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part5
Tuesday, June 9th, 2009 he was telling me. Now, in a couple months I’ll be starting my junior year
at the university with a major in Engineering. And I owe it all to
Michael.”
“Bullshit.” Michael growled, sitting back down in his recliner. “You
owe it all to yourself. I just gave you a kick in the ass that got it
started. No excuse for letting yourself go to hell like that. None at all.”
He paused for a moment. “Do you still want to do this?”
She looked Harold up and down appraisingly. “Sure. Might be
instructive all around.”
Harold suddenly felt very alone and outnumbered. And a little worried.
“Um, somebody want to let me in on this?”
“Well,” she said, walking over to Harold, “Mikey and I had a little
talk last night, and I had this idea to, you know, prove just how far along
you had come in conquering your little problem.” She placed a hand on
Harold’s shoulder and traced it, feather light, down his shirtfront to his
belt buckle, which she hooked a finger into and tugged gently.
Harold swallowed hard, wondering just how far he had gotten over his
head here. He looked over at Michael. Michael, who had winced visibly at
“Mikey,” simply looked back and said nothing. No help there.
So he turned back to Diane. “Um, you mean here? Right now?”
“Sure.” she said, tugging on his buckle again. “Why not?”
Then she was rubbing up against him, her arms around his neck. Their
mouths met in a long, breathtaking kiss. Harold’s cock was as stiff as a
railroad spike, and it didn’t help that Diane was grinding her hips against
his. She broke the kiss and ran her tongue slowly along Harold’s jawline.
Planting little kisses along his neck, she slowly slid down his front,
maintaining maximum contact with her hands a body all the way. When she was
on her knees, her face level with his crotch, she began to work at his belt
buckle.
Oh, jeez, Harold thought, as he looked around frantically. Michael was
still watching, only his expression was intent. Harold got the distinct
feeling he was being *studied*.
Diane got Harold’s belt unbuckled, undid the snap, and pulled the
zipper down. A white bulge immediately poked through, as his erection
strained to be free of his shorts. His pants fell to his ankles with a
jingle of change as Diane placed a hand on his covered bulge, massaging it
gently while she looked up into his eyes. Harold already felt waves of
massive pleasure surge up from his groin. She put her mouth over the tip of
the bulge and exhaled gently. Harold clearly felt the heat of her breath on
his cock, and moaned imperceptibly.
Then she grabbed the waistband of his briefs and began to slowly pull
them down, uncovering his erection inch by agonizing inch. The pounding in
his cock was matched by the pounding in his head as he felt the elastic
drag down along the length of his penis.
Then he was free, his cock standing stiffly erect for all the world to
see. He glanced over at Michael, but Michael didn’t seem to be as
interested in the action as he was in Harold’s face. Then Harold forgot all
about him as Diane extended her tongue and ran it up along his cock.
Then, without warning, she plunged it into her mouth. All the way in.
While Harold wasn’t exceptionally large, he had still never met a woman who
could deep throat him before. The feeling was nothing short of amazing, as
the warm, slick wetness of her mouth enveloped his entire cock. The feeling
was intensely erotic, and Harold closed his eyes with a moan and rolled his
hips as he prepared to explode into her mouth.
A sudden, hard slap rocked his face. Shocked, he opened his eyes to
stare at Michael, who had bounded off his chair and stood just behind
Diane. “Harold,” he said quietly, “if you ejaculate in her mouth, she will
bite your penis off.”
At that moment, he felt a brief, sharp pain at the base of his cock as
she dug her teeth in very slightly, just as a hint, before resuming her
sucking with double the intensity.
Cold horror gripped Harold’s heart. He had been a fraction of a second
away from coming before Michael slapped him, but the slap had brought him
well back from the edge. Still, Diane’s oral talents were nothing short of
extraordinary and it would not be very long before he was back again. She
slid his cock in and out of her mouth while lightly caressing his balls
with one hand. The other hand slid between his legs and began to tease his
asshole with a finger. Already the pressure was beginning to build as
Harold frantically thought of a way to stop it.
In the midst of panic came a voice of calm. Your training, you idiot!
it said. That’s it! Harold replied. He began to repeat the mantras Michael
had taught him over and over in his mind. Slowly, the real world began to
fade into the distance as he entered a trance. The sensations beneath his
belly eased to the point where he could contemplate them or dismiss them
altogether. His heart slowed and his pupils dialated as his mind entered an
alpha state. Within an amazingly short time he became pure ego, floating in
a sea of peace and serenity.
After what seemed a brief yet endless time his hindbrain became aware
that something changed and he resurfaced to conciousness, gazing at
Michael’s gently smiling face. Harold looked down and saw that Diane had
stopped, and was sitting at his feet, massaging her jaw.
“Jeez.” she said, “Thirty fucking minutes. Nobody’s ever outlasted me
before.” She looked up at him ruefully. “Mister, you are nothing short of
amazing.”
Laughing, Michael clapped Harold hard on the back, almost making him
trip over his pants. He quickly pulled them up and refastened them. “Well,
my boy,” Michael said, “I guess I’d pronounce you cured, at least by your
own standards.”
Harold stood there, amazed. “I.. guess I really did it. I never
thought I would.”
“I had no doubt.” Michael said. “You have found one solution to your
problem. Not the best one, in my opinion, but a solution all the same. With
practice you shall find others, I’m sure.”
Harold helped Diane to her feet. He looked her in the eye and asked,
“Would you really have…?”
She just smiled and said nothing.
Harold gulped and looked over at Michael. “Would she have?”
Michael just shrugged. “Beats me. And I suppose I should know if
anybody would. After all, she’s my wife.”
Harold’s jaw dropped open. It stayed that way for a moment, until
Diane reached up and gently closed it. “You look cute when you’re shocked.”
she admitted. Then she gently tugged him towards the door.
“What are you doing?” he asked, still flabberghasted.
“I think we can find a more suitable place to finish what we
started…”
“But… but…” he looked over at Michael helplessly.
Michael just shrugged again, palms up. “She does as she wishes. And I
wouldn’t have it any other way. You have passed an important hurdle today,
and a difficult one. You deserve a reward. Enjoy yourself. Both of you.”
Harold was silenced, at least long enough for Diane to drag him out of
there and to his well-earned reward.
And what a reward it was!
In order to prevent an armed revolt by the citizenry, the mayor did
the only thing he could. He promised to drop all charges against the
…End of the part5. To be continued..
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Blind Love MF romance caution part4
Friday, April 3rd, 2009* * *
“I want to know who he is.”
“No.”
“Did you hear me? I want to know. You have no right to keep
this from me.”
“Part of the deal was, I promised him you wouldn’t find out.
Look, maybe he doesn’t want a relationship. But there’s no way I can
tell you without his consent.”
“If you don’t tell me whose cock was inside me, I’m going
to kick your ass.”
* * *
The guy wouldn’t consent to me revealing his identity. I admit
I felt awkward refusing to tell her who he was — she was my friend,
after all — but I had given him my word. We had exchanged trust; it
was part of the bargain.
Jeanine’s bitterness about me keeping my vow of secrecy aside,
it seemed that the whole project was going really well. Her moody
urgency about losing her virginity was gone; her burning curiosity about
sex was satiated, and now she comported herself more confidently, with
an uncharacteristic calmness. I had heard about deflowering having a
big impact on people’s behavior before, but I had never witnessed it
myself. I was impressed; Jeanine went from being a edgy, high-strung
swarm of electrons to a cool, flowing girl. If one morning I glanced
out the dorm window and saw her strolling naked over snow drifts with
flowers in her hair and her voice alive with song, I would not have
been surprised.
She also began socializing more. She acquired a fake I.D.,
and began hanging out in the campus pub with myself and various future
farmers. She danced to country music, quaffed tepid beer, laughed
dizzily at stupid jokes, and smiled a great deal. It was a terrible
irony that this was when the problems began.
One evening, sitting with Peggy, me, and three other guys
from school, she blew the whole operation. We had been playing truth
or dare, which for us was usually a safe and unsurprising game, and
just by chance one fellow named Dale asked about her first time. She
stared at him penetratingly — I assumed she was wondering if he was the
one — and then she blurted it all out. My proposal, the secret trust,
the grand mission to liberate her from virginity. I kicked her under
the table but she wouldn’t shut up. By the time she finished babbling
the guy was mortified, and she clearly inferred from his reaction that he
was not her man. An awful silence descended. Jeanine looked
over at me, wounded, helpless, stunned by her own stupidity.
“That’s a nice bit of fiction, Jeanine.” I tried to cover
her tracks.
“Did she make that up?” Peggy asked me, her voice high-pitched
and wavering.
“Nope,” a guy named Del said. “Too real. She said too
much details. Know what I mean? She couldn’t've made all that up
just now.”
Her face flushed, Jeanine rose unsteadily and walked to the
ladies’ room. Two of the guys, almost fainting with hilarity, went
to the pool table to repeat what they had just heard.
Later, Jeanine told me that as she exited the bathroom a
stranger approached her and claimed to be her anonymous lover.
As did nine other people over the next two days. One of them
was a woman who claimed she had worn a strap-on.
* * *
Jeanine told me that her response to all the guys who claimed
to be her lover was: Prove it.
To which most of them replied:
“Sure. But, um…the only way I can prove it is if you
let me sleep with you. Then you’ll know it was me.”
* * *
“The problem, Bobby,” Jeanine inhaled from the joint I had
managed to talk my older sister out of. “The problem is…I mean,
I can deal with all this bullshit, the ridicule, everyone saying how
desperate I must be. The real problem is, I love the guy.”
…End of the part4. To be continued..
Blind Love MF romance caution
Tuesday, March 31st, 2009The University of Montana was surrounded by ancient
forests whose wildlife, I had no doubt, was far more daring and
vigorous than that on campus. It was a conservative school in a
sleepy, often cold environment conducive to huddling and conserving
energy. The academic tone was one of intellectual diffidence,
cultural muting, religious mainstreaming. Students gazed somberly out
library windows, rested their heads on their desks, gathered
in the cafeteria to consume starches. The surrounding roads disappeared
into dense woods, vanished under snowdrifts, and probably didn’t lead
anywhere anyway.
When Jeanine graduated high school at the precocious age of
sixteen and began attending the university, rather than finding it
stimulating she found it insufferably dull. But at least she was
away from her parents, and, after pursuing her studies with such
commendable diligence, she was now determined to spend her time in
pursuit of nearly life-threatening debauchery: to finally cave in to
her roaring lust, to shatter her disciplined mind with a dizzying
variety of controlled substances, to betray friends, to tear couples
apart in torrid trists, to…well, to really live.
This was a lot harder than she imagined; this was the
University of Montana. One of the most popular majors was agriculture,
and Jeanine soon concluded that the future farmers of America had
as much of a capacity for hedonism as the vegetables they harvested.
“You look at these torpid bastards and you get the sense that
all they fantasize about is planting row after row of goddam corn.
These are people whose livelihood depends on fertility, for chrissake,
but do you think that even suggests sexuality to them? Hell, no. I’d
like to run the fuckers over with their goddam tractors.”
Jeanine began buying stacks of pornographic magazines in
convenience stores, tearing out photographs of nude women, then
inserting these in library books in hopes of stimulating a massive
outbreak of libido.
But it didn’t work. In her first semester, Jeanine was asked
out once: to a country music festival benefitting farmers.
“The guy wears nothing but flannel. Imagining him in leather
is like imagining a cow riding a motorcycle.”
“You’re too young,” her friend Peggy assured her. “They’re
afraid of being charged with statutory rape, or something. Once you
get older you’ll get more action.”
“Yeah?”
“Definitely.”
“How many guys have asked you out this semester?”
Peggy was silent for a moment. “Well, everyone knows that
I’m looking for a husband, not a roll in the hay.”
“Bobby,” she turned to me, “How many girls have you asked
out this semester?”
“I’m too busy planting mental corn to bother with girls,” I
said. She shook her head disgustedly, then grabbed a copy of Penthouse
from her backpack and handed it to me.
I surmised the problem was that Jeanine came off as haughty. She
seemed to disdain all of the guys in school: men destined to spend a
substantial part of their lives shovelling manure, driving tractors.
Her arrogance, partly based on her stellar academic record, came
across as strongly as the Channel perfume she seemed to marinade
herself in. She reminded me of a slab of luminescent flesh yearning
to be ripped apart in someone’s teeth, but which everyone assumed was
lethally poisonous.
* * *
“Ted, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Bob, what’s up?”
I stepped closer to him, turning away discreetly, my gaze
settling on the window. Outside, snow swirled through the cone-shaped
orange beams of the parking lot floodlights.
“You know Jeanine?”
“Not really.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
He hesitated, as if somehow puzzled.
“Pretty what?”
“Pretty looking.”
“Well, sure.”
…End of the part1. To be continued..
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White Slave
Saturday, February 28th, 2009Chapter 7
The stereo ground out an old Beatle’s tune, slowing now and then with the
power failures typical of poorly wired urban apartment buildings. It may have
been two high school girls dressing for their first dates, judging from the
excitement and expectations, matching lipstick and nail polish, changing
stockings and shoes.
“It all went well last night then?” asked Sandy, stroking the hair brush
through her long, thick locks.
“Perfect. Just perfect! In fact,” confessed Chris poking an earring
through her pierced ear, “he was a real doll. Very mature and dignified and he
didn’t even try to kiss me! God, maybe I have bad breath or something,” she
chuckled, never loosing sight of her profile in the dressing mirror.
“That could almost get to be a drag,” mused Sandy, with raised eyebrows.
“That has never happened to me, so I wouldn’t know. ”
Chris snapped the earring shut. “Tell me about it, Sandy.” she said
light-heartedly, but with a sting of sarcasm.
“Come on. I can’t help it if I like to make love. It’s the neatest
thing in the world. Can you think of anything that feels any better?”
Chris laughed. “Its been so long I couldn’t say…”
Sandy turned from her girlfriend and searched through her big leather bag
until she found the foil-wrapped packet she had stashed there for emergencies.
Actually, it was Roger’s idea, but she had to agree it was a good one. “Chris,
come on, this will get you in a party mood.”
Chris looked up, saw that Sandy was holding a lighted cigarette in her
hand. She held the lighted stick of marijuana in offering and Chris accepted
it, though reluctantly. Too many times she’d let herself loose control while
stoned; it was a vice she had grown wary of.
“I’m no sure…”
“Don’t be such a prude!” chided Sandy, taking a deep puff herself. “Here,
smoke a little. C’mon.” She held the hand-rolled cigarette to Chris’s lips;
first the blonde turned away, but then when it was obvious that Sandy would
persist, she reluctantly took one tiny puff. A tingle of warmth followed the
sweet-smelling smoke down her throat and along the nerve channels of her body;
just the one puff was enough to bring a wave of relaxation to her excited body.
She felt her mind loosen as if obeying some secret command; another, deeper
drag followed, then still another…
Soon, in minutes, or in hours, they had finished the joint and Sandy had
produced another from her tin foil packet. Chris didn’t hesitate this time;
the nerve-soothing drug seemed to answer a deep inner need, and the inbred
instinct to resist it had been destroyed.
“There, you feel more like partyin’ now without getting goose bumps?”
Sandy asked her shy friend.
Chris nodded. “Yes, thanks. I feel a lot… a lot better now.” Her
words were beginning to blur together, and she hesitated at places that needed
no pause.
“Now about tonight. We’re getting paid one hundred dollars each since
this is a private party that Roger is giving for some business friends. Is
that cool with you?” asked the brunette watching her friends eyes sparkle with
dollar signs.
“That sounds okay to me!” burst Sandy, stepping into her platform shoes.
She always waited ’til the last minute to put them on out of consideration for
the neighbors below who had to listen to the heavy clump, clump of her wooden
heels. Bending over to secure the straps and buckle the tiny metal fastener at
her slim ankle, Chris lost her balance and fell on her buttocks, with a groan.
Sandy looked down at her stoned friend. “For god’s sakes, Chris, get
your act together. We’re supposed to be calm and sophisticated debutantes,
remember? Not a couple of burned out hippies.”
“All right, all right,” snapped Chris defensively before bursting into
giggles.
Sandy headed toward the living room and called over her shoulder to
Chris, still in her bedroom. “Why don’t you make yourself a cup of coffee! I’m
going down to see if everything is cool with Roger.” The door slammed behind
her and Chris, kicking off her uncomfortable shoes, padded in her level bare
feet to the kitchen.
“Roger!” Sandy knocked on the door and was greeted on the second knock,
but she didn’t step in; there wasn’t time.
“Howdy, Sandy. Everything set?”
“Just like you said. A few pulls on the grass and she’s ready for
anything. Grass does that to her.” Sandy leaned against the door jam and
stared at a scrawled note that lay on the doormat. Stooping over, she picked
it up and handed it to Roger. “Looks like this is for you. Must have blown off
the door.”
“Thanks,” said the landlord, scanning the pencil-written note. His eyes
narrowed disconcertedly, a gesture Sandy did not fail to notice.
“What’s the matter? Somebody’s tub overflow?” she giggled.
“Naw. It’s from Margaret… she lives upstairs from me. Christ, I wish
she would stop nagging me. Goddamn women, can’t leave me alone,” he chuckled
egocentrically. “Ah,” he sneered. “She’s just a dumb immigrant from the old
country,” he said, mimicking Margaret’s Swedish accent.
“Anyway, I came down to see if everything’s okay. I’m sure I can handle
those friends of yours, but I’m not too sure about Chris. She’s pretty shy,
you know.”
“Just keep gettin’ her loaded. She’ll be okay.”
He kissed her on the forehead and she sauntered down the musty smelling
hallway, passing by door after door, hearing muffled sounds of the evening
news, mixed with low conversation and the heady smell of dinner wafting out
from under closed doors. Sandy had one hand on the railing when something
behind her made her jump.
Appearing from nowhere — she had to be hiding in the hall to go
unnoticed — Sandy spied a blonde haired woman, mature and buxom in her tight
fitting cotton dress. Smiling, Sandy turned to greet her, to say hello, but
the woman stiffened and brushed on by, her mouth turned down in a hateful
grimace at the sight of the young black haired girl who’d replaced her in
Roger’s life.
Margaret’s low-heeled shoes pounded rhythmically on the threadbare
carpeting of the steps, then silenced as she reached the hallway above and
charged for the quiet of her modest apartment. The tears she’s struggled to
hold within burst free and she collapsed on her bed.
She’d heard it all. So that’s what Roger thought of her? A stupid Swede
from the old country. Margaret took one loving glance at Sandor’s photograph
and plotted her revenge. And, she the goods on him, she mused with a sudden
taste for retaliation. In the last three days that she’d been following him,
she learned enough about him to make a complaint to somebody. Who, she wasn’t
certain of, but there had to be laws against pandering women and reading other
people’s mail as she’d seen him do through the window of his living room where
she’d stood on the fire escape.
MY MOTHER SUSAN part7
Tuesday, February 24th, 2009some asexual pedestal labeled MOM, I rapidly came to see her as an
extraordinarily sexy woman. Suddenly, I was in lust.
After all, she wasn’t a dummy and she wasn’t some bimbo. I had
reason to believe that she was a sexually intense person, but because of
conventional morality, she didn’t feel free to share that side of herself with
her son. I’d been successful in developing and easy-going and partially
uninhibited relationship with her. There was an unspoken sexual tease to
be sure, but it remained submerged and unacknowledged. How might I
change? That was the question.
Crudeness would never work. That was a no-brainer. Similarly, a
frontal assault would be ineffective and worse, insulting. While she might
be more susceptible to a secret romantic connection because of my father’s
neglect, it wouldn’t be with me, that was clear.
I’d thought of enticing her into something like a nudist colony, even
mentioned it a couple of times. She was mildly interested, but I knew that
that was no more than a blind alley, an emotional cull de sac, and not even
a very sexual one. I feared the stiff and formal behavior I imagined a nudist
colony to be. Too, I suspected that it would provide at most little more
than an avenue for my voyeurism but no entre into sexuality. Nothing
there, I concluded.
Would some innocent approach move me closer? I remembered
that she’d been willing to allow me to massage her feet, even had been a bit
careless in her posture, at least at first. Might that provide an avenue of
approach?
Then I remembered that my mom liked her wine. She wasn’t a
lush, but it was clear that she didn’t stop drinking just because she began
“to feel it.” More than once she’d said, “Why drink if you don’t want to
feel it. I drink for effect.” I also remembered that when tipsy, she became
something of a sloppy drunk. Not fall-down drunk, but certainly risque
often and careless of appearances. I once overheard her say, “I drink to
make my *friends* more interesting.” This wasn’t a common occurrence,
but I had seen it rarely, and only with friends. Well, I was a friend, wasn’t
I?
—————————————————————–
I was waiting for my mother at the arrival gate. Boy, she looked
good as she stepped into the arrival area, an over-night bag hanging from
her shoulder and wearing a light summer dress, uncharacteristically brief
with a hem line well above her shapely knees.
“Hi, good lookin’.” I said to her as I stood there, hands on hips,
looking her over.
“Don’t just check me out, guy. How about a hug?” she asked,
dropping her bag and stepping into my arms.
Whew! I’d hugged my mother lots of times, but I didn’t recall such
intensity, such a full-body press. I was acutely aware of the pressure of her
breasts pressing into my chest and more, somehow her crotch was riding
on my thigh. I distinctly felt her pubic bone as I held her close and kissed
her, first on the cheeks, and then looking at the joy in her eyes, impulsively,
I planted a wet one on her lips. Did I feel a flash of tongue tip?
That fast. It happened that fast. I didn’t have a woodie when I saw
her, but when I stepped away from that kiss, I’d sprouted a boner. I
thought I detected her eyes flitting across my pelvis, but couldn’t be sure.
To hell with it, I thought. She knows I’m not a monk.
“Have anything more than this?” I asked, picking up her shoulder
bag.
“You kidding? You ask me up for a week end, for a dance, and
you think I’ve got it all in that little bag. Why I wouldn’t go to the tennis
club with that little bag alone.”
“A steamer?” I groaned.
…End of the part7. To be continued..
