May 022016
 

 

Those are the words I need to hear from you.Processed with VSCOcam with b2 preset

“I need to suck your cock.”

Those are the words I really need to hear from you.

May I hear them? Please?

Tell me just how much you need my cock in your mouth.

146213965422255Tell me just how hungry you tumblr_nx765jYNRZ1qzmzdlo1_500are.

How desperate you are.

What will happen to you if you don’t get my cock in your mouth.

Tell me.

Please.

 

May 012016
 

You and I will not touch. At no point will I ask to touch you. At no point will I ask you to touch me.

That is my promise.

Everything else? You will allow me to determine….

May 012016
 

We met on Tinder. (Tinder has not been particularly fruitful for me in some time. It feels as if the dynamics of it have changed as it has become more of a regular dating site and less of a hook-up site….)

She’s tiny. You know I love that. She does as I ask. You know I love that.

I selected her outfit, and we planned to meet at a bar. I arrived a few minutes early, and established that it was too crowded, too noisy, for our purposes. I waited outside for her to arrive. Moments after I messaged her that we were going elsewhere, she walked up, a full head shorter than me. Damn. She looked good. Better than her already-hot pictures. Short, dark hair. A fun-looking mouth. Curvy. Pretty. Cute. Sexy. We kissed hello – a brief, but tongue-ful kiss on the street. And we walked a few short blocks to a place I (thought I) hadn’t been previously, but had been curious about.

She’d been there, and so, it turns out, had I, but it was perfect: dark, crimson, quiet. We perched on bar stools and chatted. About dating, about our pasts, about our kids. (She has more than I do.) We talked about drinks – she had a Sapphire martini with an olive, up. I had an Oban. With an ice cube. We talked about how purists view drinks. About her recent dating history. About mine. And, we talked about just where we would go to cause her thighs to be pressed against my ears. (Though she sprinkles her speech liberally with curses, she seemed just a little uncomfortable at the ease with which the words “cock” and “cunt” spilled out of my mouth. Good. I like that.)

She was handsy in the bar. Grabbing my legs, pressing her knee against my cock. I instructed her to put her hands on her legs. On the outside of them. She thought I was rebuking her, and this thought was durable. But I wasn’t. I was establishing that her hands belonged to me, for the time being, that it mattered more where I wanted them to be than where she wanted them to be. And at the moment, it was important to me that they not be where she wanted them to be. (Very different, you’ll agree, from not wanting them on me.)

We walked out, and smoked a cigarette apiece before hailing a cab. (This was my penultimate cigarette before my current attempt to quit, which began the day after our date.)

In the cab, I asked her to open her thighs, to play with her pussy for me. Un-self-consciously, she did precisely as I asked, sliding her fingers under her ivory-colored tights, and into her cunt. The cab ride was ten minutes or so, and in no time, we had checked in, and found our way to the room.

When the door had closed, I gripped her throat tightly, and kissed her hard. I felt her hot, wet cunt through her tights, through her panties. I teased her just a bit before I had her stand, face the wall, spread her legs, and plant her hands on the wall. After which I teased her some more.

I had her turn, and did some more of that. She kept bringing her hands down, trying to touch me. I kept instructing her to raise them over her head.

I had her undress for me, led her to the bed, opened her legs, and began to feast. She had been waxed earlier in the day, and so was somewhat sensitive. I paid little/no attention. I licked, pressed, fingered her. At great length. “I want to kiss you,” (I thought) she said. “Later,” I said. She said it again, I thought. I told her to stop saying it. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” she asked. “I do,” I said, “but I’m busy.” She wants me to tell her what to do, but she also wants. Time will tell if she can bend to my ways. At a certain point, she told me that she wouldn’t be able to come until after she had peed. I revisited our earlier conversation. Had I misheard everything? Had she been asking to pee? Had I been saying no to peeing? Because I wouldn’t, honestly, do that. I’m now hazy on just what the sequence was here, but she peed. She came back. And complained that I was still dressed. So I had her remove my belt, which I looped around her throat.

She kneeled between my legs and her hands crept up my thighs, nearing, grazing, my cock. Off came the khakis I wore, and she repeated herself. She hovered over my cock, swollen, hard, under my black boxer briefs. She breathed heavily on it. “You want something?” I asked. “I want to taste you,” she answered. “You want to taste what?” I asked. “I want to taste your cock,” she clarified.

This was good by me.

She removed my boxers, and my cock was in her mouth. I grabbed her hair – just long enough to get a good grip, and I guided her head up and down. I held her up. I pushed her down. And after a bit, I flipped her over, and resumed my meal, devouring her pussy once again. This time, she came, shuddering, hard. (She had told me she was “once and done” earlier in the evening. In this moment, I didn’t believe her. Her body felt to me as if it had more orgasms in it. But circumstances didn’t permit me to explore my hypothesis, as she had an early curfew.)

We switched places again, and my cock spent the next twenty minutes or so blissfully in her her mouth, between her lips, her tongue swirling, her head pumping, her lips gliding. She seemed to think she was doing something wrong, but I repeatedly reassured her that I was optimizing, maximizing. I had set an alarm to warn us ten minutes before her mandatory departure time, and shortly after the alarm went off, I came, filling her mouth with my cum.

We said some complimentary things to one another. We expressed the desire to do it all again. And more.

She had been quite clear that she really wanted to fuck me. I had been clear that fucking wasn’t on the menu last night. But I expect it will be the next time….

May 012016
 

I want you to pick me up.

I’ll be drinking. You’ll approach me.

I’ll be indifferent. You’ll do your very best to persuade me. You will. Not. Stop. Until I’ve agreed to do as you wish. (Assuming that what you wish involves you and me, together, in private.)

Apr 302016
 

Sometimes, I like to look through Google Analytics and Woopra to see what I can learn about the people who come to read this blog. I always find fascinating (and, I apologize in advance, potentially creepy) stuff. I found, for instance, that there’s someone in Allentown, PA (or close to there) who’s been to my blog nine times since December, and who has ended virtually every session on the “contact me” page. Evidently, this person is thinking about contacting me. But hasn’t yet pulled the trigger. (Go ahead! I don’t bite.)

I learned that there’s someone at Oxford University who has come by every week or two for the last couple of months. Unlike many readers, this reader doesn’t go very deep. S/he just goes to the front page. But s/he comes back, every ten days or so, just to see what I’ve posted.

There’s someone in Birmingham (England), who seems to really enjoy reading the “Memory or Fantasy?” section of the blog.

There’s someone in Orlando, FL, who’s been reading a lot about my experiences in sex clubs.

And there’s someone in Morristown, NJ, who has been by the blog more days than not in the last two months. And has been to almost 100 pages on the blog.

This is just a quick rundown of interesting information on visitors to my blog in the last three hours!

If I stretch back twelve hours, I get to the person in Whitby, ON, who’s been reading since November, and has seen over 200 pages, with over 400 clicks.

And if I go back a full day, I get to the person in North Carolina who has been to my blog every day except four since February. Or the Canadian traveler who has only a slightly less regular appearance, but who reads much more when s/he’s here.

I don’t mean to creep you out, at all. I think it’s kinda interesting how much can be known about web-surfers without their active consent. And I’m not even sophisticated. I don’t really have a point, except that I really am grateful for every one of the people who reads this blog. Keep coming back. Please.

Apr 302016
 

Ok. This one is a little less safe.

You have exactly one task for the evening: stand, silently, facing a full-length mirror. Your legs are to be spread for me, your hands planted, firmly, on the wall above your head, at shoulders’ width.

You are not. To. Move. Unless and to the extent that I move you, as, for example, I slide your boyshorts off of you.

I will make you some promises:

I will not undress. Except I will almost certainly remove my belt.
I will not leave bruises.
My cock will not leave my jeans.
If you ask (nicely), I will stop whatever it is that I’m doing with/to you.

I will not promise not to turn you 180 degrees, so you are facing me. But if I do, you will maintain that position, silently.

Can you imagine what such an evening might look like? What my fingers might do? My palms? My lips? My tongue?

What I might do with the bulge in my jeans?
With my belt?

I can.

Apr 282016
 

I just want to appreciate your pretty body. Bring several outfits, outfits in which you feel most sexy. I want no part in choosing any aspect of the outfits. Or perhaps I will select every item. You will arrive in a hotel room to which I have directed you. You will not speak. You will simply model your clothes for me. I will take pictures of you with your phone, as you move and position yourself as I direct. At the end of your exhibition, I will send you packing.

When you get home, you will send me only those pictures I have taken that you are comfortable sharing with me.

Apr 272016
 

Sex makes dates hot. Sex is not, however, what makes dates hot. I’ve been thinking about ways we could spend an evening together that would make your pussy wet, that would give you fodder for masturbation for weeks to come, without actually involving my cock in your mouth or in your cunt.

You arrive in a bar, dressed precisely as I have requested. You sit, you order a drink. You wonder whether I’m in the bar, you can’t see me. Your phone buzzes with a text. “Cross your legs for me.” You do as I say.

“Good girl.”

“Now squeeze your thighs together, make your clit feel the pressure.” You do as I say.

“Good girl.”

Your phone buzzes again. “Now, please uncross your legs for me.”

I give you more instructions, you execute them. Some of them are simple. Some of them are somewhat more complicated to accomplish in this public space. All of them make your pussy tingle.

At a certain point, I ask you to go to the bathroom. “I want to watch you walk, and I want you to come for me, in the bathroom. I want you to return with your panties in your hand. And when you do, you will find that your check has been paid. Please leave your panties at your seat, take yourself home, and get yourself off for me one more time.”

You exit the bar. Your phone buzzes one last time.

“Thank you.”