Show me it’s there, show me it’s mine. Spread your thighs for me, touch yourself for me. But please, don’t show me what I will so enjoy burying my face in, fingering, licking, devouring, fucking.

Thank you.

Sep 232015

For the sin which I have committed before you under duress or willingly.

And for the sin which I have committed before you by hard-heartedness.

For the sin which I have committed before you inadvertently.

And for the sin which I have committed before you with an utterance of the lips (or the pen, or the keyboard).

For the sin which I have committed before you with immorality (whatever that means on a sex blog).

And for the sin which I have committed before you openly or secretly.

For the sin which I have committed before you with knowledge and with deceit.

And for the sin which I have committed before you through speech. Or writing.

For the sin which I have committed before you by deceiving a fellow man. Or woman. Or gender-queer individual.

And for the sin which I have committed before you by improper thoughts. (See above. What is improper, really?)

For the sin which I have committed before you by a gathering of lewdness. (Wait. What?)

And for the sin which I have committed before you by verbal [insincere] confession.

For the sin which I have committed before you by disrespect for my parents and teachers.

And for the sin which I have committed before you intentionally or unintentionally.

For the sin which I have committed before you by using coercion.

And for the sin which I have committed before you by desecrating the Divine Name. (Fuck that shit, I say.)

For the sin which I have committed before you by impurity of speech. (See above. Wtf?)

And for the sin which I have committed before you by foolish talk.

For the sin which I have committed before you with the evil inclination.

And for the sin which I have committed before you knowingly or unknowingly.

For all these, readers, pardon me, forgive me, atone for me.

For the sin of infrequent posting.

And for the sin of excessive posting.

For the sin of boring accounts of great sex.

And for the sin of hot accounts of boring sex.

For the sin of arrogance.

And for the sin of false modesty.

For the sin of seduction.

And for the sin of unavailability.

For all these, readers, pardon me, forgive me, atone for me.

Sep 232015

It’s such an ugly emotion, and one that reveals so much.

It’s been in my mind much lately. I suppose it started with the Ashley Madison hack, and the profusion of “they got what was coming to them” stories. But it’s a constant in the press, and in the news. People seem to love to watch other people suffer. (For a particularly horrifying example, cf. Justine Sacco.)

Maybe there’s an evolutionary explanation for it. Maybe there’s a psychological one. I don’t know.

But I know that it’s, generally speaking, far from my own repertoire of responses. Not always. A few years ago, I wrote a post about a right-wing twit named Jade Morey in which I come pretty close to schadenfreude. I can offer a defense, but that’s not my point.

My point is that, for me, schadenfreude isn’t just distasteful, it’s evidence that I’m not in a good place. If I feel pleasure in someone else’s suffering, for whatever reason, whoever they are, it’s a bad sign.

Sep 222015

Are you under 18?

Welcome! Keep reading!

I see all the disclaimers on blogs and porn sites that suggest that, somehow, they’re not appropriate for people under the age of 18. I hate that shit.

I have no interest in having sex, or interacting sexually, with anyone under 18 (or about 24 or 25, for that matter, generally speaking). And if it’s illegal for you to look at what I have here then, well, please don’t read anything I say as encouraging you to break stupid, oppressive, repressive laws.

But in general, there’s nothing here that isn’t suitable for anyone whose interests have led them here in the first place.

Sep 212015

I met her on Tinder.

Or rather, we haven’t met. Yet. But she’s eager, and sexy, and she gave me this – an incredibly hot, whimpering, long orgasm. I thought I’d share it with you. And she assented. But I couldn’t. The file was too big for me to figure out how to get it up here. So I asked for another. And she assented. (Good girl.)

She also provided this picture – not of her, but evocative of her – for me to share with you.