When Worlds Collide

Jack sat in the tapestry and leather covered arm chair across from my desk talking about upcoming weekend plans, his eyes saying much more than his words. He was comfortable, leaning back, the crotch of his worn denim jeans clearly visible. He had my full attention, which quite frankly is a rarity in the office due to the number of projects we handle. I was in the middle of a deep, throaty laugh in response to his long, drawn-out tale when who should come around the corner, none other than Nathan.  Continue reading

The Gentle Dominatrix

He didn’t know what to expect when they agreed to meet. In fact, she had surprised herself when she suggested it. He needed handling, to be put in a position where he wasn’t in control, but was still safe. She could offer this.

On the elevator ride up she examined her reflection in the mirrored doors. The long, black jersey skirt she wore was elegant and moved with her like a second skin. Underneath the sheer, long sleeved sliver top was a sleek black camisole. No one would suspect the reason for her visit by the way she had dressed. She knocked on the door to the hotel room, finding humor in the polished brass numbers before her. Room 469. If the concierge only knew. He opened the door quickly and she stepped inside the luxury suit. In a matter of moments they sized each other up and went for a real hug. No awkward dance, just a warm embrace.

“Hello,” he said, his arms still wrapped around her waist.

His voice was just as warm and mellow in person as it had been over the phone. A shiver of anticipation went up her spine. The plan she had carefully crafted, the one he knew nothing about, was going to be even better than she had imagined.

“Hullo,” she replied, her own voice deeper than usual. Lust did that to her. And she  wanted him.

Their lips met for the first time. The mingling shot darts of fire through her body. Patience, she told herself, patience. To rush things wouldn’t do.

“I’m going to take off your clothes now,” she said to him, a calm authority in her tone.

He nodded and held his arms out so she could easily unbutton his blue button-front shirt. Her petite hands began at the top and slowly, painstakingly worked their way down. She could feel his skin warming, his heart rate increasing. Once his shirt had fallen to the floor she backed away.

“Now, please remove your pants.”

He did as she requested.

“Underwear and socks too, please.”

Those went the way of the shirt and pants. Now he stood in the low light of the cream and burgundy hued suite, completely naked. She looked him up and down, smiling slightly before spanning the distance between them. Holding his face between her hands, she kissed him tenderly on the lips. Then she kissed his eyelids closed.

“Keep them shut,” she whispered in his ear.

With a feather light touch she began touching his naked body, walking around him, her hands never leaving, working her way up and down, touched every inch of him except for the eight very erect inches that most wanted to feel her velvet hands. At last she spoke again.

“You can open your eyes now.”

He did, and was surprised to discover that, while his concentration had been focused on the sensation of her fingertips on his skin, she had quietly removed her sheer top and camisole. She stood before him now in the long black skirt and a black and lavender bra with corset and lace detailing.

“Come to bed,” she beckoned with a smile.

He stretched out on the king size mattress fitted with oversized pillows and luxurious sheets. It was then that he noticed she had brought a medium-sized bag with her and was pulling something out of it. The object she placed in his hands wasn’t what he expected. Not at all. She flipped it open to a predetermined spot.

“Read to me,” she said.

And read he did, her favorite story of a pirate and his lady pouring forth from his lips. She nestled against him, her ear on his chest feeling the sound of his deep melodious voice reverberating through her skull, literally absorbing the pitch and timbre with her body. It was then that her hand at last went to his cock and delicately began stroking.

Three pages in, she shifted. And in a quick, graceful movement was between his legs. She pulled his erection toward her and put the head of his cock in her open, wet mouth. He faltered on the words and she immediately pulled away. Their eyes met and he understood.

When he picked up where he had left off, so did she. And every time the magic of her hands, mouth and tongue overcame him, halting his reading, so did she. It was a special kind of torture. He wanted her mouth desperately. But to keep her mouth where he desired, he had to keep reading. And that kept him from fully focusing on the sucks, licks and laps that she liberally gave his aching member. The beautiful agony lasted for almost an hour before she pulled away while he still read. Her lips were red and swollen from the attention she had lavished.

“You’ve done well,” she said.

He didn’t expect those simple words of praise to fulfill him like they did. But with her sincere compliment came a rush of testosterone that engorged his already throbbing cock to the point of almost explosion. She saw the shift and was pleased.

“I’m going to let you ravage me now,” she said.

And with a mighty roar, the conqueror in him was free at last. And he did.

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I wrote this little fantasy after Jack told me about a woman he used to work with who was a dominatrix. Men would fly in from all over the country for a weekend with her in her dungeon. That got me to thinking. I know I’d never be the chains and whips sort. But what about a kinder, gentler torture? Would men fly in from around the country for that? For me? I don’t know. But the thoughts stirred me and prompted what you just read. 

I’m Like a Bird

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think. And tonight I’m thinking. Nothing is particularly wrong in my life at the moment, which I am thankful for. But there is always that little something that keeps me from being settled. I’m not sure the little something even has a name.

But there is a song that has a lyric that describes the essence of the something. “I’m like a bird. I’ll always fly away. I don’t know where my home is. I don’t know where my soul is. I’m like a bird. I’ll always fly away.”

That song came on while my godson was in the car with me. With all the wisdom of a precocious nine-year-old he asked, “What does she mean? How can anyone be like a bird?”

I thought about and said, “Well, I think she’s saying that she doesn’t stay in relationships with people for a long time. That she gets close and then pulls away. Kind of like a bird. You can ease up on them and then they fly off.”

“Oh, I get it now,” he said, the matter fully resolved in his head.

But it’s not resolved in mine. I don’t know why I take flight. I need a name for the something.

What Multiple Orgasms Feel Like

“How many times did you come there at the last?” Jack asked as I nestled in his arms.

“Five,” I said, enjoying the feel of his finger tips outlining my breasts.

“So is it like one long big one, or are they really separate?”

I thought about his question. And pondered how to describe the almost indescribable pleasure he had just given me.

“Imagine coming,” I said, “and then taking a breath. And another breath. And then imagine coming again. But this time even harder. Take two more breaths and then come again. Harder. Imagine that cycle repeating over and over and being unable to stop it.”

“Wow,” he said softly.

Wow was an understatement, I thought to myself. If he hadn’t joined me at last and orgasmed with a roar of his own, I don’t know how long I would have panted and spasmed and squirted. I do know that, for me at least, in order to let go like that, to be comfortable enough to let the tight grip I keep on the reins of control loosen enough for that to happen, it’s a rare and wonderful experience.

Sex Standing Up. In a Doorway.

It was the weekend again. Nathan had just finished tucking in his shirt and fastening his belt while the mid-morning sunshine filtered through the eastern-facing glass block window in my bathroom. Still in my lace-trimmed black nighty, I was knee-deep in my rat’s nest of a closet, digging for my Saturday jeans. In the process I unearthed the bra I planned to wear for the day. I straightened and had just slipped the straps of my nightgown over my shoulders so I could don said bra when I heard Nathan mumble something I didn’t quite make out.

“What darling?” I asked, stepping to the edge of the closet, bra in hand, nighty resting on my hips.

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