Friday, October 28, 2005

Car Song

I was thinking of writing this earlier this week, and then I read AlwaysAroused’s blog this morning, and it kind of pushed more of an impetus within me to finally write a little bit more.

The first time I ever made out with a girl was inside a car, about a half hour from Pittsburgh, in a small town called either Industry or Ambridge or Rochester, depending on what mile marker you are on. We were parked behind a former Zayre’s, which was a department store ala Target in the 1970s, but the store had long been closed and reopened in the late 1980s as a Gabriel Brothers closeout store. The last time I drove past it, there was no store there. The point is, at one point, this road was littered with malls and mills and so much traffic, and now, it was a ghost town. The mills had grown as cold as the evening, a mid-March rainy late night, with storm warnings on the radio that we kept on, because we were convinced that a tornado could rip through at any moment.

The entire car was shaking, more from the wind than from us. There were no lights anywhere, save for the blue tones on the dashboard of my parent’s car. We both sat up front, tentative, trembling, not sure where to go or what to do.

Our lips charged and met at one another. I remember the first time I kissed her that this what was I fantasized about my entire teenage years, and I used every waking moment of thought about it to try my best to belie my lack of experience. My lips slid from hers to her throat, across her neck, behind her ear, her breath coming in soft, warm gasps in my ear, ragged, incomplete. I could tell by her pulse that she was enjoying this at least as much as I was as our lips would once again meet; her tongue invading my mouth, bringing with it a sweet flavor that I’ve never encountered before or since, my tongue brushing against hers. Both eyes closed, hand on her cheek and neck, for what seemed like hours, just kissing being enough…and now, knowing that it could never be enough, in these days, but then, it was.

Hands roaming almost everywhere they could, both of us, finally allowed to indulge ourselves, finally alone for once, after months, just the two of us. Away from class, away from parents, from friends, alone in a storm tossed Grand Prix in the middle of somewhere, the radio playing a hockey game as my fingertips touched the smooth skin of a young girl’s belly for the very first time. And again, that’s never enough, especially when your lips feel like they are on fire and your skin is hot to the touch and so is hers and the windows have fogged over more than once.

The first touch of a black satin bra is something to be celebrated. To be remembered. Even now. Seeing a girl life her sweater above her head, exposing flesh pale from the winter, feeling that audible moment when a bra falls away, actually seeing what you’ve wanted to see all those years.

My hands were rough from painting and working and sculpting, but the flesh of her nipples felt softer than anything I could imagine. Her eyes were closed, rolled back, maybe, even. I studied her face, her dark raccoon eyelids fluttering and her chest going up and down as I marveled at her small breasts with thick, round areolas. I had never seen breasts like this before. All I knew was what I saw in movies, in magazines, not a normal girl’s breast that came alive to your touch, that responded to your fingers with growing hardness, that filled your lips as you opened your mouth and took them in, licking small circles around them. Obsessively, my mouth, between her breasts, alternating between them, driven mad by them.

Her hand rubbed my chest, pushing up through my shirt to feel my bare chest, rubbing slowly, slowly, deliriously slowly lower toward my body. Involuntarily, or voluntarily, my hips shook and jumped, trying in my boy way to get my lower body closer to touch. I’m not good at waiting…and what boy is? We give in always so slavishly to our own touch at a minute’s notice, ruining slowness and taking one’s time, until one day we are forced to learn it.

I was embarrassed at first, as we kissed, as I thrusted myself near , I kept trying to keep my growing erection away from her. I wanted her touch, but still, didn’t want her to think that was all I wanted. This being our first time.

“I love to torture you,” she said, as she stared at the bulge in my jeans. Her eyes were on me. Again, a dream, as I had never had anyone do that before.
Her thin fingers tentatively drew a line across the outline of my hardness through the denim, forcing a loud noise from me and a shaking of my body. Never touched, but wanting. My hands pawed with more intensity at her breasts and we continued kissing, her rubbing my stomach and then lower, the side and palm of her hand across my erection.

It was torture. Slow, painful, blissful torture, the longest and most built-up orgasm of my life. I wanted to touch her the same way, but she wasn’t ready. And I respected that. She just wanted to make me feel good, and I did, and when I came, it was still inside those jeans, covering the entire front. The whole time, I looked out, ahead, watching traffic lights buffeted by high winds, their lighst casting trails into the never ending night.

There were only a few more times we were so fortunate to be together like this. The one other time that I remember more, she asked me if she could torture me again. I love that still, that someone thinks of me in that way. That someone wants me in that way, and I miss it sometimes.

This time, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, and even though she worried and, well, I worried because neither of us wanted to go too far, I unzipped my jeans and she rubbed and tortured me, her words the latter again, through my boxers. It was then I learned that not even that would be enough. I was mad in my desire to touch her, and slowly rubbed her inner thighs as we kissed until she slid her legs apart and rested her feet above the dashboard, opening her jean covered thighs to me as I rubbed between her legs, smelling a woman for the first time as her sex rose from its denim prison. I was so close to orgasming, just from touching her. Her hand pulled back from my cock, and I opened the fly of my boxers. The moment my hand pulled myself free, I came all over the front of the car, her hand, mine, her legs, my legs, possibly everywhere that I could. Uncontrollable.

Even now, fifteen years later, I wish that we had gone further.

All it takes to get me going is remembering her hair. Or eyes. Or her long, but endearing nose. Wondering what it would have been like to feel my fingers slide inside of her. Or to feel her head in my lap.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

A dream, interpreted.

She had me on my hands and knees, nude on display. I could feel the cold in the room through my bare skin, waiting for what she had in store. My cock was hard, but I could barely feel it through the velvet ropes encircling it, wrapped around my scotum, sending pain through me each time my cock lept from its erectness. My eyes were blindfolded and my hands behind my back as the light invaded my eyes, making it hard to adjust.

As things cleared, I could see a line of people, some one at a time, some two. She held me head back, hard, by the hair, and told me that no matter what, I was her gift, her toy to all of these people. Some were masked, some weren't, some costumed.

My hands struggled as a mid-40s woman pushed my head to the floor and mounted my face, laughing as she lowered her thick, round thighs onto my face. All I could smell was her wetness and her weight on me, and hear her booming laughter, so amused, and I thought, all opportunity to choose someone attractive to me has been removed, and that in itself was attractive, and caused my cock to grow harder and more painful still.

She walked away as a younger woman, thinner, short red hair, paler in complexion, backed her thin, bony ass into my face and demanded that I worship her asshole.

Another thicker blonde untied my cock for her slave. The girl, barely 19, was so thin and small looking that normally, I wouldn't be attracted by her, but because we were being forced to touch one another, I could barely contain my lust for her. My mistress saw the look in my eyes and laughed. She pushed the girl away and forced her to watch while I worshipped my mistress's pussy and ass, slapping the young girl in the face as she used my mouth like a cock.

Sudden;y, she stood and grabbed the girl, seized her around the throat, and pushed her head above my restrained cock. "You want this, don't you, whore?" I think she was asking both of us. Slowly, ribbon by ribbon, my hardness was exposed to the air, as my gaze cast around the room, I saw numerous people in various stages of touching themselves and others.

Finally, slowly, tentatively, my cock was open and her mistress was demaning that she open her mouth. Her eyes caught mine and I could see the same want. "Don't take his dirty cock in your mouth, slut. I know youwant to, no?" As she nodden, her forehead rubbed against my shaft and I convolused. We were both slapped and scolded, but this action caused more stirring and finally, her mouth was open. She was permitted to let a large amount of spit cascade from her lips, touching me like no touch before, warm and thick and wet...and then, I was rudely turned upside down.

My legs above my head as I lay on my back, my mistress demanded that the girl clean my asshole for her. I wanted to feel her hands on me, but I knew better. My cock was so close now, a foot or so from my face as I was shoved into this strenuous position. I felt the two mistresses hands on me as that young tongue entertained my ass. Suddenly, I could feel it filled with wet, lubed fingers as I neared orgasm. My mistress just laughed at me again, telling me that if I wanted to come, I had to come in my own face. I couldn't control myself and did, covering my hair and face in thick spurts, nearly passing out as the young sub was forced to clean me.

Monday, October 10, 2005

White thighs

She lived above an alley, covered with bricks, that went out into the abandoned steel town streets. Cold December night, moon as full and as close to Earth as it gets. Black dress, black hose, black combat boots, black hat, black mascara smeared as her protests easily transformed into pleas and moans and declarations. Our only contact my hand on her sensative thigh, slowly rubbing it, one leg up and balancing. The other around my waist, our sexes meeting between denim and sheer material, incessant need. It was late, too late, and it was a memory that I knew would be a memory while it was happening. I could taste her lipstick the whole way home.


In my misspent youth, well, mid-20s, I discovered phone dating lines. Especially the chat ones. And living alone and being somewhat shy and introverted, these were the perfect place to meet girls to talk to. And more to the point, talk dirty to, which I didn’t realize could happen for mostly free (I say this because you had to pay to get into the service).

One of the first times that it happened, I was talking to someone I had been speaking to pretty often and the conversation turned to sex. I was erect the entire call, already, just from hearing her voice and knowing that she was really tall, black hair, bass player for a local band. We eventually were talking about what we liked, and I pretty much told her a variation of this entry that I wrote a few years ago:

“I wish I could stop time, right at the moment when a lover take my cock in her hand and her mouth is open and lunging for it. That's the most erotic and amazing thing I can imagine, when someone gives themselves over to the moment completely and their only motivation in life isn't taxes or work or stress, but in putting your flesh in their mouth or their tongue on your flesh and making you explode.

That split second of time standing still, when the air still hits your nakedness, then to be replaced by the wet, warm feeling of lips wrapping themselves around you.”

Somewhere inside that, I heard a buzzing, and her muffled voice say, “Please tell me that again.”

The next thing I knew, she was moaning into my ear and my wrist and stomach were coated with cum.

So this is how I began my quest to find girls to talk to in the middle of the night. To recreate the thrill of that experience. Alone in the dark, phone up to my ear, stroking myself the whole time, waiting for someone to answer my ad on a chat line, then talking to them.

It pushed me to be a lot more assertive than I was. To almost become dominant if I wanted to hear the confessions that I wanted to hear. To demand that they say the things that I wanted to hear. To allow them to live out fantasies that they could never say in the light of day. To make people who I wouldn't even recognize face to face reveal to me that they wanted to stick their tongue inside of ther best friend.

It was 3:30 AM or worse, our libidos were out of control on hot June nights, alone in our first apartments.

I miss those days.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

It just is.

Being polite is a punishment.

Trying to do the right thing inevitably makes everyone think you only do wrong.

Being innocent of the games of power only makes you naïve.

Trying to help people only leads you to feel weak.

So why keep doing it? Why bang your head against the rock that is sliding downwards in your ascent?

Because you’re a fool. You don’t know any other way to live your life and you’re too dumb to change.

I feel like lashing out at the world somedays. I feel like a fool for writing, sometimes. I feel like if I finally did stand up for myself, like everyone yells at me to do, no one could stand me.

Someone told me when I was younger that it would all get easier. And they lied.

Now, I'm forced to wear a mask and be someone I'm not.

I'm not sure about that.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Random fantasies

All pulled from my old LJ blog. Hopefully, someone enjoys them, or they can spark something.

Bent over the bed, ass in air, covered in the finest silk panties, black, of course, thigh highs, garter belts, long straps running down her legs, tracing the mucles across the back of her thighs. I was stripped nude, as she asked, she in power, clothed a bit more than me. A frilly black bra covered all of her sex from my eyes. She asked me to come close and kneel behind her.

This was for all the boys in the world that only wanted and never received. I'd be karmically paying women back with this, almost a ritual. She told me to lick her through the thin fabric as she grinded her ass into my face.

I could smell her through the garment, and I was already electric with desire. My hand dropped to my nude sex and she saw, between her thighs, and told me that this wasn't for me, or about me. I did as I was commanded, her forcing me to use the straps of her garters as something to hold me back. I had to keep my hands against her skin, the fabric of them holding my hands away from where they wanted to be, stroking myself.

Her wetness and my saliva made the fabric almost invisble, as I felt her mound press against my chin, almost knocking me back, challenging me. Her legs spread, defiantly, as she raised her rear up and down my face, using me like one would a sex toy, just to get off, to get her fix, leaving me there, hard and horny as she made me, and my gender, pay for their lack of attention, for focusing on themselves.

As my tongue entered her ass, our debt was paid.

Her nude legs spread as she sits on the toilet, pushing my lips against her wetness. Her bending over the seat, offering herself completely open to me. Her holding my cock as I urinate between her legs into the bowl, or standing behind me, pretending its her cock. Her pushing me face first to the floor, pulling my cock between my legs, roughly behind me, licking my ass to the head of my cock as it pokes between my cheeks. Shoving the wood end of the plunger into my ass, making me beg for her rough humiliation.

Her, bent over a chair, spreading her lips and cheeks for me, my tongue up and down her seams, fingers inside her, tongue circling her bud, smelling her sex in my face, slowly working my way to entering my tongue into her asshole, my cock coming alive and hard in my grip, entering her as I push my tongue so deep, tasting her, stroking furiously as I explode all over her legs and feet.

Lying in a tub as she straddles me, lowering her sex to my face to taste, stroking myself as she commands and watches, her fingers inside herself until she lets a hot stream go against my hard cock, covering it as I cum into her spray.

Both of us masturbating across the room from one another, each of us telling each other what to do, her hand showing me just how fast I should go, begging me for more, to squeeze my balls, to spread my legs, to lick my own precum. Wanting to put on a show for her. Her demanding I slide a finger into my own ass and fuck myself for her, two fingers, stroke in time with their invasion of my asshole for her pleasure and cum for her.

I wish I could stop time, right at the moment when a lover take my cock in her hand and her mouth is open and lunging for it. That's the most erotic and amazing thing I can imagine, when someone gives themselves over to the moment completely and their only motivation in life isn't taxes or work or stress, but in putting your flesh in their mouth or their tongue on your flesh and making you explode.

That split second of time standing still, when the air still hits your nakedness, then to be replaced by the wet, warm feeling of lips wrapping themselves around you.

Those are all out of order of date and time. Just sketches, not full ideas. I just had no intention of changing them, just wanted to get them up and out and alive again.
Sometimes, people bring out the best in me. Or the worst.

She IMs me out of the blue, every once in awhile. I don’t even know her name. Or where she comes from. I don’t know anything about her, other than her screen name and that she’s in college.

And every time she speaks to me, she begs me to fuck her, in those words, like I did the last time. So I dredge up all the evil thoughts I have and try my best.

I’ll try and save some of my stream of consciousness need to get someone off words next time.