Memory or fantasy?

Five minutes at a time, five times over, no coming. I like to be precise in my instructions.

Thirty minutes with Sofia, and I know exactly how I want each one spent.

I want to tell you what to do. I want to tell you what to wear. I want you to say “yes” to me.

She asked me, mid-blowjob, what I like so much about having my cock sucked. It’s a harder question than you might think.

I haven’t touched her yet, but I’ve heard her come.

The memory of the Historian’s mouth on my cock haunts me, and the night ended on a Brooklyn block transformed into the 19th century.

In a hotel elevator, I told Graziella I hate writing about sex — and then, of course, I went ahead and wrote about the sex.

Sofia lives thousands of miles away, sends me more than my imagination could conjure, and does whatever I ask, smiling. Here she is.

Forgot my wallet, made her pay for everything, collared her at the bar, and lost count of her orgasms at Le Trapeze. Not very dom-ly — except for the parts that were.

The exponential complexity of four-way attraction, and the useful sting of rejection.