January 16, 2009

The chandelier rattles above me and I smile dreamily. Physics. Crazy, really. To think that I could be shaking the table (well, it was him, really) and the table shaking the floor and the floor shaking the walls and the walls shaking the ceiling and then there are my chandelier crystals twinkling crazily.

I never paid much attention in physics.

I feel the table braking apart under me. Dratted extensions. I’m sliding slightly away from him, and he growls angrily, like a dog. My nipples stand up straighter than before as he grabs my knees, yanking me back towards him. I practically hear my skin scraping as he drags me over the brief canyon in the wood and cry out, something that seems to satisfy him as he pounds his hard cock into my cunt. I wish I had something to hold onto.

I feel like he would have a much easier job fucking me if he would just shove his hips in and out of me, but that would defeat the purpose. The purpose is to make me feel everything. The bite of his nails on my thighs, the scrape of the wood on my back, the sharp prick of his cock when he fucks me deeply. But I think he’s given up. He yanks me towards him and raises my legs to his shoulders, grabbing my hips now. His hips are moving faster than I could have imagined, and I’m barely conscious.

Is that me screaming?

“Take it!” he throws the words at me, penis grinding against my walls. I can’t even think. I clench around him, wishing I could wrap my legs around him or something. He lets out a loud moan and shoves his cock hard into me. I cry out and feel him cumming inside me, the pressure adding to the feel of the fucking. I yelp and arch my back off the table, expecting him to thrust once or twice more, to help me finish. I’m panting, my breath echoing off the walls. He’s not moving.

I can’t believe I just made that pitiful moan.

I could be a dying animal for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t move. I try to thrust, but I have no purchase to hold onto, and his grip on my hips keeps me stationary. I earn a sharp twist of my nipple for my pain and cry out again. My heart is pounding, my stomach churning, my cunt dripping and burning. I need to finish. I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this.
He keeps one hand on my hip. Don’t move, it says. He takes his other hand and takes hold of the ankle resting on his shoulder. He slowly pushes it back towards me, my knee heading for my chest. He doesn’t let me bend it though. The friction makes the yearning in my cunt worse, and I can’t help but wriggle slightly. He shoves my leg to punish me, bending it farther than I can go. I cry out in pain, incredibly aroused.

I’m a right angle.

My left foot faces the ceiling, the right dangling over the side of the table. My thigh burns to keep this position, but I don’t move. He leans slowly forward, not looking at me, and traces a line with his tongue, from as low on my thigh as he can reach to the crook of my knee. I shudder hard and he pools the wet muscle in the crease, tasting my sweat. I gasp and jerk, unable to help it. He knows I’m about to move my leg and he grabs my ankle holding me there. He continues to suck on the crease of my knee. Every hair on my body except for the ones on my head stands on end. Chills and goosebumps ripple over my shoulders, arms, legs, neck. My nipples beg for attention I shudder, my head twitching on my neck. I can barely be touched there, let alone licked at the height of arousal. It is such a sensitive spot, and he knows it. I want to reach my hands forward and grab my leg from him, taking it back into my custody. I know I will be left without orgasm if I so much as move, and his ministrations are better than nothing, as horrifically frustrating as they are. With every touch, I drip more and more onto the floor. I am sobbing now, a tear leaking into my ear.

“PLEASE!” I shout miserably, my cunt soaked around his still-hard cock. I feel like I’ll die if I don’t orgasm. He smirks and nips the skin gently, making me writhe in place again.

I wish I had something to hold onto.

Then he pushes my heel back onto his shoulder and thrusts into me again. I gasp for breath, sweat dripping down my forehead. His hips piston back and forth and I cry out, gleefully, my climax building again. Satisfaction. Relief. Beautiful black out. I can’t wait. It feels like I have been waiting for months. He stops again and pulls his gorgeous cock from my cunt.

“NO!” I hear myself shout. I spring up and grab his shoulders. He seems startled at my retaliation and I use his pause to slide myself onto his cock. I end up sliding off the table as well and he stumbles back under my weight, hitting the wooden floor with a grunt of pain. Furious and horny, I pin him down, my hands on his considerable biceps and begin to ride him, trying to angle myself, wishing someone would touch my clit.

There is no illusion that I am stronger than him.

He breaks free and flips us over, even as I felt myself about to burst. He immediately pulls out of me and I whine in pain and frustration. I earn a slap to the breast for my audacity and my nipple stings, wanting another. I peer up at him, afraid, earnest, needy.

“If you had just waited,” he growls at me.

Then he slides down my body and pulls apart my cunt lips, immediately slipping my clit between his own lips. I cry out and lock his head between my thighs, my fingers gripping his hair. All he has to do is twist the button between his teeth and not-so-gently push his fingers into my cunt before I am finally screaming in ecstasy, coming all the harder for my frustration.

Everything goes black. Except for the pleasure.

When my eyes flicker open, he is sitting on his knees, staring at my used body, stroking his cock thoughtfully. I can see him panting, but there is no other visible sign that he is sexually aroused, besides the prick staring at me. He cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Will you do the thing with the knee again?” I ask him.

“If you’re bad.” He promises.


October 29, 2008

I’m getting really bad at this. I don’t know why. Not that I was ever spectacularly good at it, mind you, but really. I can barely read my recent stuff. It’s just… Not arousing, not hot, not even well-written; ridden with typos and misused words… Goodness, it’s horrifying. I tried again with that last post, but even that one’s crap.

I hate making excuses (I’m a teacher, after all) but I’m just so busy and tired lately, and everything with Peter is just exhausting and sometimes disappointingly vanilla.

So, dearest apologies. May not be around for a while.

Encounters Part V; Marcus

October 19, 2008

Sorry for the absence.
Unedited. Sorry for all of my completely awful typos and misuse of homonyms and etc., in all of my posts. You’d think that a teacher and a librarian would catch those.

I was trembling from all manner of things, exhaustion, anticipation and weakness at the forefront. I was regretting my impudent words to Antony, wishing Ian and his lads would just let me relax for a moment. But Marcus was already positioning his cock at my cunt.
“Is this going to hurt?” I wanted to know, feeling slightly blunt. Marcus laughed a little.
“Not if you’re a good girl,” he answered darkly. I swallowed as a chill raced over my curved back.
“Well then,” I breathed, making Zach chuckle from his place in the kitchen. I smiled briefly. I let out a yelp as Marcus quickly plunged the thick head of his cock into my cunt, gasping for  breath. I hadn’t expected it so quickly. I mumbled profanities under my breath as Marcus sighed in pleasure.
“Some warning would be nice,” I remarked as I tried to adjust to the width of him. Antony had been nice, but Marcus was impressive.
“Princess,” Ian said quietly, the warning in his tone. I swallowed hard.
“But feel free to fuck me at your leisure, really,” I added to Marcus who stifled a laugh.
“Laughing during sex is weird. Don’t make me gag you,” he threatened. He pushed in another inch and I moaned slightly, panting.
“Yes sir,” I mumbled, gripping the couch in my fingers.
“Good girl,” he murmured, pushing into me more. Now it was starting to hurt. I whimpered slightly and tried to focus on the sounds of the boxing match that had never been turned off. Another inch and I cried out in pain, feeling tears build. Luckily, it was momentary pain that receded to a soft ache after a few seconds. Two tears later I could feel his thighs against my ass.
“We all settled then?” I gasped. Marcus stood and smacked my ass gently, making me squeak and wiggle.
“I think it’s in your best interest to keep your pretty little mouth closed,” he remarked dryly. I nodded obediently, though I knew that some part of me wanted the sting of his palm on my skin. Suddenly, his hands wrapped firmly around my hips and he began to pull from inside me. I gasped hugely, wiping away the sweat on my forehead. Before I could do anything else, he had slammed back into me. I cried out as my cunt ached for both more and less. He obliged, fucking me hard and fast. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hold back my orgasm this time. Instead I bit my arm hard enough to bruise and came hard over his cock. He wasn’t nearly finished.
“That’s it, cum for me,” he growled darkly. My back arched of its own accord, and I tried to press further back into him. Suddenly, his hand crept around my hips and he began to play with my clit, making me cry loudly, whining in pleasure.
“Please!” I cried out, delirious. Marcus reverted to grunting and soon we were both climaxing hard.
Although it was so good that I momentarily blacked out, I was relieved when Marcus’ large appendage left my body. I collapsed to the side, landing half on the floor and half on the couch, quivering.
“Good girl,” Marcus soothed, stroking my hair.
“She all right?” Ian wanted to know.
“Just tired,” Marcus assured him. My eyes only hazily open, I didn’t notice Ian come over until he easily scooped me up, bridal style.
“Come on, princess,” he murmured. I curled into his chest, gripping his shirt tightly.
“Guess I’ll have to wait,” I heard Kenneth remark sadly before I passed out in Ian’s arms.


September 17, 2008

You’re in college again. Everything’s bright, shining and awaiting your eager exploration. Weather the colors are hazed by alcohol or distinguished by willingness to learn, the colors are there. This is, after all, the high point of your life. You’re still living off of your parents’ money, but you have so much freedom. You no longer have to use fake IDs or hide your kegs – you’re legal. A senior, you’re one of the most desired guys on campus, no matter who you might be. Every girl wants to be with a senior. You’re just that good. But it’s not some nameless drunk blond who’s got your cock in her mouth, it’s your wife, who, you’ve heard, never gave anyone a blow job until she met you.
How is she so good? You want to know, your back slamming against the hard wooden door. But the thought goes unacknowledged; it’s barely coherent. You’re gasping and grunting and your knuckles are turning white. Her lips – rouged and plumped like they haven’t been since she stopped working – are bumping up against your pelvic bone. Her tongue is slightly rough, cradling the bottom of your cock in its slight crease. She’s holding hard to your knees as you tremble on your feet. Finally, you feel a pulse smash through you.
“Stop!” you beg, not realizing that you’ve yelled. She slowly, horrifyingly pulls off of your penis and gives you a little smile. It’s meant to be tempting and saucy, but it holds  some of that eager to please sweetness that is the basic make up of your wife. You’re still shaking.
“Th-thanks,” you stutter, at a loss. The smile fades and you realize you’ve made her unhappy again. You hurry to bend down and kiss her sweetly, your cock begging for more attention. She kisses you back and you pick her up and deposit her on the kitchen table, making her giggle. You kind of stumble up next to her, still in your trousers and shoes, and she makes that smile again. With your own stupid grin, you flip her skirt up under her ass and wrap your arms around her. She kisses you firmly and you both inch towards each other until she lets out a gasp, and you realize the head of your member is not, in fact, against panties. You pull away, surprised, and she smiles hopefully. You smile back, wrap her legs around your waist, and gently press into her as her two-inch pumps lock behind your back. She lets out a moan- she was always very loud, and you loved making her that way. Her arms curl about your neck. You kiss and push against each other until you’re hip-to-hip, smile shyly at each other, blush, etc. You can feel a garter belt between your skin, and your impressed and aroused by her daring – stockings, but no panties?
“I love you,” you assure her. She only blushes and hides her face in your neck. You separate for only a moment so that you can pull her yellow sweater over her head, and she can drop the skirt to the floor. You admire her body, her bra is delicately frilled with lace, and her full breasts only make the slight roundness of her tummy (caused only by the birth of your beautiful daughter) more appealing. Her sheer dark stockings disappear behind your hip, but every man wants to be in your position, don’t they?
Then, you position yourself at her entrance again, prepared for the scream you are about to hear.

Shades of Grey

September 11, 2008

You feel like everything is black and white. Your blue sedan is just coal grey. Your red and gold striped tie has turned grey and greyer. Your skin is that white you know isn’t really white and you know there’s some orange and some peach and some pink and some yellow hidden under the tide of uniformity, but you’re too tired to look hard and see it. Maybe you’ll blink up through the tinted strip of windshield and find some turquoise in the once rosy sunset (it’s just grey now). Maybe a yellow car will zoom by and you’ll notice a flash before the green SUV and the gold mini van and that horrid pink convertible turn old fashioned again.
It’s usually on the way home from work.
After that horrid thirty minute commute on the expressway – your boss held you later than everyone else so he could get home – you pull into the grey parking lot outside your small apartment complex. It’s less of apartments and more of very narrow houses smushed together with no visible separation. Your briefcase hangs heavily from your bent fingers, but all they want to do is uncurl and hang, otherwise unoccupied, next to your hips.
You feel like you could be Spencer Tracey or Carey Grant or one of those 20-30s film stars, maybe one of those Noir detectives that Garrison Keillor is always mumbling about. Your trench coat is slung over your shoulder, your tie is loose, your sleeves are rolled up but falling down, your steps are heavy. And everything is black and white. At the door, you force your arm to come up, throw your coat over it, and with weak fingers plug your key into the locked door. You push it open, and in a self-deprecating way, you are relieved not to hear a screech of “DADDY!” echo through the little, narrow home. You’re tempted to throw your coat and briefcase on the table like you did in your bachelor days, but the missus will be unhappy. So you hang your coat on the hat rack and drop your briefcase on the linoleum floor.
Your first flash of color since that obnoxiously violet billboard on the exit ramp enters in the form of your wife, in an otherwise unremarkable yellow sweater, black skirt and stockings. Things are tough, and you haven’t enjoyed the married life in quite a while. You’ve just passed a time of worry in the workplace – people were getting laid off. That two thousand dollar test you worked over time to pay for, the one that told you your four – year – old daughter as advanced ADHD, only meant you were going to have to work even more over time to treat her. Your wife had to quit her job to stay home and look after the girl.
The color spreads to the absently tiled cream walls, spreads to the kitchen appliances. Suddenly, the grey steam that blended with the grey wall is given life. It hisses out of the pot and you smell your grandmother’s gravy, and notice a roast – shaped object in the lit over. You remember it’s a Friday (most days have become indistinguishable – you work weekends too.)
Taking in the room, you have failed to notice your wife, your beautiful wife (who was homecoming queen, you’ve heard, and captain of both the cheer squad and the field hockey team), is standing before you, undoing the buttons on your oxford with shaking hands and a determined look. You take a second to peer down the v – neck of her sweater, suddenly aroused at the site of the bit of lace the peeps out at you.
How long has she had lacy bras? You wonder to yourself, even as she flings open the shirt and tugs it down your arms, revealing your plain white undershirt. You’ve been a skinny boy since you shot up eight inches in the summer before ninth grade, but you’ve recently been fearing the paunch acquired by most of your male coworkers. A glance downward informs you that you still have time to start going to the gym again.
“Where’s Caroline?” you ask, still in a daze. Your wife stops, takes a deep breath, and you know you’ve made a mistake. She will not have the courage to start again.
“She’s staying at Emma’s house,” she answers.
“Oh.” You say. The room is graying, just like your hair will start too. You cup her face in your hands and kiss her firmly, passionately even. The college Casanova might be on the brink of returning. She melts and grabs your wrists to steady herself, just like she did when you first began seeing each other. Her hands skim up your arms to your shoulders, curve down your back while your tongues tangle, grab the hem of your shirt, tug it over your head. You help her with it, taking the chance to breath as you yank it off.
Her confidence is back, and you lose domination of the situation as she bends to her knees and unbuckles your belt with focused fingers. You stare at her curly brunette hair, her perfect ringlets (envy of all the girls at her high school, you’ve heard) and vaguely noticed the jingle of the discarded belt as it whips through your loops. The zipper crackles down and your legs are feeling the breeze. Her hands on your hips, you meet eyes briefly before she tugs down your unremarkable and salsa stained boxers (it’s a long story.) You reach behind you, grab onto the windowsill and the doorknob (she hates it when you hold her head.)
Then all of a sudden you feel the rushed tingle as her tongue makes a long stroke from the base of your cock to the head. You let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

AN: Have lots of things to grade, but I’ll try to finish this week.

Not a Sex Post ( again )

September 5, 2008

Sorry. Kind of sex related?

Okay, so I’ve been working at the library… A year and a half? Little more, I started working there a year ago, January.  I’ve shelved all sorts of things: mystery, fiction, young adult, biography, 0-999 Dewey Decimal system, etc., etc. Only once have I ever seen clear, broad – as – daylight erotic fiction at my library. The author’s name was ridiculously flowery and it had some stupid title and it was one of those badly drawn woman – in – historic – but – anacronismically – revealing – dress: see Cover Snark. And I know anacrhonismically is not a word ( though I rather like it… )

ANYWAY. So I’m shelving – we just had a three day weekend, Labor Day and all and we’re mad busy, and I come across this book by… Bertrice Small? The title’s like… Forbidden Pleasures or something. Don’t even act surprised that I picked it up and read the back. The first review compliments her erotic scenes, the next calls her the top of the ‘erotic fiction’ genre. So I’m all WTF?* So yeah, I flipped it open ( you know, right to the folded corner page, yeah, I’mma find out who took the book out ) and the main character’s all, “You know, I’m going to be a whore in a brothel just for kicks, you know? With my good friend -insert stupid name here-, meanwhile she is writing… Erotic fiction or something and she ‘has to’ have sex with her ‘tall, dark and handsome’ editor so she can understand the ‘art of sensual pleasure’.**

And it was utter crap. Like, fuck no, really? Sorry, my erotic fiction is better than that.*** And you know what else? So do half the smut writers on the intertubes*. DirtyBoy writes fantastic erotic fiction, as does his friend, Dirty Little Girl, whose novellas are very good. In Your Pants writes my favorite fiction on the internet.**** So I’m just frustrated.

And legitimate erotic fiction in a public library? No. Just no. Even as a writer of smut, but especially a teacher, that’s just awkward. The student page that was there with me tonight? What if he’d gotten my cart? He’s an awkward little freshman. Seriously. Anyway, I’m done.

PS. I fucking hate Sarah Palin. Do you know how hard it is to teach government and western civilization classes to intelligent high school students two months before the biggest election of your- and their – lives and not say anything about any of the candidates? The letter our superintendent sent out to ALL of the history teachers in the ten – school district the day before school began:

Of course, the upcoming election is a very important event in America, and we don’t expect you to ignore it entirely. However, I ask that you keep all opinions to yourself. Do not express your beliefs, and do not advocate for or against any of the candidates.

It gives me the angries.* I’m done now. Sorry.


*I let my students speak freely in my classes. With their completely wierd expressions added to those of Peter, I’ve begun to speak like a sixteen year old. Sorry. Intertubes is a Peter term, for the record. He’s a computer nerd.
**I remember those sentences exactly.
***If Bertrice Small fans actually exist: Forgive me.
****To the lovely Slutty Duckling and College Hooker Boy, who I adore, I only didn’t link you because it’s not fiction, as far as I know ;]


August 31, 2008

“People on Jeopardy are so dumb,” I growled in irritation, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Mm,” he agreed absently. I could feel him watching me.

“I mean honestly! Even I know that Ovid writes poetry.” I continued, ranting.

“Your mother was a classics major. You practically grew up on Ovid,” he reminded me. I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, but they’re… Old,” I mumbled. It was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Nice answer, kid,” he informed me. I glared at him.

“How many times have I told you not to call me kid?” I asked angrily. He cocked a brow. “You’re barely eight months older than me,” I reminded him, pouting and sitting back against my parents’ old leather couch.

“Oh, but I’m so much more experienced,” he said with a leery grin. I swallowed.

“You’re so awkward,” I retorted, pushing him. He let out a laugh. “Oh come on!” I shouted, having caught the last bit of Jeopardy. “Of COURSE Aeneas is the protagonist of the Aeneid,” I growled, angry. People!

“You’re cute when you’re indignant,” he informed me matter-of-factly. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“You know that makes me nervous,” I mumbled, staring at the ugly carpeting. He caught my chin and forced our gazes together. I swallowed hard.

“Are you still denying it?” he asked me. Yes, I was, but I couldn’t. Not to him.

“I um-” I began, falling silent. His large black eyes searched mine. He pulled me a little closer to him, and I felt my heart speeding up.

“If you can say no, I don’t want this, I’ll stop immediately,” he told me softly. “But if you can’t,” he warned. I swallowed and suddenly he had pressed his lips to mine. I gasped and he took the opportunity to press his tongue into my mouth. I felt the balls of his tongue barbell- one above and one below- roll along my own tongue, the roof of my mouth, my cheeks, even scrape against my teeth. I whimpered and sank backwards on my couch and he unflinchingly climbed over me. I knew this kind of thing wasn’t new to him. It was uncharted territory for me though. Somehow, I managed to surface, gasping for breath as my unfocused eyes tried to see the ceiling. It backfired as he began to kiss his way down my neck, sucking on my skin and licking it and tasting it, making me clench the pleather in what I refused to admit to being pleasure.

“Wait-” I managed to squeak. He pulled his head up, giving me a temporary chance to catch my speeding breath. He stared down at me and I looked away, ashamed. “My parents-” I whispered.

“Come on kid,” he interrupted with a growl. “They’re at dinner with my parents. At least try to come up with a better excuse.” He scolded. I blushed and swallowed thickly. He put a hand on my cheek and made me look at him again.

“You have to say it now,” he told me seriously. “You have to say, ‘Yes, I want you’ or ‘No, I don’t want you’. I’m not going to do all the work for you,” he informed me gruffly. I stared at him, wide-eyed in fear and anticipation and nervousness.

“I… I can’t,” I whispered, feeling close to tears. I wanted him so badly I couldn’t even begin to explain it. But I also couldn’t say it aloud. He sighed, looking away, then met my eyes again.

“Kid, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he soothed, brushing my bangs away from my face, still kneeling over me. “You’re a teenager. You’re allowed to need.” I nodded slightly.

“I um… I want you then.” I whispered, struggling to make my voice stronger. But saying it was as far as I could go. He smiled lovingly down at me and my breath stopped short.

“That’s my boy,” he whispered, kissing me again, he hand simultaneously sliding up my shirt. His cold hand searched for purchase on my flat chest and stomach, making me shiver as it skittered over my skin. I gasped into his lips as he gently pinched my nipple and tugged on it. The couch was tight in my grip. He raked his blunt, bitten nails down my pale, scrawny little chest.

“Ah!” I half moaned, half called. He smiled and pulled away, staring down knowingly at me. I blushed but made myself meet his eyes. Before I knew what was happening, my white undershirt was being lifted from my body.

“Much better,” he practically purred, lowering his head to the skin of my chest. I yelped as his tongue flickered out to touch my nipple. They were both hard and pointing to the ceiling. I suddenly realized how very hard I was. I arched my back, only to meet his hard cock with mine. He sucked in a breath and smirked at me. My face heated up.

“Down boy,” he growled, making me whimper in need. He paused for a moment, looking around. Then he grabbed my school tie from the floor where I’d dumped it with my regulation oxford. He untied it while I watched him with wide eyes, panting, waiting. To my shock, he looped the blue and white stripes around my wrists twice before tying the remaining cloth to the radiator behind me.

“What are you…” I began nervously, but he shushed me. He planted a gentle kiss on my lips.

“Don’t struggle,” he soothed. I felt compelled to do as he said. “This’ll be better if you don’t interfere,” he explained. My eyes widened in terror, and he let out a little laugh before kissing all over my face to calm me. “Better for you,” he corrected. I breathed a sigh of relief and nodded my trust to him. He smiled lovingly and caressed my cheek before scooting down my body. I bent my head up and watched him as he painstakingly slowly drew the button out of my uniform slacks. My breath stopped in my throat as I heard every zipper notch fall apart in his hands. When he shimmied my pants to my ankles, my cock was tenting my green boxers, and I looked away shamefully. He chuckled, breath hot on my cock. I gasped. Then the boxers were gone, and I was fully naked underneath him. He examined me apathetically, running an inquisitive hand from my neck to my pelvis, passing my needy cock and onto my thigh. I tried to jerk my legs at him, but he was sitting on my lower half. Suddenly, his whole hand encircled the base of my dick. I cried out into the stale air of my basement.

The strokes up and down were the most amazing feeling in the world, his thumb pressing against the vain on the underside every second, unless he had reached the top of my length, where he would rub the head of my cock furiously before sliding his hand back down my member. I struggled against my bonds, anything to feel like I was getting closer to him, but he only smiled and gave my cock an extra squeeze. When his hand slid down to my balls, I should have known what was coming. As he hefted my sac in his hand, he bent down and sucked the head of my cock into his mouth. I moaned loudly, already trying to push my hips up into his mouth. He held my hips down with his free hand, still fondling my balls and sucking my length.

“Please!” I cried out, needy. He pulled off my dick with a slurp and a wicked smile and I whimpered miserably.

“Please what?” he wanted to know. I stared at him, pleaded with my eyes. Don’t make me say it. Please don’t make me say it. If you have any sympathy, you won’t make me say it. He gave my cock a good stroke and I gasped, jerking. “Please what?” he repeated. I swallowed hard.

“Don’t… Don’t make me say it,” I begged him in a raspy voice.

“You’ll have to tell me whatcha want, kid,” he told me lowly, eyes lighting up. Sliding his curled hand up and down my length, he continued, “I just can’t read minds.” I whined unhappily and clenched my eyes shut.

“Please suck my cock,” I barely whispered, turning my head so that my face was tucked under one of my bound arms. He leant over me and pulled my face free, kissing me thoroughly.

“Good boy,” he rumbled, tweaking one of my nipples before moving down to my hips again. I waited with bated breath as his hot exhalation raced over my skin, not daring to move or make sound. I kept my eyes shut tightly. Suddenly though, I cried out and they shot open. My middle fingernail bit into my palm, drawing blood, and my toes curled hard. In barely a second, he had shot my cock to the back of his throat, and was no sucking hard on it. I couldn’t silence my moans and gasps and cries. He began to slowly ascend my length, lathering it with spit. When he was just tonguing the head, I writhed under him, struggling against my school tie.

“Please!” I begged again, deciding to cast any remaining dignity aside. Getting off was more important.  He grinned at me over my cock and began to bob his head. I yelped and squirmed, trying to get free somehow. With my legs trapped beneath his and my hands bound, it was just my head, my cock and him. I became more and more vocal as I felt my orgasm starting to build. I couldn’t shut up. I almost wished I had something to bite instead, a thick rope that would cut my gums.

“Fuck!” I shouted, jerking my hips into his mouth. I’d been trying to hold back my climax and prolong the feeling of his mouth around me. Those silver balls were absolutely amazing on the skin of my cock. His hands slid under me, gripping my bare ass hard for purchase. He deep throated my cock again and I lost. I half blacked out as I spewed my semen into his eager lips, actually becoming mostly silent after an initial shout. When I was done and my body drifted back down to the couch and my mind drifted back down from somewhere, I found him untying my hands. When I had use of them again, I stared at them, my straining shoulder muscles collapsing in relief. A dot of blood and a crescent scar were bright on my pale left palm.

He smiled sweetly down at me and brushed my hair out of my eyes. I blushed and looked away.

“Baby, I just gave you your first blowjob,” he reminded me. “I think I deserve some eye contact?” My blush turned hotter and hotter but I managed to meet his kind black eyes. Then he kissed me softly. I promptly wrapped my arms around his neck, bringing him closer to me. I felt him smile.

I whimpered when he pulled away, but he only pushed me forward on the couch and settled in behind me, wrapping an arm around my body. He kissed my neck as I shrank into him. I could feel his hard cock against my ass, a forewarning that I might have to repay the blow job. The prospect didn’t seem too bad.

Jeopardy was over.

AN{ Sorry I haven’t written. I started work and Peter started school. We fucked last Saturday, but nothing interesting to report on. He does have a single dorm now…

So like the title says, I’ve been thinking about anal sex. I’ve read it (believe it or not, I’m too prudish to watch porn) and it’s… Pretty hot. While I don’t masturbate often, it still turns me on. I’ve kind of wanted to try it for a little while. However, it also scares me shitless. I keep imagining this horrid scenario where I beg and plead and finally Peter consents and then he pulls out his cock and the condom’s covered in shit. Which is a beautiful thought, I know. Also, shaving back there is a little tricky. It also sounds like it hurts really really badly for some people. So I bought a bottle of lube and a new box of condoms and I’ve put them on the night table, where maybe Peter will see them when we get together next.

But if he doesn’t see them? How the fuck do you tell your twenty-one year old, college boy fuck buddy, who probably still laughs at the concept and thinks it’s gross, that you want his cock up your ass?

Sorry there’s no sex here. I’ve been really busy lately. But thanks for putting up with me.



August 8, 2008

Did you know that Shakespeare has his own call number in the Dewey Decimal system?
I think that’s pretty badass.

Peter found me shelving Shakespeare last night (four copies of MacBeth, for some reason). He apologized and told me he overreacted and that I was right and he shouldn’t have ‘thrown a shit-fit’. I’m not lying on that one. I’ve never even heard my students say it. Anyway, he begged for forgiveness and then we started making out. At which point the student worker on duty last night came by with his cart o’ books. I live way out of the district where I work, so he wasn’t one of mine, fortunately. But I still got caught making out with my college-age boyfriend by a fourteen year old in a public library. Where I have a job. Peter left really fast, and the kid couldn’t look at me the rest of the night. It’s a good thing that all the women who work there are old and don’t pay attention to anything.

Anyway, Peter’s heading home for two weeks before he comes back up for college.

Sorry I haven’t written anything lately, shit’s been busy. I start working when Peter comes back, so I’m doing most of my prep work now.

With love,

I’m Clearing My Throat

August 6, 2008

Dear Pepper,

This is what you get for dating a college boy.



Peter’s parents are the very wealthy sort that had to pay for their own college experience because their parents were too poor to. So Peter’s paying for his own college experience. We had sex last night and completely out of the blue, completely ruining the afterglow, asked if he could live with me. Which took me completely by surprise. We’ve only been dating for like three months now. Then he explained. And I said, “Uh… I don’t think that would work out, Peter.” And he practically begged me. Said that if things didn’t work out between us, he’d start paying rent. Offered to even start paying rent now. And I said, “No.”

Peter got mad and left. We haven’t spoken since. I’m not letting him live in my house. Peter and I aren’t growing old together. I’m having a little bit of fun, and he’s doing some learning and some bragging.

Those aren’t famous last words, are they?