Flash Fiction Friday 2-17-12: "A Ballet on Silk Sheets"

(Source image: unknown title, photo by Mina Bast)

"Now," she said. "Take me now. The rose is nice, and the dinner was excellent, but now I want dessert."

Time stretched, folded, twisted like taffy. She rocked atop me, hips moving slowly; then her legs were up over my shoulders as I thrust deeply inside; then she was gripping the bedframe as I pounded her from behind. A dance of decadence, a symphony of sensations, musk and sweat, heights of pleasure, cries of joy.

Afterwards we lay, spent, tangled together, hearts hammering. She sighed softly, contented.

"Happy Valentine's Day, love," I murmured.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of less than 100 words. Additionally, I provided a key word I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...folded..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:


I originally intended this to be much more raw and primal, more about animal lust than romantic love -- but then I saw the rose, and suddenly my viewpoint shifted in another completely different direction. I hope your own Valentine's Day was at least this lovely and more. If it wasn't, well, I hope you'll have some fun soon.


If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Please note there will be no challenge next week and possibly the week after that. I will be occupied with personal and business matters and won't have the time or access to devote to FFF. Check with some of the other participants if you like, and be of good cheer; I shall return. 

-- PB

Wanting....

Wanting.........

...your lips on my cock, your tits in my hands, your hair sweeping over my body as you crawl up my torso....

....your cries of delight as you cum for the fifth time in thirty minutes, your pussy clenching around my invading fingers, your eyes locked with mine as I plunge deep inside you.....

......your legs wrapped around my ass when I bottom out inside your hot cunt, your nails raking my back, your tongue buried in my mouth....

.....your pussy juice smeared all over my face, your body spread out before me like a garden of delights, your breasts held up for me to anoint with my cum....

......your oiled, slippery body undulating against mine, your head thrown back in joy as you ride me to ecstasy, your talented fingers coaxing me back into hardness for yet another go.....

Wanting all this and so much more.

-- PB

Something in the Air

There must be something in the air. Library Vixen's post from yesterday asked the question: "ever had one of those days where you can't come enough?"

Yes. Oh, yes. In fact, I'm having one of them today.

I wonder, is it different for women? Are you better able to hide your desire, that flush of heat, the hardening nipples and trickling wetness that heralds your arousal? Can you keep your quickening breathing, your pulse throbbing at your temples, your heart thumping against your ribcage, quiet? Are the people around you clueless about your raging desire, that want, the desperate need to get off, now, please, do me hard and fast and any way you like?

Guys, I think, have a bit more difficulty, especially if we work with lots of other people. A woman I knew (a pervert just like me) told me that the first thing she did with just about any guy was check out his crotch to see if he was packing. Twenty, thirty, a hundred times a day she'd be scanning the bulge at the latest guy's groin, assessing, wondering if he was nice and hard, if he was shifting uncomfortably, if he was trying to adjust to make his excitement less noticeable, if he was tormented by desire and frustration as well. Her relentless scrutiny used to get her some embarrassed looks, but sometimes it got her a good hard fucking too when she ran into a guy who was just as bold and overt as she was. (She checked one guy out who was very obviously hard as a rock and he caught her....but grinned and said "Do you like what you see?" That led to him fucking her in the bathroom of the bar and grill, a tale she recounted with relish).

And for someone like me who's almost always thinking about sex, trying to keep that hidden from the world at large becomes second nature. I like to think that I've gotten fairly good at it over the years, but I have to wonder whether any of the women I see daily are checking me out and grinning to themselves as they see that I'm sporting a railspike under my jeans.

So days like today, when no distractions are worth anything at all, when fantasies flare through my head at lightspeed, when even the slightest touch, every slight movement makes me throb and pulse and leak precum into my boxer briefs, when I dream of fucking and fucking and fucking until I'm sore and exhausted....those days can be pure hell. I can excuse myself and sneak off to the bathroom, where I whip my pants down, grab my cock and flog it relentlessly until my frustration erupts, spraying into the toilet almost angrily. I clean up, tuck myself away, and get back to work....and ten or fifteen minutes later, I'm swelling and pulsing and throbbing again, my crotch bulging, a ridge in my jeans delineating my desire. And I sigh softly, and grit my teeth, and try to concentrate on anything else, and fail miserably.

And the images whirl through my brain. You're bent over the couch, waggling your ass at me, purring "Come and get me, babe." Your hair is sweeping over my body as you slide against me, crawling up and over and around me, your tongue trailing small swirls over my skin, making me shiver and moan. You're riding me standing, your legs wrapped around me, biting my shoulder to stifle screams. You're openly rubbing my crotch as we sit at the bar, your eyes capturing mine, promising naughtiness beyond belief later on. Your head is bobbing on my cock as I push us past a hundred miles per hour on a straight open road, the windblast ripping my shrieks of ecstasy away and flinging them into the desolate wilderness where only scorpions and vultures are there to hear. I'm balls deep in you with your legs up over my shoulders, pumping you long and slow and deep, your wetness splashing out with every stroke. I'm stroking my cock with a lewd grin as you watch, your hand moving between your legs, our locked gazes smoking and searing. I'm tasting you, my tongue dipping into your honey, my face coated with it, nose rubbing your clit, lips wrapping around it to drive you over the edge for your fifth orgasm in twenty minutes.

Faster and faster they come, the fantasies, the scenarios. My cock throbs. My breath is coming faster. I can't concentrate on a damn thing. I can't form sentences properly, can't work, can't get anything done. My imagination is running wild again and I can't rein it in. Faster and faster, a thundering stallion beyond all control. And I feel like a stallion too, a stallion or a bull, pawing the ground, snorting, my cock getting harder and harder as these images assault me relentlessly.

Faster and faster, more and more details. We're making love in a cool blue room full of silk and soft pillows and velvet. I'm grinding against you in the midst of a crowd at a concert, trying to find some way to get free of my pants and under your miniskirt to slip up and into you. I'm watching you pump me slowly, your fingers slipping excruciatingly up and down my shaft, your face self-satisfied as I pulse and drool cum all over your hands. I'm taking you from behind, ruthlessly, roughly, spanking you till you shriek, yanking on your hair, filthy words falling in a rain from your lips. You're poised atop my cock, riding me slowly, hair hiding your face, soft sighs and murmurs and endearments in a steady stream. You're on the other end of the phone, telling me in detail what you're doing to yourself, telling me you're my little plaything, dirty glee in your voice as you shake and cum hard. You're lying on the table, breasts bobbling as I slide in and out of you, eyes rolling back in your head as I bottom out deep in your cunt.

God, it's hard to get through days like this. No sooner do I explode (into the toilet, into my hand, into the sink, into a tissue, into a wastebasket) than the beast rears its head again. And the stain on the inside of my briefs gets larger, and my head fills with images again, and I slide back into the abyssal whirl of fantasy, fucking and coming and fucking and coming and slipping and sliding, sighs and gasps and screams and murmurs, taking you relentlessly, over and over, over and over and over....and there's no rest. No rest for the wicked. No rest for the devious, the imaginative, the dreamer.

Having a vivid imagination is sometimes more curse than blessing.

-- PB

How does it feel.......

How does it feel.......
...when you haven't had sex in a week or more, when you're so keyed up you can hardly stand it? When every thought is of dirty delightful fantasies, every shift you make in your seat only increases your arousal, every whisper of fabric against your skin makes you burn to be rid of that clothing, hot and nude and pressed relentlessly against your partner of choice? 

How does it feel.......
...when you're lying in bed, hand moving restlessly between your legs, fingers buried to the knuckles in your soaking wet pussy, playing with your clit and sending brilliant sparks of pleasure like summer lightning through your body? When your hips are moving of their own volition, grinding, rolling, enacting that hard rhythm you want more than anything else at that moment? 

How does it feel......
...when I'm lying between your thighs, drinking delicately of your nectar, delighted as always by the way that each fresh swipe of my tongue doesn't use up the wetness there, only producing more? When I'm caressing you with mouth and teeth and tongue, sucking, licking, biting oh so very gently? When I'm gripping your ass in both hands to raise and pull you closer to my hungry mouth? When you're crying out, incoherent moans dissolving to frantic entreaties to keep going, urging me to keep going, oh yes, right.........THERE? 

How does it feel......
...when you're gripping the headboard in both hands, pushing yourself back at me, tossing your hair, harder, harder, yes, that's it, harder still? When I'm pounding you relentlessly, trying to hammer you through the wall and into the next apartment over, where the occupants are even now feverishly masturbating to the sounds of our screaming? 

How does it feel......
...when we're in the shower and I upend a bottle of body wash over your glistening breasts? When I turn blue gel into pounds of lather and spread them from head to toe over your slippery form? When I walk around you, coating every inch of you in slick suds, hands roaming from toes to the nape of your neck and everywhere in between? How does it feel when your legs are trembling from my attentions and your nipples are standing out like tiny cherries and your breath is coming in hard sharp pants? How does it feel when you're dripping so much wetness that the suds are rapidly being washed down your legs? 

How does it feel......
...when I part your lips with my crown and push forward? When you feel my shaft sinking into you, plumbing your depths more absolutely than any explorer could ever imagine? When you're gripping me fiercely, owning my every inch, giving me your all, begging for more and taking everything I offer with gasping moans of assurance and assent? When your fingernails scrawl bleeding trails across my back, flaying me with your desire and need? 

How does it feel......
...when we're out in public and you whisper exactly, precisely, what you're thinking at that very moment? When you can see my own reaction not just in my face but in the bulge at my crotch? When you trace its length with fingertips, each new caress serving only to delineate and accent its rigid outline? When you drape yourself over me from behind, pressing your breasts against me, undulating snakelike, your busy hands working over my front in perfect innocence, simply appearing idle caresses to curious onlookers? When your lips are still dripping honey into my ear, delicious descriptions of what you're going to do to me the very instant we are alone? When every tiny touch has me gulping, fighting for control, a wet spot forming in my jeans? 

How does it feel......
...when you're rising and falling above me, your cunt clenching my length tightly inside you, your wetness splashing all over me, your hands pressed firmly on my chest? When you're dragging your hair in a long slow sweep down my body with every slow downstroke you make? When you can see my eyes, desperate and mad, rolling about in pleasure-wracked spirals? When I'm shuddering all over like I've been tasered, but it's your electric touch that has me so affected? When you know you have complete control of me and will keep me in that envelope of ecstasy until you've tasted your own cup of delight to the full? 

How does it feel? Tell me....I want to know more. 

-- PB

Panserhistory, part 4: Faith

Since I started this journal several of you folks have asked me about my past. Who've I been with? you want to know. What was it like, being with them? Did they let you....y'know....do THAT to them? Did they hurt you? Did you hurt them? Did you learn anything from them? Would you do it again, if you had a chance?

So I'm going to write some entries about my history, limited as it is, and let you see for yourself. As always, all names I use here have been changed.

Part 4: Faith

Faith is somebody I've known now for almost twenty years. I "met" her in my first or second year of college. At the time I was reading some USENET newsgroups fairly regularly (this was long before they were all taken over by spammers) and she had made some particularly insightful comments in a newsgroup about one of my favorite authors. I replied to it via email, getting her first and last names transposed in the process because the message header had reversed them for some reason -- not a good start! Fortunately, she didn't seem upset and just corrected me, and that started what has turned out to be one of the longest friendships I've ever had.

Faith and I developed our friendship almost exclusively online for several years, sending emails back and forth. We made one or two phone calls but it was mostly via email. We talked about everything under the sun -- geeky stuff we both enjoyed, politics, TV shows, music, what we wanted out of life, and tons more. We even talked about the people we were dating at the time -- if either of us was dating. She, like I, was pretty selective, and like me she was slow to give her heart away.

Initially, I just saw her as a friend, but a very good one. From almost the very first, I felt that I could trust her with just about anything I said to her. I realized that she would never judge me unfairly, that she would always measure anything I said carefully against her own opinions and experiences, that she would keep any secrets I shared in confidence. She was and is one of the smartest people I've ever met, with an enormous drive to succeed and the willpower to go after whatever she wanted -- and get it. She was well-informed on politics and current events. And, like me, she was very very passionate about everything she did and said, and wouldn't hesitate to get into a lively discussion about anything on which we happened to disagree.

I think it was about two years after we first said hi to each other that we decided we should really meet face to face. If I remember right, it was during summer break and she was living with her parents then. So I drove up to meet her (and her parents, and her sister), and spent a couple of days hanging out with her.

When I met her in person I thought she was just lovely. Dark hair, dark eyes, beautiful curves (an ass to die for, fantastic cleavage hinting at great breasts too, great muscular legs) and one of the most dazzling smiles I had ever seen. I'd felt an attraction to her for some time, but since I was still fairly inexperienced at the time I never really did anything about it. I had a wonderful time just being with her, but there was little privacy since we were at her parents' place and her sister was usually around when her parents were not.

One moment in time does stand out, even years later. We had the room to ourselves for a rare couple of minutes, and I summoned up the courage to reach out and touch her. I gave her a soft caress on the back of her neck. I couldn't help myself -- her skin just looked so soft and I just really wanted to touch her and express some of the attraction I was feeling very strongly right then. It never went beyond that, but she gave me a look that seemed to say "what was that?" and so I backed off immediately.

A few years later, she told me that that one touch was like a jolt of electricity to her. It had affected her almost as strongly as it did me. But (like me) she didn't do anything about it either. More fools we, eh?

In any case, I left after a couple of days and headed back home. And our friendship kept going, strong as ever. She told me about the guy she was seeing, and I told her about what had happened (or was happening) with me and Charlotte, with Rachel, with Melissa. And the years passed, and we drifted apart a bit, but always kept in touch via email and the occasional phone call.

Then, about six years after I'd first said hi to her, we started talking, in a roundabout way, about the attraction we'd felt to each other on that first visit, and the attraction that we, y'know, still kind of felt for each other. Neither of us was seeing anybody at the time (me having just broken things off with Melissa for what was probably the first or second time, and she having recently gotten out of a relationship where the guy treated her like crap). This was also when Faith told me how powerfully she'd been affected by that one touch on the last night of our first visit. From there it was a short step to start talking about sex and how much both of us loved it, and from there (of course) it was just a short jump to how much we'd love to do naughty things to each other.

The attraction grew and grew. The sexy discussions flew back and forth. We talked about fantasies, about things that we'd done, about things that we wanted to do. We quizzed each other. We wrote fantasies. We talked about games we'd like to play. At one point I even wrote her a novel-length erotic fantasy story featuring two characters that were very obviously based on us. And soon we began discussing an extended visit. At the time she was happy with her job and where she lived (in the northeast US), but I was not happy with my own situation. So I began contemplating a relocation, but first I wanted to make sure that the attraction still existed when we saw each other in person. We eventually arranged for me to come see her for a week, so we could determine whether or not it was a good idea for me to move up there.

The time came and I was more nervous than I'd ever been. Yes, we'd been sending messages back and forth about how nervous we both were, and yes, she kept talking repeatedly about how we were likely to jump each other in the car before we even got back to her place. In fact, I'd even gone so far as to get tested for STDs so I could show her the (clean) results; neither one of us liked condoms and we wanted pure skin-on-skin. She was on the pill, so the protection thing was taken care of. But some part of me kept wondering where the catch was. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any catch. I got up there, and we embraced, and within seconds I knew: this was going to be a very good visit.

And it was. She told me later that she knew I wanted her very badly because I was having trouble making eye contact, and she was right. Although it was me who made the first move, leaning in for a kiss just after we got into the car to head back to her place. She kind of giggled when it was done, but assured me she wasn't laughing at me. And when we got back to her place, she proved it -- it wasn't long before we were both naked and entwined on her bed. She was as enthusiastic, as playful, as fun-loving as I'd hoped, and she smelled and tasted so good. Her body was as exquisite when unclothed as those hints I'd seen years before had suggested -- beautiful breasts, soft smooth skin, voluptuous curves, muscular legs that she loved to wrap around me.

That was a very good week. We went out on the town and she showed me around. We visited Niagara Falls (she lived just a couple hours away from there) and wandered around the Canadian side, holding hands and delighting in each others' company. We went out to eat. We watched movies and listened to music. She even showed me off to a few of her friends when she threw a party one night.

And over and over, we made love. And we had sex. And we fucked. She and I both agreed that there are differences between each of those, and there's a time and place for all of 'em. We screwed on the floor of her living room, giving each other carpet burns. I slurped her pussy for what felt like hours sometimes -- I couldn't get enough of the way she tasted. I gave her a long, long full-body massage and it turned into something rather more like a naked oil wrestling match. I gave her the dirty talk she wanted (she said that she really liked the idea but her partners thus far had been too timid to really try it; I was happy to oblige her during one very extended session and we eventually made enough noise that the people in the apartment below hers started banging on the ceiling as a not-so-subtle hint). We had soapy slippery shower fun. I loved her body, and she seemed equally excited by mine. As with Melissa, she was just as likely to attack me as I was to pounce on her, and so for a week we reveled in each others' bodies, and each others' company.

We did discover, though, that discussion of a relocation might have been a bit premature. We got along fine in person, don't get me wrong, and the physical attraction was every bit as intense as we'd expected, but because we are both extraordinarily strong-willed and intense people with some fundamental differences on our outlook on life, our personalities did clash more than once. In fact I think we had a small fight before the first night was even over, and there were a couple more small ones before I left, though it never grew to a serious confrontation or ruined the time we had with each other.

We parted at the airport, both of us agreeing that it had been an awesome week. But for some reason we never really spoke of my relocating again. I think it was fairly obvious to us both that we worked really well as friends, and really well as lovers, but that we might be a bit too different fundamentally, too stubborn and hard-headed and strong-willed, to work out well in a serious relationship. We'd probably wind up fighting too much, and that's no basis for a relationship.

But over the years we've stayed friends, and kept in touch. Faith is one of the best friends I've ever had. I've never wavered in my convictions that I can trust her with absolutely anything, and that she will always be there for me. And I like to think she knows the same about me. I wouldn't lose her friendship for the world.

One last note. A year or two ago Faith told me that she was seeing someone again, so I of course started interrogating her for more information. She eventually told me that he was actually still married, and I was completely shocked by that. I told her that I supported her in her choices, but that I wasn't really sure I approved. And, in truth, I didn't -- at the time I was still pretty judgmental of anyone who'd cheat on their spouse. Over time my stance on the matter changed -- at least, with respect to her and her beau -- but at first I was not at all happy to hear what she had to say.

In recent months, of course, since reading all the stories from you folks who are in unhappy marriages due to distant, unavailable, or downright abusive husbands or wives, I have rather changed my opinion on the whole thing. If a man's wife outright refuses to have sex with him, or a husband tells his wife that she just doesn't turn him on any more, or there are medical issues preventing one party from participating, or one of the partners is being emotionally or physically abusive -- then the whole "adultery" situation is no longer so cut-and-dried. Faith is no more a homewrecker than the other frustrated people I see stories from every day -- she's just somebody who wants a loving relationship. She just happens to be in love with someone who's already married. And given what she's told me of the situation, the guy has done everything short of a divorce to try and remedy things with his wife. Apparently that woman just doesn't have any interest at all in working out their problems.

In any case, Faith is one of my dearest friends and I still talk to her every couple of days. I wish her nothing but the best and I hope that eventually she'll find a way to be with her lover openly, so that they don't have to hide their relationship from the world at large.

And Faith -- I still love you, too. (Yes, she does know about this journal, and yes, I got her approval before writing about her. Told you she was cool).

-- PB

Panserhistory, part 2: Rachel

Since I started this journal several of you folks have asked me about my past. Who've I been with? you want to know. What was it like, being with them? Did they let you....y'know....do THAT to them? Did they hurt you? Did you hurt them? Did you learn anything from them? Would you do it again, if you had a chance?

So I'm going to write some entries about my history, limited as it is, and let you see for yourself. As always, all names I use here have been changed.

Part 2: Rachel

My sophomore year at college, I had gotten hooked (along with much of the rest of my dorm) on a precursor to today's MMORPGs. This one was text-based, and played over a telnet connection to a server hosted by another university. The acronym for it at the time was MUD -- Multiple User Domain (or Dungeon), and it was a sort of Dungeons and Dragons world, but programmed by regular people, college students mostly. This particular one was really cool not just for the extremely imaginative worlds that had been created by those who ran it, but also by the social aspect of things. As I discovered rather quickly, you can get to know some very interesting people by talking to them over the Internets. Except it wasn't called "the Internet" yet -- most people were still using 300 baud modems for home connections to BBSs. Much easier, as we did, to use a university's T1 lines for higher bandwidth. I kept my university email address and access to their telnet system for almost a decade after I graduated, upon which they finally retired that system....but I digress.

Anyway, I got hooked on playing this MUD, as I said, and most evenings could find me in the dorm's computer lab, typing away. I had already been a speedy typist but all the interactions and conversations I was having in this medium ramped it way up until I was over the 100 wpm mark. It's stuck with me to this day, which is very handy for instant message conversations or emails. Or trying to get one of these musings written quickly when I have limited time....but again I digress.

Back to the game. I had made lots of friends via this medium, if you could call someone a friend when you had never met them face to face. And sometimes more than friends -- several relationships blossomed between friends of mine and people they had met in the game world. I had one myself, actually, and even had some fun times experimenting with cybersex with "her" -- until I found out from a mutual friend that that person was actually a guy. Embarrassing! Dropped that one in a hurry when I found out, you can be sure. :) On the other hand, some of the relationships got quite serious -- in fact a friend of mine actually started dating one of the other players, who it turned out was just playing from a nearby dorm. They may still be together, for all I know.

Anyway, one of these relationships got serious enough for the girl to fly out and visit the guy in my dorm who was chasing her. I didn't know him well, but I'd talked with her plenty in-game, and considered her to be a pretty good friend. He'd invited everybody in our local "group" to come hang out when she showed up. I dropped by and saw most of the people in our local group hanging out and talking with him. Where was she, though? I craned my neck and looked around a bit for a strange face -- and there she was, sitting on the couch and looking a bit abandoned. So I wandered over and said hi, and she introduced herself as Rachel.

It turned out that the attraction he'd claimed he had for her had pretty much dissolved when he first saw her because she didn't meet his standards of physical beauty. This puzzled me then and puzzles me to this day -- she wasn't conventionally beautiful, perhaps, but she had a withdrawn, mousy librarian chic thing going that I personally found very attractive. And she had lovely soft lips and truly beautiful eyes, and sweet-smelling long hair.

Oops. I'm getting ahead of myself. At the time, I just hung out and talked with her, because after all she wasn't there to visit me. The guy she was there to visit wound up mostly ignoring her, but I saw her a few times over the next few days, and then she went back home. After that, we got to be a lot closer, both online and off. Over the next few months we would spend lots of time talking via the MUD, sending emails when neither of us was there, or sending real, actual letters when neither of us had online access. Things grew, and developed, and we got to be closer and closer, several times talking about the attraction we felt and a few times even fooling around with cybersex, all the while talking about how we wished it were the real thing.....and by spring break of that year we had decided it was time for me to come visit her. So I flew out to see her, planning to spend a week with her, expecting nothing more than friendship but hoping for more.

And holy hell, did I get it.

When she met me at the gate, we embraced like long lost lovers (which I suppose we were, in a manner of speaking). We went back to her place and talked while I unpacked my stuff, then she had to go to work. I went with her (she worked in a mall, so I had plenty to keep me occupied for a few hours), then we had some dinner after she got off work, and then we got back to her place....and then we moved to her bedroom, where we began kissing. Gently at first, then more forcefully. We kissed, and kissed, and hands began exploring, and clothes began coming off slowly, and then I began giving her a backrub, massaging her, and eventually, by the glow of warm candles spaced around her bedroom, we made love, for the first of what would prove to be a great many times over the next week.

How to describe having sex for the first time? Even more difficult, how to describe making love, really making love, with somebody that you feel a huge emotional connection with? More difficult still, how to describe the warmth and caring and patience she showed me? Inexperienced and virgin as I was, I was nonetheless possessed of a hugely active imagination, and I'd done plenty of reading and seen lots of porn, so I knew the basic mechanics, but putting everything into place isn't always as easy, I discovered, as "tab A into slot B". But Rachel was a fantastic lover -- patient, helpful with me, guiding me, telling me what worked for her, how she liked to be touched and tasted and mmm, yesss, like that.

I couldn't believe how exciting it was to be lying in bed, stark naked, erection pointing at the ceiling, caressing an also-nude woman who said (and demonstrated quite ably!) that she wanted me. How soft her breasts were. How sweet her hair smelled. How her lips tasted, so hungry, so fresh. How soaking wet her pussy was, and how sharp its aroma, so piercing, such evidence of arousal.

I made love to her with hands, lips, teeth, tongue, caressing and licking every inch of her body, and spending a good 30 minutes worshiping her orally (she told me later that she came three times) before I even considered entering her. If I was going to do this, I thought, I was going to do it right. Finally I sheathed my aching cock in a condom and crawled on top of her. I asked her if she was sure she wanted this (apparently still in shock), and she responded with a grin, reaching down between us and guiding me home into her warm, wet pussy.

I groaned as I slid in. Oh, gods, this was so much better than I'd ever dreamed. We started a slow rhythm; I braced myself on hands above her, our bodies wet with sweat, sliding back and forth in delicious friction. I gazed into her eyes as we made love, holding each other close, breathing in tandem. It was all soft sighs and gentle murmurs and quiet endearments, and when I stiffened a few minutes later and flooded the condom, it was one of the most exquisite sensations I'd ever felt.

We made love over and over for the next week, whenever we had spare time and she was not working. She rarely initiated things, but she was always receptive to my advances -- or if she wasn't in the mood, she never showed it and would indulge me anyway. When she was too sore too fuck, we would lie there nude, caressing and touching each other, snuggling close, kissing and fondling. We did it mostly in missionary position, but played some with doggy-style and once with her on top. We played with mutual masturbation. I was a kid let loose in a playground and she, it seemed, was equally willing, even if not quite as enthusiastic. And it was so good, so very good, to hear that despite my inexperience I was apparently "fucking fantastic" in bed. There was enough self-confidence from that to carry me through some very bad years, and it gave a huge boost to my self-image.

And when we weren't making love, we were snuggling, holding each other close, talking about anything and everything. She told me things she'd never told anyone else, and I shared secrets with her that I haven't told anyone since. We spoke of our childhoods, our fears, hopes and dreams, the things that hurt us, the things that made us cry in the dead of night. We were balm for each others' troubled souls.

And when we weren't making love, or snuggling, or emotionally bonding, we were out exploring her town. Wandering across campus. Seeing cult films at the campus theater. Eating at the great local restaurants. Hanging out with local friends of hers (some of whom were also regulars on the MUD we frequented, and ALL of those gave us very, very knowing looks when they saw us holding hands). And generally making the most of the time we had together.

When we parted, we both knew, I think, that we were far too different (and much, much too far apart) to ever make things work on a permanent basis. But, as she said as she kissed me goodbye with a tear in her eye, "we'll always have Paris, eh?" And I smiled sadly, and agreed, and gave her a long slow kiss and a long tight hug, and waved goodbye until I couldn't see her anymore, and returned home, feeling emotionally and physically wrung out.

I did keep in touch with Rachel. We still saw each other in-game, and emailed frequently, and sent letters when (inevitably) we drifted away from the MUD, which really had gotten to take over too much of our lives. At least we never got obsessed to the point where it affected our grades, as had happened with some of our colleagues! Still, we kept writing each other, and eventually she met a local guy who treated her fantastically well, and she wrote less after that, with good reason. I heard from her a year or two after that; she said that they were getting married and she was moving to Canada with him. I sent back a delighted reply, and that, sadly, was the last I've heard of her.

I've tried to find her a few times over the past few years. But she has a very common name, and when she took her husband's last name it was even more common. Google searches and Facebook searches don't help much when they turn up hundreds of thousands of results. So I think about her at odd times, and wish her well, and hope she's as happy as she deserves to be.

Because for a spring break week in 1992, she made me happier than I'd ever been.

Thank you, Rachel. I never said it enough when we were "together", so I'll say it now. I loved you, and part of me always will love you.

-- PB

I want you.....

I want you.....

....gasping and moaning beneath me, head tossing from side to side, body writhing, skin covered in a light sheen of sweat, breasts drawn tight with excitement, hands tangled in the sheets to keep yourself from sliding off the edge of the world....

I want you....

....rising and falling slowly above me, waves of hair obscuring your face, palms braced on my chest almost in benediction, soft effortful grunts the only sounds you're making; the wet clutching sounds your cunt makes as it pulls and releases my cock are sound enough....

I want you....

....hands spread and braced against the wall, shoving yourself HARD back at me, filthy imprecations spilling from your lips in a flood: "God yes. Fuck me, you fucking bastard. Ram me with that fucking thing. I'm gonna cum all over your cock, gonna flood you with it, gonna bathe your dick with my pussy juice." Tearing howls bursting from your throat as I slap your ass, high-pitched screams: "Aww yeah! Yes, yes, yes! Harder! Fuck me harder! Fuck me right through this wall...."

I want you....

....screaming and wailing, voice combining with my own bass-baritone roars, mixing and mingling, another kind of lovemaking; clawing at my back, stripping shreds of my skin away, flaying me with your desire to grab hold and take, take, take....

I want you....

....on public transportation, sitting sideways on my lap, skirt spread and hiding everything but the intensity of our gazes, which leaves no doubt to anyone watching just what we're doing; feeling me throb inside you, locking eyes with me, clenching yourself around me, milking me with the walls of your cunt, watching me lose the battle with self-control, and leaning close to whisper dulcetly "You lose, boy....now cum for me, right now...."

I want you....

....in the world's slowest elevator, clawing desperately at zippers and panties, trying urgently to get cock into cunt with limited time, a rush of endorphins, a violence of heat and wetness, hoping we can get it off in a few quick seconds and get recomposed before those doors open again, instead of being in the throes of screaming orgasms like we were last time this happened....

I want you....

....on the other end of the telephone line, your sultry voice telling me in delectable detail exactly how it feels as you plunge your fingers into your sopping pussy, the grin actually audible in your voice as you beg me for permission to cum, cum all over your fingers, wishing it was my cock, wishing I were painting you with my lust, a study in pearlescent white....

I want you....

....in all these ways and a thousand others.

I want you. And you know it well.

-- PB

Think Of Me

I'm thinking about you right now. Yes, you. I follow lots of journals but it's you that's captured my imagination more than anyone else. I visit every day, hoping you've got some more stuff up, rereading your archives when there's no new entry. And you flit in and out of my thoughts all the time.

You really have no idea, do you? You don't know how wild you drive your readers with those naughty tales, those occasional photos, the dirty confessions and fantastic fantasies. You don't know what it does to me -- how it makes me achingly hard, ridge in pants standing out clearly for anyone to see. How it distracts me beyond belief to see each new teasing tale from you. Makes my head spin, my blood race, my heart pound. Makes me ooze precum till I'm soaking through my shorts. Makes me forget everything but the desperate tingling in my balls as I stroke myself relentlessly towards orgasm, still feverishly reading your words.

And I fantasize about you. Oh, yes, I do. I fantasize about what it'd be like to chat with you, to send you nasty emails, to detail my lusty thoughts in vivid black and white. I fantasize about sending you a list of demands for you to execute, knowing that your wild side will be brought forth in full flower by that. I fantasize about writing a story in tandem with you, building faster and faster on each others' thoughts until the final result is so hot it smokes. I fantasize about email exchanges between us, electrons flying back and forth at lightspeed, but not nearly as fast as my hand on my cock or your fingers buried in your sopping cunt. I fantasize about sending you text messages while you're at work, trying to concentrate, being distracted by my increasingly explicit descriptions of what I'm doing to myself right....this.....second.

Yes, you're in my thoughts quite a bit. I wonder what your voice sounds like. Wonder what I would do if I picked up the phone and you were on the other end, breathing hard and fucking yourself hard and fast with fingers, a toy, something. I wonder how long I'd last before spraying all over myself to the sound of your purring "That's it, come for me". I wonder if you'd be half as turned on as I was, if you'd seen as many stars as I had when I blasted off, if you were dripping with need as much as I imagine you are.

What would you be like if you were here, I wonder? Would you be submissive and eyes downcast as I directed you in a cold voice to strip for me? Would you be hot and wild and aggressive, pushing me back in my seat and yanking our clothing off so fast that I'm inside you in less than a minute? Would you scream as I nailed you to the wall from behind? Would you gush all over me as you rode me like a bucking bronco? How many times could I make you come with lips and tongue alone before you pushed me away, begging "no more, please"? Would you beg me to fuck you harder, harder, harder, or would it be slow and sensual and dreamy, all sighs and whispers and fingers tangled in each other as we urged each other toward sweet release? Would I fill your cunt with my come or would you beg me to hose you down on face and lips and tits?

Oh yes, I wonder. And I think of you. And I fantasize about you. All the time. Every time I read one of your entries.

How does that make you feel?

-- PB

Mouth For War

That mouth of yours is built for war.

Some women have soft, beautifully shaped lips. They're meant for gentle kisses, for tender merging, for quiet sighs and gasps and lovemaking on cool satin sheets. They're meant for words of love, for terms of endearment, for benedictions and acceptance and grace

Some women have thin, hard, compressed lips. They're meant for sneering, for pressing tightly together in disapproval, for excoriating curses, for bloodless slashes of cruel smiles. You don't kiss a woman like that -- she'll cut you. Lips like that part in pleasure only rarely, and usually self-pleasure at that.

Some women have generous, wide mouths. They're meant for smiling, for spreading in admiration, for cheer and crinkling of grins and splitting wide with full-on belly laughs. They're meant for enthusiastic kisses, full-bodied and plump with heady cooperative lust. They're meant for generous gasps of pleasure, for giving yourself to the moment, for loud cries of ecstasy.

Some women have tiny rosebud lips. They're meant for exploration, to tease and open up like the flower they resemble. They're meant to part with sighs of emotion, worried words that speak of the woman's fright at what she's feeling. They're meant to return kisses hesitantly, uncertainly, not certain of what's happening next.

And some women have a mouth for war.

All's fair in love and war, they say, and your mouth proves that. Dangerous lips, lips that quirk into a wicked grin or a knowing smile or simply part to reveal the tip of your tongue as it runs along the lower lip. Your mouth is meant for full-on contact, for bruising hard kisses, for drinking from your lover's mouth. It's meant for dirty talk, for yelps and screams, for filthy words of lust, for "fuck me" and "give me that come" and "I need your cock right now", for "bend me over the table" and "oh god yes right there right there right there FUCK YEAH".

A mouth for war. It's meant for sucking, for licking, for breathing deep the intoxicating aroma of lust and sweat and sex. It's meant for biting gently, for wrapping around my cock, for striving hard against my invading mouth when I slam you against the wall. It's meant for gulping down my come, for licking me from head to toe, for tasting your own girl gloss on your fingers after fucking yourself.

A mouth for war. Not one in a thousand. But you've got one.

(Title and inspiration for this entry stolen from Pantera's "Mouth for War", which I happened to be listening to today.)

-- PB

Insatiabear

Tonight I am definitely feeling like the Insatiabear. I don't know where the hell this came from (all right, shut up, it was probably the fact that I was browsing all you folks' hot writings for the past several hours), but right now I am, to put it bluntly, horny enough to fuck a rock. This isn't a gentle burn here, it's not a wish for snuggling and spooning and lovey talk. Oh, no.

No, this is hard and hot, savage, a dark fury. It's a desire to pounce and rend and tear. It's a wish to devour and be devoured, a crackling, towering inferno of lust. It's a wish to fuck and fuck and fuck, to slip and slide in and on and around you, fingers and tongues and cock and pussy and tits and hair and sweat and cum and oh god, yes, right there. It's imagining everything imaginable, a playground of flesh where anything can and does go, a series of scenarios, a plethora of positions, a symphony of screams. I want to cum in your pussy, on your tits, in your hair, on your back, in your laughing mouth. I want to make you cum with fingers, tongue, toys, vegetables, and my own cock. I want you from behind, on top, on the floor, in the shower, against the wall, in a chair, sprawled on a table, everywhere and anywhere. I want it until both of us are raw, sore and exhausted, until I can't get hard anymore and you've run out of pussy juices. I want to ruin clothing, bedsheets, carpeting, upholstery and wall decor.

And then I want it some more.

That's how I'm feeling right now.

-- PB

Various Positions

I had planned to write up something about jealousy, open relationships, and the idea of being pleased by your partner's pleasure even if you aren't the one pleasing them just at the moment. A nice philosophical discussion to have over a beer or two at the local pub, perhaps.

But the words wouldn't come, so instead I'm going to talk about some of the sexual positions I love the most. Ladies, this is how I like to fuck you.

Cowgirl: I love this position because I get to see your entire delectable body, and because you get to control how you're getting fucked. You can control the depth and angle of my penetration, and I get rewarded with a first-class view of your tits, your hair spilling over your shoulders, your hips moving in slow circles, and your face alternately looking down at me or thrown back in ecstasy. You can still my motions by placing a hand on my chest, or use both hands to push yourself up and down, practically hoppping up and down on my cock; you can lean back and use my legs as support, sliding more forward and back than up and down; you can reach one hand down and diddle yourself while you use me as a toy to get yourself off. Mmmmm. Not to mention the fact that your round ass curves out so nicely and positively begs me to smack it a few times as you ride me.

Me on top, you with your legs over my shoulder: I like this one because it lets me get very, very deep inside you. It also makes for smoking hot eye contact. It's good for excruciatingly slow, grinding sessions, when the pleasure goes on and on and our bodies are slick with sweat. You're gasping and moaning and begging me to go even deeper, and I do, sliding so far inside that I feel like I'm going to vanish, before pulling out and then sliding home with another grindingly slow stroke. Delicious.

Standing up, against a wall: This kind of sex is just smokingly, flash-fire-inducingly hot. It's so arousing when we've been out on the town, whispering naughty things in each others' ears, hands roaming below the waist quite a few times until you're soaking through your dress and I'm leaving precome spots on my jeans. At times like those there is nothing, NOTHING quite like opening the door at home, slamming it closed, tearing clothing aside and off, and pounding into you within seconds. Pants and boxers around my ankles, your dress hiked up or ripped asunder, your panties down around one ankle or just shoved to the side. You've got a leg hooked over and around my ass, your hands are clutching at my back, I'm biting lightly at your shoulder and neck as I thrust up and into you, fucking you until we both come, screaming, and sag to the floor.

Doggy-style: Where to start? There're just so many things about this that I love. The feeling of power as you drop to all fours, waggling your ass at me, telling me "Come and get me". Grabbing your hair lightly and pulling your head back as I fuck you. The round globes of your ass, so soft against my hard cock, so ripe and full for spanking. Reaching around to squeeze your tits as I jackhammer into you. Kneeling there perfectly still as you thrust yourself back at me, trying to get me deeper, fucking yourself onto me as I bite my lip and try hard not to come like a volcano all over your back and ass. And it's even hotter if there's a mirror nearby and we can watch ourselves, watch how completely and totally I'm making you mine, watch how I mold your body with mine, watch your tits swaying and my hands clenching on your ass, rising for a slap to give you that shock of pain with the pleasure.

Reverse cowgirl, in a chair: I once had a girlfriend quietly disrobe while I was working at the computer, then without a word come around to my front, suck me hard, and then settle down onto my cock, still wordlessly. Here it's the woman who has the power, but having you so close on top of me allows me to put both arms around you, to fondle your breasts, nip lightly at your neck, use my fingers on your clit, or just lift and drop you over and over to help you get me even deeper.

There are thousands that I love. Variety is the spice of life, but there are just some that I come back to over and over. I will never get tired of taking a woman from behind, or of seeing her bounce up and down atop me, or any of the thousand variations on each.

How about you? What is it that really gets you hot, that turns your crank like no other? What positions are guaranteed to make you come like a banshee?

-- PB

Drifting and Dreaming

Sometimes the line between reality and fantasy is veil-thin. Sometimes, in the hazy drift of REM sleep, the concrete and real is no more substantial than smoke, and the smoke of imaginings can coalesce into things you can smell, hear, taste...and feel.

It was like that last night.

More tired than I'd thought, I drifted off pretty quickly. Timeless time ticked, measuring out the minutes of my night, stretching and refolding, random neurons firing in my brain, scattering a smattering of images and scenes in my mind.

Tick...

We're in a cool green room, upon a massive canopied bed with satin sheets. My hands are grasping handfuls of those sheets as I gaze up at your lovely form, poised and sliding up and down atop my hardness. The only sounds are our deep breathing and the moist sounds of flesh calling to flesh, sensuously clasping and releasing. Slow, whisper-soft sighing, our movements excruciatingly precise, drawing out every last iota of sensation. My eyes go wide, I arch my back and lift you high, and your hair spills over your breasts in waves as you bow your head in benediction to receive my offering.

Tick...

It's late at night, on an overseas flight full of sleeping people. But neither of us is sleeping; under a concealing blanket, eager hands are busy tearing at clothing, fumbling with snaps, guiding my hard cock forward into your tight, wet tunnel. Soft moans. Short, hard thrusts. My hands cupping your tits, feeling their heft and their hard tips. Your pushing back against me, using the armrest to give us more leverage. A stop for an instant as a flight attendant walks by, giving us a knowing look. A return to our fuck with the sure and constant knowledge that when we do come, neither one of us is going to be able to keep from screaming...and not caring one bit.

Tick...

The sun beats down on my shoulders as I beat down on you. You're pinned and helpless beneath me, both of us lying on a sun pad atop the deck of our boat. Both of us are soaked, glistening with sun oil and the sweat of our exertions. It makes a wonderful lubricant as I slide back and forth atop you, in you, the waves helping me rock deeper and deeper with each thrust. Your nails digging into my back and your gasping moans are practically begging me to pound you, ravage you, leave you spent and exhausted and broken. Then you make it much plainer by spitting and snarling at me, describing in graphic terms how it's your deepest desire to be unable to walk when I'm through with you. And so I lift and spread you even further, throwing your legs up over my shoulders as I hammer into you, slamming, ramming, pleasure mounting to near-agony for us both, till finally my burning balls empty themselves in a firehose blast into your clutching cunt. 

Tick...

The city spreads itself before us, a night-glittering feast all the more appetizing because of its unapproachability. Neon streaks and spangles our vision. From this 30th-floor balcony, the wind only brings us hints of the activity below: faint taxicab horns, the bass thump of cruisers on the Strip, the rush of traffic still unabated even at 2 AM. Rocking slowly and steadily inside you, I nuzzle your neck, nipping gently at your flesh, taking tiny bites, tasting the salt of your sweat. I feel you shudder against me and your pussy clenches. You bend forward a bit further, your tits spilling out of the cocktail dress that I've got hiked up above your waist, and whisper my name. I echo yours in sighing pleasure, and my hands on your ass pull you against me, my cock sliding a bit deeper this time. The wind sighs its approval as well. We make our love there on the balcony, not caring who can see, lost in the night, lost in each other.

I awoke to an empty bed and a hard cock, disappointed for a second, but grateful to have shared such lovely scenarios with you. Were they dreams, or were they reality? You decide.

-- PB

You don't want biographical info. I know what you REALLY want.

I know what you want.

Oh yes, I know it quite well. I want it too, you see. I'm just deciding how best to give it to you.

Should I bend you over the nearest chair, yank up your skirt and take you hard, roughly, using you for my own pleasure, ramming you without mercy until I blast into your soaking wet depths?

Or should I greet you when you come home from work by shutting the door behind you and dropping to my knees in front of you, to get your underwear off and devour your pussy like a starving wolf? Your hands twining in my hair while you collapse against the door for support? Licking you hard and fast until you come so hard your head spins?

Perhaps I should wait till you're cooking dinner and then begin a campaign of wordless seduction: gentle kisses on the back of your neck, my hands sliding slowly down your sides to your hips to pull you close against me, then slipping around front to cup your breasts and rub your nipples into hardness. Continuing my slow, deliberate assault on your body with more caresses and kisses, slipping a finger inside your shorts and underwear to slide it into your slippery slit. Pulling the shorts and underwear down so slowly, then lifting you onto the counter and dropping my jeans to slide my hard cock into you for a slow and grinding fuck.

Maybe I'll put some porn on the TV, then lie there on the couch, nude, stroking myself, until you get home and see the nice hard surprise I've got here for you. What will you do with it, do you think? Will you be wet enough from the naughty messages I've been sending you all day so that all you have to do is swiftly drop your clothing to the floor and mount me, reverse cowgirl style so we can both watch what's happening on the TV? Or will you come over and play with your new lollipop for a while, fingering yourself, until I can't take your teasing and throw you on the floor for some quick and dirty banging?

The possibilities are just endless. But one way or the other, you're going to get what you want tonight. And so am I.

-- PB