N. Likes

Husband, father, slut. Blogger.

Apr 202018
 

“I am so wet.”

Hope texted this to me about two hours before we were to meet.

“An excellent way to be,” I replied. “Show me your mouth, please.” I followed with the address of the hotel at which we would meet.

Moments later, she sent her lips. Glossy. With lipstick. Carefully, delicately applied. Her lips are full. They were unsmiling, but with just a hint of… hunger.

“Good girl,” I replied, and told her the time at which I expected her presence.

“Yes, N.”

I had asked her to wear jeans and a t-shirt. I had in mind a wordless servicing. “May I see your cunt in your jeans?” I asked.

Three times, it seems, because Kik sucks sometimes.

She replied, her cunt in her jeans. Delicious. It made me hungry for her. It made me wonder if I would stick with my original intent to be serviced, not to taste her.

“Yummy. Thank you. My cock is hard,” I wrote.

“I’ve been aching all morning,” she responded.

As the time approached, I was a few minutes late. The subway didn’t cooperate. I got a room key. I walked to the elevator, and could see Hope, sitting in the sun, drinking a beer (her “second favorite thing to do,” she said). She couldn’t see me. Her back was to me. I went up to the room, intending to situate myself, and then to ask her to join me, but on my way, I established that she needed a key to work the elevator. “I’ll momentarily deposit a key next to you to enable you to reach me… No words please.”

I went downstairs, and fetched a second key. I deposited the key next to her – her blonde hair glistening in the sun, the t-shirt stretched taut across her back, her legs crossed. She didn’t see me approach, and she barely saw me leave.

I went back to the room, lay on the bed, and stroked my cock. It was hard. It had been hard all morning.

I texted her the room number. “Please come,” I said.

She entered the room. Her hair was lustrous, in a bun atop her head, two chopsticks holding it in place. The first time she had sucked my cock, I had removed the chopsticks and grabbed her hair. Today, I would leave the chopsticks in. Her breasts – full, round – strained against her (very soft) t-shirt. I ached to see them strain against it unintermediated by her bra.

“Kneel in front of the mirror,” I instructed her. I reached down, and started to remove her bra. She tried to help, lifting her t-shirt off, but I didn’t want the t-shirt off. “Keep the shirt on, please.” She finished the task of removing the bra, and I got what I wanted – her nipples, hard, poking through the soft, worn fabric. I grabbed her right breast, hard, and pinched the nipple.

I took a step back. Unbuttoned my trousers. Unzipped the fly. Pulled out my cock. And slid it between the perfectly painted lips she had sent me just two hours earlier.

She sucked, slobbered, licked, for about ten minutes, on her knees, as I fucked her (very, very pretty) face.

Because, at the end of the day, I’m a nice guy, and I felt for her knees, I moved myself to the bed, and instructed her to continue sucking my cock there. I set the timer on my phone for an hour, and told her she would suck my cock until the timer went off. And she did. Expertly. Hungrily. Devotedly. Obediently.

Several times, I pressed a foot up against her cunt, through her jeans. She touched herself a bit. “Do you want my permission to touch your pussy?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Please touch your pussy for me,” I responded.

After a bit, she pulled her hand away.

“Would you like permission to stop touching your pussy?”

She shook her head “no.”

“Then please continue.”

She touched her pussy some more. She sucked some more. I remembered that, once again, I’d failed to bring the panties I had taken from her on our first date.

I had her stop sucking, and lick. I had her play with my balls. I had her stop touching her pussy. I pressed against it with my leg some more.

Throughout, I imagined tasting her delicious cunt. I imagined asking her to stand next to me for a moment, so I could dip a hand into her panties. I imagined throwing her back on the bed, taking her jeans off, and devouring her. Her thighs are muscular, and the thought of them pressing against my ears is delicious.

In the end, though, I took from her what I had wanted: an hour of devotion to my painfully hard cock.

The timer went off, and I filled her mouth with my cum. I held her head down on me until the last wave of orgasm had washed over me, until I was ready for my cock to emerge into the cold air.

She stood up, fixed her hair, put her bra on. She kissed me, hard. And she walked out.

I tried to read her mood in her departure. Was she contented? Proud? Ashamed? Guilty? Ambivalent? Regretful? Aroused?

I couldn’t tell.

While she was still in the elevator, I texted her: “Thank you. That was exceedingly hot. I want you to make yourself come as soon as you can. And to tell me right before, and right after.”

“Yes, N,” she replied.

“You are a delightful toy,” I told her.

Less than half an hour later, I received, “I’m about to come.”

And two minutes after that, “Just came.”

“Excellent,” I told her. “Thank you. I like very much what just happened…. It made my cock hard for days in advance, and will do so for days to come. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she told me.

“I like being welcome,” I said. “I want more.”

“I’d like to give you more,” she replied.

And she will….

(In fact, she already did. I asked her for a photo for this post, and she suggested this one – an excellent choice. And, I asked her to come for me. For you. And she did. Here. YUM.)

Apr 102018
 

I’ve written before about what I look like. But I was just watching “Fauda,” an awesome Israeli drama about, well, about a certain slice of Israeli and Palestinian life, and…

There are a bunch of scenes, and a bunch of angles, in which the lead actor, Lior Raz, looks exactly like me. (There are others, of course, in which he looks nothing like me.)

So. There’s a hint.

Apr 042018
 

And I licked her clit. And I found myself, unexpectedly, wanting to plunge my cock into her cunt.

I didn’t, because… restraint. Anticipation. Longing.

But I wanted to.

And now, while I wait for that additional pleasure, she’s feeding me. Photographically, with images of her pretty body in her entire lingerie wardrobe. Auditorily, with the sounds of her orgasms. One. After. The. Next. And, of course, psychically: she’s doing precisely as I ask.

You know, this last way matters most to me, makes my cock hardest.

Mar 272018
 

I’m a tough customer.

I know that.

I want what I want, and often, what I want is nothing.

That wasn’t always true. Until a few years ago, what I wanted was, pretty consistently, everything.

Lately, though, I want everything, until I want nothing. And then, I want nothing. Until, you know, I want everything.

That’s a lot to want.

Hope – about whom more soon enough – seems to want me. Sometimes, that’s enough to get me going. Other times, not so much. There’s something in Hope’s wanting of me, though: it’s confident but hungry. Needy, but not desperate.

She read enough of my blog to know that we both would benefit from getting to know one another. She persisted, in spite of my comings and goings. She tolerated my lengthy absences admirably. Not masochistically. Admirably. Basically, she said, “Look – I’m here. I’m pretty confident we’ll hit it off, and it would be a shame for us to miss out on that opportunity.”

I nearly let that happen, what with my distraction and self-involvement and whatnot.

Nearly.

After one date, I know just a bit more about her. I know what her mouth feels like pressed against mine. I know what her cunt smells and tastes like. But only second-hand. Well, first-hand. But first-hand. And I know that soon, very soon, I’ll know much more.

Oh…. And I know what her orgasms sound like.

And now, so do you.

[She and I are engaged in a project. Over the coming days, I expect you’ll hear many more of her orgasms. And learn a bit more about our project. It’s fun. And I’m hopeful it’ll get me to start writing a bit, too….]

And, just for fun… this is what Dropbox says this orgasm looks like.

Mar 242018
 

I’m unmoved by the talk about the Facebook/Cambridge Analytica revelations.

I was listening to Jon Lovett this afternoon, and he offered an elegantly inapt analogy. Just because a bank leaves its vault open and doesn’t hire guards, he said, doesn’t mean that, if robbers take the money, they aren’t stealing it.

The proper bank analogy, though, goes differently: he thinks depositors should get to approve every borrower.

Facebook is the bank.

Facebook users are the depositors.

We make the same deal with Facebook as the one we make with our banks: they can sell what we give them (Facebook gets our data; banks get our dollars) in exchange for making it easy for us to use it (data/dollars) when we want to.

We don’t ask our bank who they lend to, how much they charge, or what the borrowers are using it for. We just ask how many ATMs they have, how good their web site is, whether they support mobile payments. (We used to ask what their interest rate was. We don’t so much any more.)

Similarly, we don’t ask Facebook (or Google, or Snapchat) any of those questions about our data. We just ask that they have a nice app.

In the case of Cambridge Analytica, the analogy goes this way:

SCL – Facebook’s customer (and the owner of Cambridge Analytica) – bought a bunch of data. They did this using a quiz that took advantage of value Facebook offered its paying customers, and promised to use the data only in certain ways. Kinda like a borrower taking out a loan from a bank to finance construction, or a mortgage. But in the bank model, when you borrow for a specific purpose, the bank generally cares that you use it for that purpose, because they’ve underwritten your ability to pay for the money in the future with respect to that specific purpose. So, for example, the bank wires your mortgage proceeds to the seller of your property, not to you. They release the proceeds of the construction loan as the construction proceeds.

In this case, Facebook didn’t give a fuck what SCL did with the data. They sorta said they did. But honestly, why would they? Why should they?

SCL paid for it on each day the data transferred. Kinda like buying a gun. If I buy a gun, I may tell the store I’m not planning to rob a bank, kill someone, or otherwise break the law. But once I’ve left the store, the transaction’s over, the relationship is complete, and the vendor has little investment in what I do with it.

Or an apple. I buy an apple from a grocer who isn’t interested in whether I’m gonna give it to a teacher, slice it, bake it, or throw it at a car.

People are upset with Facebook for all the wrong reasons. Facebook is the bank. We are the depositors. If we don’t like what Facebook’s customers do with our data, we simply shouldn’t give it to Facebook to sell.

#deleteFacebook

(Note: I still use Facebook. As N, I use it to allow me to be on Tinder. I never log in, and I never see ads. As N’s alter ego, I use it to follow the major life events of people who once were friends, or who are distant family. I only log in on my desktop, in incognito mode, using an ad blocker. Once every few weeks. I’d prefer to delete entirely, but alas, that would entail social and familial costs I’d prefer not to bear. I am hopeful that I don’t produce a penny of revenue for Facebook, but I can’t be sure. I long for a paid social network, one I can pay to provide me a service in exchange for money, and for the promise of NOT selling my data but, instead, keeping it secure.

In a post to come, I’ll have some thoughts about Google, Gmail, and email.)

Mar 092018
 

So the first time we met, there was no chemistry. This last time, though, things were different. Circumstances didn’t conspire to allow me to taste her cunt, to feed her my cock. But I trust they will.

In the words of Preet Bharara (h/t V)… stay tuned.

Mar 022018
 

In the financial markets, in times of turmoil, investors engage in a “flight to safety.”

I like the term, “flight to safety.” It feels to me like the very definition of much of my sexual life and, indeed, of much of my life.

I wonder if this differentiates me from any other human.

In my sexual fantasies – and my sexual realities – I create situations in which my greatest terrors recede. Rejection, abandonment, judgment. Obligation, responsibility, the power to disappoint. As I wrote the other day, they conjure a primitive world that exists around me, constructed by me, designed for me.

That world protects me from the painful reality that I am not the universe, that my needs must contend with the needs of others, that those others’ needs often (always) differ – even if one infinitesimally – from mine.

When you subordinate your desires to mine, when you make my desire yours, you indulge my primitive fantasy, and derive your own ecstatic pleasure and delight from… well, I wouldn’t presume to analyze how your flight to safety works.

I imagine your safety mirrors mine. For me, safety lies in your having no needs other than mine; your safety (I imagine) lies in your having no needs, but in your satisfying mine perfectly. Somehow, my use of you, the satisfaction I take in you, my finding you to be (and perhaps calling you) a “good girl,” all that makes you feel safe.

When we click, your flight to safety and mine complement one another perfectly.

Shall we flee?