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Category Archives: My Life As Fiction

We step through the door to my apartment. Or rather, she steps–I get pushed.

I stumble forward, but catch myself and turn to face her. She is already pulling her shirt off. She wears no bra, her small breasts tipped by perky, chocolate brown nipples, already hardening. She has no visible tan lines, until she pushes her jeans down around her hips–the outline of a bikini bottom stands out starkly against her otherwise dark skin.

I don’t wait any longer. I step forward and wrap my arms around her, growling in the back of my throat as I kiss her. She purrs appreciatively, and I feel her dancing, trying to wiggle her jeans past her knees. She is unsuccessful. I kick my shoes off and lift my foot, hook her waistband with my toe, and push it down toward her ankles. She steps out.

She pulls her head back. “Thanks.” Very casual.

I shrug. “No problem.” Also casual.

Then I lift her by the waist, my hands on her bare ass, and carry her to my couch. She purrs again and kisses me fiercely, her tongue driving past my lips. I growl again, and bite at her tongue and lower lip. I have to watch my step out of the corner of my eye, but we make it to my couch. I turn and sit, forcing her into a sitting position in my lap.

She leans back and wraps her arms around my neck. “How much time to we have?”

“A little over an hour,” I answer. “She won’t be home until probably 10:30, and she’ll call on her way, but we should play it safe.”

She nods and leans forward, pressing her lips to mine again. She whispers against me, “I’ve never fucked a married guy before.”

I turn my face slightly, kissing at her jaw. “It’s just like fucking a single guy, just without the bullshit baggage.” I bite down on her sternomastoid, hard enough I feel the muscle pop a little under my canine. She jumps and yelps, then moans. She grinds her pelvis against me, and I suspect she’s soaked my shorts, but I don’t fucking care.

She does, though. “Why are you still wearing pants?” she asks, loudly and with a touch of annoyance.

“Because you haven’t taken them off yet,” I answer into her collar. I bite at the bone, at the tattoo there, then kiss it by way of apology.

“I can fix that,” she says simply. Without warning, she falls back, her bare chest sliding quickly down my shirt. Skilled fingers unzip and open my fly. I lift my hips, and she pulls the waistline down, freeing me. I hear her growl as she dips her head, wrapping her lips around the tip of my cock. She runs her hands up my stomach and chest, using only her mouth to lift me up. I tense my pelvic muscles, forcing my member to attention and helping her position her head, and she drops down, taking me fully into her mouth. The head of my cock practically slams into the back of her throat. She coughs a little, and pulls her head back again. She bobs quickly, rotating her chin to the left and right with each stroke.

I groan as I lean back into my couch. I take in the sensation of a skilled mouth working my shaft. I watch her movements, studying her figure for the second time. I trace her tattoos with my eyes. The reds and yellows stand out against her dark skin.

Without warning, my mind begins to wander. I shiver, and take a deep breath.

“Oh shit,” I mutter, forcing a tone of concern.

She pauses and looks up at me. “What?”

“I just realized, I forgot to send a really important document to a colleague today,” I say, glancing to my computer. “Shit, shit, shit. I have to do that right now.”

“Right now?” she asks plaintively.

“Fuck… Yeah, right now,” I answer. I look back at her. She looks terribly confused, and I catch on to why. “Oh no, I don’t want you to leave or anything. I just need about five minutes to send this. It’s really, really important.”

She is visibly relieved. “Okay, good.” She plants a kiss on the tip of my dick, then leans back and stands, stretching lithely, forcing her hips forward. Her pussy is eye-level with me, covered by a well groomed mound of dark hair. Her lips are parted invitingly, and clearly wet. I barely refrain from groaning.

“Thanks for understanding, it’ll be quick,” I say reassuringly, and stand beside her. I kick off my shorts and boxers, and pull my shirt off as I walk to my computer. I sit nude at my home office, and smirk at her. “However. You should absolutely not stop what you were doing.”

“Oh, you think so?” she answers, clearly feigning offense. I just smirk and lean back in my chair. I spread my legs and grasp my cock, giving it a few light strokes as I open my browser. I hear her step toward me, and in my periphery I can see her drop to her knees and move beneath my desk. I remove my hand, and she quickly replaces it with her own. I look at my monitor, paying as much attention as I can spare, but her mouth quickly envelopes me, and the back of her throat presses against me. I gasp.

I open WordPress, and begin to type:

For some reason, whilst receiving a blowjob, I thought of you.

I don’t really have a type. I just like women, and certain men. However, I confess a greater than average appreciation for body modification, particularly tattoos, and anyone who dresses in what can be considered an “alternative” or punk style. I myself tend to favor simple shorts and t-shirts because I don’t think the look favors me, but man, do I love a woman in torn jeans and leather jackets, especially when their tattoos peek over their collar and through the holes in their stockings.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway. This occurred extremely recently. Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————————–

I am no stranger to pain. I have been injured more times than I can count, from fighting, from falling, from fucking. It’s not a difficult thing to cope with pain. You just have to accept that something hurts and move forward.

I tell myself this as the needle moves through my flesh.

Anyone who says getting tattooed doesn’t hurt is either a liar, or a braggart.

“How are you doing?” the artist asks me. She is hunched forward over my arm, tracing the stencil she placed on my arm over four hours ago. That’s a long time to sit still and let another human being carve in your flesh.

“Not bad,” I answer casually. “You know, considering you’ve stabbed me about three hundred and sixty thousand times.”

She smiles and laughs, both slightly delayed as she focuses on her work. “That many?”

“Quick math,” I answer. “Fifteen hundred revolutions per minute, times sixty minutes in an hour, times four hours. Three hundred and sixty thousand stabs.”

“That’s what you get when you go with a sleeve,” she says matter-of-factly.

“The first three hours were a breeze,” I respond, perhaps more defensively than I intended. “I just need to get my second wind is all.”

She pauses to wipe ink and blood from my arm. “Almost done with the outline. Just need to go over the elbow. You ready for this?”

I shrug. “How bad can it be?”

She smirks and pats my chest. “That’s the spirit. Move closer.” I shift on the bed, and she applies vaseline to the stencil. She bends forward. I hear the tattoo gun buzz like an angry hornet. She pushes it against my elbow.

Wooooooooooooooooow that fucking hurts.

I can’t help but breathe in sharply through my teeth. Not for long, but loudly enough it’s noticeable. She laughs again and says, “Yeah, you fucking love it, don’t you bitch!”

I struggle not to move as I laugh with her, not wanting to disturb the canvas that is my tender funny bone. “Fuck yes. Bring it on mistress.”

She keeps cutting through my elbow. “Yeah, fucking take it,” she says through clenched teeth, her voice dusky, almost whispering.

Something about her tone of voice, the aggression, the word choice, makes something in me stir. I glance down at her. I have admired her tattoos since I first met her, and I find myself admiring them again. Not only for their form, but for how they accentuate the curves of her body. Her well defined triceps stand out a bit more against the bright reds and yellows, contrasting with her deep tan. The slope of her shoulder going into her neck. The curve of her cleavage below her tank top. Fortunately, she is too absorbed in her work to notice my attention, so I simply don’t bother to restrain it. I study her face, her body, her movements, and it helps take my focus from my elbow.

Unfortunately, it’s also really turning me on. I feel myself harden uncomfortably against my zipper, and I deeply regret choosing not to wear boxers today, both for the discomfort, and how obvious it is without the extra layer. I silently pray she won’t notice.

The gun turns off, and she wipes at my elbow. “There we go.”

She is quiet for a moment, then she unsuccessfully stifles a laugh. “Well. Hello sailor.”

Shit.

I try to play it off. “Heh… yeah, sorry. Guess I couldn’t help myself. The whole thing just gets to me.”

“I don’t think that’s how nerves are supposed to be connected,” she says teasingly.

“Hey, you never know what works for some people,” I respond, playfully terse. I grin at her, and she returns the smile. Her eyes are a deep brown, and they sparkle in the ample lighting of the parlor.

An hour and a half later, and a third of my tattoo is colored in. She bandages and wraps my arm, and I rebook a month in advance to have the work finished. We stand in front of her shop, sharing a cigarette.

“Thanks again for fitting me in today,” I say as I exhale a cloud of smoke. “It’s gonna look great when it’s finished.” I pass her the cigarette.

“My pleasure,” she answers, and takes a deep pull. “Maybe next time you’ll control yourself a bit more.” It’s an admonishment, but I hear the teasing tone, and she grins playfully.

“Maybe,” I say noncomittally. “Maybe not. We’ll just have to see.”

She smiles. “I hope we will.” She winks at me and flicks the cigarette into the street. “Gotta get back to it. See ya later.” She turns to the door.

“Hey,” I call after her. She turns her head toward me. “Mind if I give you a call sometime?”

She smirks again. “You’ve got my card.” And she goes inside, closing the door behind her.

I blink in confusion and check my pockets. Sure enough, in my back left pocket is a business card with her name and business number on it. Scrawled across the bottom is her cell phone number. I don’t remember putting it there.

I deposit it safely in my wallet. The movement sends a twinge of pain through my elbow, but the pain is less pronounced. Almost promising. I smile, and walk toward my car.

I said I would eventually finish this memory. It’s a hard one to tell, because I was so absorbed in the moment that there are many gaps in my memories of it. And the things I felt at that time were so strong, and so unfamiliar to me, that they’re difficult to express.

I think this is the moment I truly fell for Tina.

——————————————————————————————————————

I strip my shirt in one fluid motion as I stand, and toss the now soaked garment aside. I lean against Tina and kiss her deeply. She sighs softly against my lips, the sound calm and relaxed, but she grasps at my belt eagerly, almost desperately. I would help her, but I am too fixated on pulling her dress up. She manages to unclasp the belt and jeans just as I slide the hem of her dress up to her arms. She releases me long enough for me to pull the garment over her head and off of her, then her fingers slip into my unzipped front. Cold fingers grasp my cock, and she pulls me toward her, guiding the head, rubbing it along her wetness, eliciting a whimper from her and a gasp from me. I push my jeans past my hips, let them fall to the floor, as I lean harder against her. I glide into her as smoothly as I have ever felt, with no resistance whatsoever, and am immediately amazed by her readiness despite the incredible tightness of her. The height of my desk is seemingly designed explicitly to allow her to sit at the edge while I stand, and I touch my forehead and nose to hers as I rock my hips gently, mindful of her comfort.

I am suddenly aware that she’s holding her breath, and her eyes are closed tight. I pause and stroke her cheek with my thumb. “Hey… are you okay?”

She blinks and looks at me. She releases her breath. “Yeah… it’s just been so long since I had a guy in me.”

“Am I hurting you?”

She shakes her head. “Oh fuck no. Nooooo no no.” She smiles shakily. “The desk is a little uncomfortable on my ass but I don’t care.” She wraps her arms and legs around me, pulling my torso to hers and driving me more deeply into her. We gasp simultaneously, and she kisses my jaw. “Please fuck me harder.”

That’s all I need to hear.

I grasp her hips and hold her steady, and drive myself against her with an audible slap. She jumps and cries out, loudly enough that the conscientious part of me is happy the department is deserted for the holiday, but mostly my libido screams in approval. I fuck her hard, with no further regard to comfort or positioning, and every thrust produces another moan or gasp or shout from my lover. She clutches at me, grabbing my shoulders, squeezing my upper arms, pulling my hips, digging her fingers into my back, in a manner that I have never experienced. It is arousing, certainly, and passionate, but there is more to it. It feels so… engaged. As though this isn’t just about fucking me, but about connecting with me, about being with me and around me and near me. As though there is absolutely nothing in the world she wants or needs more than me. And in that moment, there is nothing I want and need more than her. I lose track of everything–our location, the time, the entire world–and am completely absorbed in making love to her, experiencing her. I don’t know how many times she cums. I don’t know how many times I kiss her, or how many times we laugh drunkenly despite ourselves. But when my orgasm hits me, filling her and releasing me, it is quite literally the most incredible sensation I have ever felt.

Our foreheads are pressed together again, and we are breathing heavily. Sweat drips down our bodies, pooling on my desk. I am still hard, buried completely in her. I kiss her again, and we hold each other desperately. I don’t want to let her go. Ever.

Then I notice my clock and burst out laughing. “Holy shit. We just fucked for three straight hours on my desk.”

She turns her head to the clock, then giggles. She presses her cheek to my chest. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I’ve wanted to do exactly this for over a year now, so it makes sense.” She looks up at me and kisses me again. I see tears in her eyes.

“Are you okay, my darling?” I kiss her eyes, taste the saltiness.

She nods and wipes her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine…” Her voice is shaky, and she wipes again. “I just… can’t believe this is real. That you’re real.”

I nod and kiss her cheek, and her jaw. “I’m real. I’m yours.”

“As much as you can be,” she says, finishing what I had left unspoken. She holds me tighter. “I’m okay with that. As long as I have you in some capacity, I’m okay with it.”

I hold her just as tightly. I can’t describe what I feel in that moment. But I am certain that I never want to let her go.

If you’ve been reading this memory series in its entirety, you might think this was a very short encounter. Let me assure you, it wasn’t. But words can’t adequately relay the passage of time. Oh sure, I could say, “And we did that for about 20 minutes,” but where’s the joy in writing something like that?  (Though Hank is definitely a short-game lover.)

All things considered, from the moment Kelly gave me the toy to the time Hank left the room, it was about an hour and a half of non-stop shenanigans. There were more positions and activities than I describe here, and Kelly and I continued alone for several hours thereafter. But that’s not the point of the story, and it’s not what I took away from the experience. It was the first threesome I really remember having (the second in reality, but I don’t recall many details of the first), and that’s what I want the writing to stress. So I am cutting off the story early because the rest was just more of the same. Exciting at the time, and in memory, but not necessarily fun to write.

And now, the thrilling conclusion. (Thrilling might be a strong word, but if you say it in that 30s pulp radio tone, it’s catchy.)

—————————————————————————————————————-

The tone of Kelly’s voice, equal parts demanding and beseeching, sends a shiver up my spine. But I maintain my composure as best I can. I approach the bed, and as I do, she shifts her body, rotating on her lower back, her legs locked around Hank’s waist to force him to move with her without removing himself from her. He doesn’t make the shuffle easy, as he insists on continuing to thrust into her, but she gradually completes the movement. Her head hangs over the edge of the bed, and she tilts it back, exposing her throat and smiling at me, upside-down.

I step forward, still lightly stroking myself, and Kelly grasps my hips and guides me where she wants me to stand. I can’t see her face through my hand and shaft, save for her chin, but I feel the warmth of her tongue and breath on my sack. I can’t suppress the gasp. This isn’t something she normally does, and I wholeheartedly approve. The slightly rough, wet sensation glides across my flesh only for a moment before Kelly reaches up, moves my hand aside, and grasps me by the base of my shaft. She pushes my hips back and guides me down, into her open, inviting mouth. We groan simultaneously, me because she has a truly gifted tongue, and her because she enjoys fellatio as much as sex. I feel her tongue against the head of my cock. She alternates between circles and gentle flicks against the tip, and the underside of her tongue is remarkably smooth. It’s an entirely new sensation to me.

But I relish it only for a moment before Hank resumes his jack rabbit routine. This time he falls to lie atop her, ruining my view of their penetration. He takes her nipple in his mouth, and sucks on it noisily, almost hungrily. I find it utterly distasteful, again, and lacking in any kind of civility, and despite the pleasurable sensations I can’t help but be put off by his style. (Sure, there is a time and place for that kind of vigorous fucking, but when it’s the only tool in your belt, it makes you kind of a boring partner.) On the plus side, with each thrust Kelly’s body rocks toward me, effectively causing her to bob her head and run her mouth along my shaft. She treats it as such, sucking me as if she wanted nothing more than that. She moans each time he pushes into her, the sound muted by my cock, and I run my thumb along her jawline. She grasps my hand suddenly, squeezing tightly and turning her head to remove me from her mouth.

“Jesus I’m gonna cum again!” she cries out loudly into the room, eliciting a groan from Hank. I squeeze her hand back and say, “Do it, honey. Come on his cock for me.”

That does it for her. She gasps at the words, and as I finish the words she bucks and tightens her abs, pulling her torso up and off the bed. She cries out again, and she doesn’t need to say it for me to know this orgasm is harder than the first was. Hank cries out as well, and I know how hard the contractions must be around him, because I experience it regularly. But he can’t cope. He suddenly pulls back and away from her. I watch him grab his shaft and stroke frantically, releasing several long ropes of cum across her stomach, her breasts, her cheek…

…and my thigh, and my groin, just above the base of my shaft. I jump a little, but not far. It was unexpected, but… not entirely unpleasant. I suppress the urge to taste it, but only just.

Hank laughs and points at my leg. “Oh man… I don’t normally shoot that far. My bad, bro.”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I know someone who will help.” Kelly released my hand as her orgasm subsided, and I stroke her cheek again. She breathes heavily, almost panting, but she rolls onto her side and look at my groin. She stifles a laugh, but snorts through her nose. “I can definitely help with that,” she says sweetly, and runs her tongue heavily up my leg, cleaning Hank’s cum off my thigh. The second rope has begun to run down my groin, across my shaft, and she cleans there as well, diligently licking every trace of him off of me.

I lean down and kiss her, and I taste him on her. Salty, much more so than I expected, and aromatic. Definitely different from my own flavor. It might be distasteful if I weren’t so turned on. Instead I groan against her lips and slip my tongue into her mouth, tasting more of the salty flavor, and strangely, unexpectedly, loving it.

Hank laughs again and falls onto the bed beside Kelly. “Man, you two are fucking freaky.”

Kelly breaks away and scoops some of his deposit from her stomach with two fingers. She rubs it gently on the head of my cock, and just as gently removes it with her tongue. I shiver.

“No we’re not,” she answers. “We just don’t limit ourselves.”

“Never,” I almost whisper. She smiles at me again, and delicately kisses the tip of my cock.

Taking a few minutes out of my day to continue the story from yesterday. Sure, I could be working up a manuscript or cranking on a new analysis, but this is more exciting right now.

You may gather from reading this that I was rather unimpressed by Hank’s fucking, and you would be right. He really takes the jack rabbit approach to fucking–get in, hump fast and hard, and get out. I find that terribly boring. But, he had great abs, a tight butt, and a not unimpressive package, so I can’t really complain.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Hanks climbs onto the bed and shuffles toward us on his knees. Kelly watches him eagerly, her body quivering and jerking in rhythm with each slow thrust of the toy. I lean back a bit, opening Kelly’s body to him. He lies beside her, cozying up against her comfortably, grinding his semi-erect cock into her hip. I hear her whimper, and watch as she turns her head, kissing Hank with parted lips.

It’s an interesting thing, watching two people kiss with the passion of new lovers. There is an awkwardness there, as she is obviously unsure how best to kiss someone other than me, but Hank is oblivious to it. He places his hand on the back of her head and kisses her deeply and fully, but with a degree of… ineptitude, maybe? Clumsiness? I can’t place it. But it seems very forceful, lacking in tact. I can see his tongue in her mouth, and she clearly enjoys it, but I don’t see how, given the sloppy, slobbery noises he produces. I would be turned off by it, but Kelly reaches for his groin and grasps his cock firmly, coaxing it to full attention.

That certainly does it for me. Whatever Hank may lack in kissing ability, at least he has a nice package.

I lean in and kiss, then bite at, Kelly’s collarbone. “How about I get out of the way for a minute?”

Hank breaks away from Kelly’s lips and grins. Kelly, eyes half-lidded, her jaw slack, nods and whispers, “Yeah…”

I pull the toy back, careful not to move too quickly. There is a feint *pop* as it withdraws from her, and her hips buck slightly. I  roll off the bed and stand, turning to face them and deftly removing my shirt. I tug at my belt and watch Hank rise to his knees again and grab Kelly under her knees, easily maneuvering her into position. She squeals and laughs at the sudden movement, and says something I can’t distinguish, as I’m already splitting my focus between the show at hand, and getting my pants off (this goddamned belt….). I manage to open my jeans and give them a push down and off my hips just as Kelly grabs Hank’s length again, guiding him toward her. My body tingles with excitement as Hank, still on his knees, pulls her toward him.

I think we both gasp as he enters her.

I am suddenly keenly aware of a number of things, watching Hank begin to fuck my beloved Kelly. I find myself comparing his fucking to his kissing; he drives into her with abandon, like most porn stars I’ve ever seen, slapping his groin into hers at a fast and steady pace. As before, it seems to lack tact, or any consideration for his partner. It’s a decidedly different style from mine–whereas I try to be simultaneously gentle and intense, rarely ever banging away at my partner in favor of taking my time, Hank fucks Kelly as though his only goal is to get off as fast as possible.

Kelly doesn’t seem to mind, though. Her head is pressed back into the pillow, her back arched, her eyes tightly closed. She is pulling at the sheets, her knuckles white, her skin flushed. She makes no sound but for the occasional gasp, and I can tell she is having a fairly intense orgasm.

There is a slight pang of jealousy, perhaps, but it is overwhelmed by the incredibly licentious nature of the entire affair. And I admit, I thoroughly enjoy watching his cock slide in and out of her.

Kelly finally catches her breath, and her eyes snap open. She puts her hands on Hank’s chest and pushes, laughing drunkenly, and says, “Oooookay, okay, slow down there. I need you to last.” Hank looks at her rather stupidly, I think, but he shrugs and slows his pace accordingly. She turns her head to me and smiles broadly.

“I love you,” she says to me.

I smile back. “I love you too.”

Hank laughs. “What, no love for me?”

Kelly practically purrs, and rocks her hips against him, taking his cock a bit deeper into her than before. “You’ll get plenty of love.” He grunts and grasps her hips, hoisting them slightly off the bed, presumably to improve his angle. Kelly looks back to me, and stares pointedly at my cock. I’m slowly jerking off, watching them.

…when did I start doing that?

“Would you like something?” I ask, intentionally coy.

Kelly nods and points to my groin. “That. In my mouth. Right now.”

I don’t feel old, but man, when I think about how long it’s been since this experience actually happened… woof. This was almost a decade ago, before Hank became a portly papa, and before my relationship with Kelly was obviously headed for the rocks. It was also one hell of an amazing experience. Totally a multi-parter. Enjoy.

—————————————————————————————————-

Kelly sits beside the pillows on the bed, her legs hugged to her chest, her chin on her knees. Her eyes are closed. She breathes slowly, methodically. I can sense her tension from my vantage point across the room, in a not entirely comfortable armchair.

“You don’t have to do this,” I remind her gently.

She looks up at me, and smiles nervously. “No,” she says quietly, “I don’t. But I really want to.”

I nod. “Okay then. What can I do to help make you comfortable?”

She purses her lips, thinking, then turns away from me, toward the bedside table. “Maybe use this on me?”

She turns back and holds up the silicon dong we had purchased earlier in the week. It’s a bit longer and wider than I am, but it’s modeled after some pornstar whose name I don’t know, so I’m not really surprised. The box had described it as ultra-realistic, and it hadn’t lied. I would have sworn it was the real deal. Veins run along the shaft, the cyber-skin coating has imperfections akin to a real cock, and the package (haha) is complete with a pair of fleshy balls. I can’t help but be impressed by the thing. The only unnatural thing about it, aside from it not being attached to a dude, is the black nub sticking out of the base.

I smile and approach her. I take the dong from her hand. “Strip. Now.” It’s a command, but I say it with as much patience and kindness as my rising libido can permit.

Kelly takes another nervous breath, then stands on the bed. One deft movement removes the shirt, exposing her lithe dancer’s frame and petite breasts. Her nipples are hard, presumably from anticipation. She hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her shorts and gives a little tug, and they drop to her ankles. Her pussy is at eye level where I stand. I look up at her, and I know she understands what I want without saying it. We connect at that level. She steps to the edge of the bed and brushes her shaven mound against my cheek. I turn my head a little and flick my tongue out, stroking her swollen labia, teasing them apart, exposing her clit. I hear her gasp, and I continue only for a moment, until her lips are spread wide, her wetness inviting.

I draw my head back. “Lay down.”

She drops to her knees in front of me and kisses me gently before lying back on the bed. She situates a pillow under her head, and I climb onto the bed beside her. She watches as I place the dong in my mouth, lubricating it (and, honestly, getting a bit of a thrill from the feel of a cock in my mouth–that’s unexpected). I smile down at her and lightly rub the head against her center. She bites her lip and nods ever so slightly. I maintain eye contact as I orient the toy, and push, just enough to slip the head inside of her. She gasps again. Her brow knits, and her mouth opens slightly, a quiet “Ooh” escaping. I pause a moment, then push again. My saliva and her wetness are a perfect lubrication, and despite its size, the fake cock practically glides forward, into her. Another “Ooh” from her, this one prolonged, lasting as long as it takes for the toy to be fully inside of her. It takes me a moment to determine her moans are from pleasure, though I imagine the stretching is a bit more than she’s used to. I carefully slide the toy back, and she jerks a bit, grasping the sheets and arching her back slightly.

I pause. “Too much?”

She shakes her head. “No… it’s tight, but I like it…” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Fuck me with it.”

I grin, and take a firm grip under the base of the toy. I begin pumping it slowly, to and fro. I am quietly amazed by how smoothly the thing glides within her–she must be incredibly turned on to be this wet. Kelly grips the sheets tighter and begins rocking against the toy. She breathes quickly, each inhalation short, and each exhalation a quiet “hah” into the silence of the room. I duck my head down, taking one nipple into my mouth. She thrusts her chest up toward me, and as I bite down with my incisors on the perky flesh, my middle finger presses the black nub on the toy. I hear the deep “thrummmmmm” of the motor as it activates, and feel the vibration through my arm, and even through my teeth as it travels up her body. Kelly instantly bucks against my hand, and she wraps her arm around me, clinging to me, her bare flesh warm and clammy. She moans properly, and says what sound to me like, “Oh holy God,” but it’s hard to tell through the groaning.

Then I hear a click from the corner, and the sound of old hinges squealing against each other. Kelly and I both turn to look at the door. Hank steps into the room, freshly showered and holding a towel in his left hand. He is nude, and his cock stands at half-mast, solid but not entirely at attention. I can’t explain the little thrill I get at seeing him there, and I make no attempt to hide the fact that I’m watching his member pulse, slowly growing more firm.

“You guys couldn’t wait, huh?” He towels at his hair a little.

I shake my head. “Nope. We’re way too excited to be patient.”

Hank tosses the towel aside, and grabs his cock, giving it a couple of quick, practiced tugs. I hear Kelly moan again, and I glance down to see her staring eagerly at him, wide eyes locked on his manhood. She stretches out her left hand toward him and makes a grasping motion. “I want that….”

The look in her eyes, the sound of her voice, Hanks’s presence in the room… it all feels so surreal, but my body practically tingles in anticipation, and my cock throbs eagerly against my boxers as Hank approaches the bed.

Yeah, I guess this one will turn out to be three-parter after all! I am currently away from home for research, and I suspect this will pretty much be the norm for me for the next several years of my life, if not all of them. But I have arranged my schedule such that I have an hour or so free every night to write and respond to messages and things.

If you want to be successful at this whole blogging business, you have to be diligent about updating.

The final part of this memory will be coming soon. Enjoy.

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The kiss lingers for several long moments. There is nothing overtly sexual about it–no biting, no teasing, no tongue, just a gentle, sweet moment. I finally pull back, my hands still cupping her cheeks. Our eyes open at the same time. We look at each other. Her lips are parted, surprise and desire mingling in her expression. She is breathing deeply, slowly, but heavily. She smiles.

“…oh my.”

My thumb strokes her cheek. “Sorry. I’ve just wanted to do that for so long.”

She bites her lower lip. “Me too…”

And she presses against me, wrapping her arms around my waist as she kisses me again. A faint whimper echoes in her throat, and that’s all I need. Gone is the anxiety, replaced by overwhelming desire. I embrace her tightly, squeezing her body as closely to me as before. My tongue traces the line of her lower lip, and she responds similarly, our tongues dancing against one another. My heart pounds, and my body throbs in anticipation. I grab her waist and guide her back, toward my desk, and she leans against it, half sitting, half standing. I drop to my knees, my eyes level with the lower hem of the red dress. I lean in and kiss her thigh, over the stockings. I can smell her arousal, and it as close to intoxicating as anything can be.

I need you.

My lips glide along her inner thigh, beyond the stocking, moving upward as I draw the dress up and around her waist. True to her word, she wore no undergarments, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of her. Very recently and expertly waxed, her mound is smooth and lovely. Her labia are swollen and invitingly open, and glistening wet under the fluorescent lighting in my office. She has started to drip down her left inner thigh, and I run my tongue across the wet trail, cleaning and tasting her. She is remarkably sweet with hardly a hint of salt, better than the flavor of any woman I can remember. I follow the trail along her leg toward her pelvis, and lightly press my tongue against her center. Her wetness coats my mouth, and I feel her shudder at my attentions.

I whisper against her, “You were right, clean living makes you taste pretty fucking good.”

She laughs shakily, and begins to say something, but her voice catches and she simply groans as I thrust my tongue as deep into her as I can. I lift her legs at the knees, pulling them up and onto my shoulders to ease access to her. I feel her ankles lock behind me, and I begin stroking her center with my tongue, long, slow movements, from perineum to clitoris, lapping at her wetness, high on the sweetness of her. My hands grasp her hips, shifting her position on my desk, pulling her a bit closer, then move under the hem of her dress and up along her belly, simply exploring the smoothness of her flesh. She squirms a little, suddenly panting, and after no more than two minutes of my attention I can feel her stomach tighten, her hips begin to shake, and she groans louder than before. I feel her tighten under my tongue, convulsing for a brief moment, then I am surprised by the sudden deluge as she cums against me. I groan in my throat, not wanting to pull away for a moment. This flavor is different than before–tart, almost sour, but still not salty, and it drenches my face and chin, my neck, and covers my shirt. She shudders once more, and again, then gasps for air and pushes at the top of my head. I move back obediently and look up at her.

“You didn’t tell me you squirt,” I say with a wry grin.

She laughs again, less anxious than before but still obviously nervous. “Well, it hardly ever happens. I have to be really turned on for it to happen.”

I gesture to my shirt, and the dark patch of moisture that moves from neck to sternum. “I guess you must have been turned on.”

“That sounds like past tense,” she answers. “Presently, I remain turned on.”

I grin up at her, then lean in and lay a gentle kiss on her clit. She shudders and gasps again.

“…me too,” I answer.

This may turn into a multi-part story. Well, probably it will, because there is so much more to tell. But this seemed a really good place to resume my writing after such a long hiatus.

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I sit with my elbow on my desk, tapping my thumbnail against my teeth absently as my eyes move across my computer screen. I don’t know how many times I’ve read the same few sentences because I’m not truly reading. I’m just trying to convince myself that I’m busy, to keep my mind off the cell phone that sits beside my mouse. I turn my head just so, and the reflection of my monitor shining from the tiny glass screen makes my heart leap. I check my notifications. Still empty.

Chill out man. I tap the sleep button and set my phone back down. I hide my face in my hands as I breathe deeply, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. I don’t understand why I’m so anxious. It’s not like any of this is uncharted territory for me. But my racing heart won’t be stilled, and my stomach ties itself into a knot every time I consider my plans for the day, and who they’re with. It’s a strange sensation, not foreign, but forgotten since my days as an undergraduate. I don’t know how I coped with it then, or why I can’t seem to control it now. So I lift my eyes and resume trying to read the journal article on my screen.

Then my phone blinks. Legitimately this time. I can tell the difference even in my periphery. I quickly check the notifications. One new message:

I’m outside.

My stomach forgoes knots for gymnastics.

I rise and step into the hallway. I am the sole occupant of my building because the university is closed for the Christmas holiday. Every step echoes down the empty hall. My clothes brush against my skin, louder than usual. My neck itches for reasons I can’t identify, and rubbing doesn’t help. A shaky hand grasps the handle of the door to the stairwell. I wonder if she’ll notice as I push open the side entrance and step into the crisp afternoon air.

And there she is, standing beside her companion’s vehicle, removing suitcases and boxes from the trunk. A cute red dress that is not nearly warm enough for the weather, and a grey waist coat that certainly is. Black stockings that contrast starkly with the snow and ice and low heels that match her dress. She turns toward me and smiles brightly, blue eyes shining under long blonde bangs swept to the side.

I stop dead in my tracks. Somehow I find my voice. “Hey Tina.”

She races to me and throws herself into my arms. She feels so small, but she squeezes me so hard it forces the air from my lungs. I return the embrace just as fiercely. She presses her cheek against my chest and whispers, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

I rest my cheek against the top of her head. “I understand.” I resist the urge to kiss her hair. “I missed you so much.”

We maintain the embrace for a long moment, then she releases me and turns to her companion. I just catch the glint of a tear in her eye, but she hides it well otherwise. She retrieves her luggage and gives her friend a hug. They say something I can’t distinguish, hug a second time, and part ways. She rolls her suitcase behind her as the car pulls away.

I take the suitcase from her and open the door. “How was your day?”

She steps through. “Good.  Awkward, but good.”

I glance at her. “Why awkward?”

“Wearing a short dress with no underwear while having lunch with my family,” she answers.

I node sagely. “That would do it. But I’m glad you remembered.”

She smiles at me, and we engage in idle chit chat as we trudge up the stairs toward my office. She speaks and laughs as easily as she ever has, her awkwardness apparent every moment. But I can hear the nervousness in her voice, the quavering tones, and I see the unsureness of her steps. She is every bit as nervous as I am. I find that reassuring, but also worrisome. I will need to be careful.

In a few moments, I open the door to my office and hold it wide for her. I set her suitcase to the side as she steps through. She looks around idly. “It feels smaller in here than I remember.”

“New furniture,” I respond, watching her from the doorway.  She removes her coat and places it on the standing rack, and begins examining my bookshelves. Her nervousness is still obvious. I don’t know what to do. But there’s only one thing I want to do.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and I shut the door, “but there is something I have to do.” She blinks in surprise as I close the space between us. I reach out to her and gently cup her face in my hands.

I press my lips to hers for the first time.

And I have never felt happier.

“So what did you think of the conference today?”

I walk down the hall, my hands in my pockets, messenger bag over my shoulder, side by side with Pretty Grad Student.  We spent the day, as did most of our colleagues, at a small conference on management and ecology.  Unlike the massive conferences for which we typically plan for weeks, this was more directed, with an emphasis on the intersection between policy and ecology.

“It was disappointing,” I answer, continuing the inner monologue I’d been running for the past several minutes.  “It was like everyone wanted to be the keynote speaker, so hardly anyone presented any real science.”

“That one guy did.”

“Yeah, one guy,” I agree.  “I was expecting presentations on new findings and advancements in the field, not hours of proselytizing.”  I shake my head and sigh.  “Two days, wasted.  I could have made such headway on my analysis.”

“Quit overachieving,” she scolds me.  “You’re making the rest of us look lazy.”

“Quit being lazy and you too can be the department bitch,” I say with forced enthusiasm.

She snorts.  “Now you’re just whining.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say.  “Just frustrated.”  I unlock my office door and step inside, tossing my bag into one of the empty chairs across from my desk.  I fall into my large work chair, an excessive expenditure I have never once regretted, and slump comfortably.

Pretty Grad Student shuts my office door and sits on the corner of my desk, silent.  After a moment, she asks, delicately, “Are things going better with your wife yet?”

I glance at her.  We normally don’t talk much about my and Ashley’s relationship.  It’s not like we purposely avoid the subject, but we always seem to be occupied by other things (usually our nether regions).  The only reason she knows we’re in a rough patch is because she stayed with me at my hotel, helping me make the most of my self-imposed isolation.  Her interest surprises me, and I say as much.

“I worry about you,” she says calmly.  “I don’t think anyone realizes how much effort you put into being happy.  I mean, I didn’t realize it either until these past few days.”

“I’m spending time with you because I genuinely enjoy your company,” I say calmly.  “I’m not using you.”

“No, and I’ve never thought you were,” she says.  Then a sly smirk crosses her lips.  “But, for the record, you can use me any way you need, baby.”

I smile at her.  “Thanks.”

Her smirk remains, but she furrows her brow as though concerned.  “Seriously though, it can’t be healthy for you to keep all this frustration bottled up like you do.  It’s great that you put on a stiff upper lip and all that, but eventually you have to let yourself be unhappy.”

“I don’t want to be unhappy,” I answer, annoyed, swiveling to and fro in my chair.  “I don’t have any reason to be unhappy.  I’m tired of being unhappy.”

She stands up and moves toward me, sitting on her knees in front of me.  She takes my hands in hers and locks gazes with me.  “If you want to quit being unhappy, then stop pretending that you aren’t.  Lying to the world about how you feel is one thing, but refusing to let yourself experience your own emotions is another.”  She smiles warmly, if a bit sadly.  “You’re the most amazing man I’ve ever known.  But even the most amazing of men can have bad days, and it sounds to me like you’ve been having an awful lot of them.  You deserve to let it out.”

I look at her and smile weakly.  “Thanks.  But I don’t agree with you.  The best thing I can do is try to keep positive and not let myself get overburdened by my own baggage.”  I squeeze her hands lightly, and she nods quietly.  She kisses my knuckle once before standing, leaning forward, and kissing me gently on the lips.

“Suit yourself, baby,” she says, more lightheartedly than before, but the concern is still there.  “But don’t think I’m going to let this go.  We’re going to talk about it tonight.”

I grin.  “Assuming you can get my mouth off of you long enough to get me to say anything.”

“If you’re not talking, you’d better have your mouth on me.”

“Now you’re just repeating me,” I say as I wave her off.  “Get to work, minion.  I’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”

She glares playfully and snaps her teeth at me.  (It’s much sexier than it sounds, especially coming from her), then turns abruptly, letting herself out.  I hear her voice from around the corner: “Yes sir, professor.”

I look at the empty doorframe, listening to her footfalls as she goes down the hall.  I smile, despite my frustration, and sigh.  Strangely enough, I feel a bit better.

I hate hotel rooms.  I like the service, sure, and the water pressure is usually something out of a wet dream (no pun intended).  But I hate how empty they feel.  Hotel managers strive to pack their rooms with all the comforts of home–fresh linens, a television with cable, a writing desk, wireless internet access, and a variety of scented soaps and lotions to make you look and smell as lovely as the room you’re staying in.

But everything feels artificial.  The bed is a little too firm, the linens a bit too abrasive.  The shower is too tight, even with the bow-shaped curtain rod, which is designed to create a sense of space–also artificial.  The television is grainy, the writing desk cramped, the internet too slow.  The soaps and lotions have the same smell across all hotels, clean and soapy, but uninspired, unoriginal.  And no matter how many lights you turn on, it’s never bright enough, always slightly more dim then you’d like wherever you’re working.

And it’s all just a little too cramped.  The desk is always shoved in the corner, out of the way, with a floor lamp above it (the one place in the room where you can get sufficient light, but it’s too bright on the laptop’s screen, causing eye strain).  Clearly defined walkways are narrow, and too angular.  There’s no flow to the space, no feng shui.  In their effort to make the place feel like home, they have stripped it of anything resembling the natural comfort of your personal living space.

And it makes the place feel soulless.  Every hotel is the same, regardless of its position on the star-rating continuum.  And as I sit in my hotel, I can’t help but wonder about the room’s previous occupants.  How many people have come through here?  How many have left their individual mark on the place, only to have it sterilized the next morning by hotel staff?  How many individuals have been homogenized by this place, their stories assimilated by the collective?

I’m just being bitter.  I know I am.  But then again, I have plenty of reason to be bitter at the moment.

My phone chimes, and the screen lights up.  I retrieve it from the desk beside me and half-heartedly activate the screen.  A text message from Ashley.

Please come home.

I consider the words, the implication.  It’s been four days since I saw her.  Since the last time she rebuked my sexual advances.  Since I reminded her that it had been a good month since our last sexual encounter, if not longer.  Since we argued about the role of sex in our marriage, and my need for intimacy.  Since I grabbed my gym bag and stormed out of the house.  Since I booked my hotel room for an unspecified amount of time.

I look at my phone, rereading the message over and over.   I imagine what it would sound like coming from her mouth.  I can hear her voice, straining through pain, struggling to hold back the sobs.  I can see the tears in her eyes.

I know she misses me.  Christ, I miss her too.  Being away from her hurts me at the core of my being, at the most fundamental of levels.  I love her more than I can explain.  I need her in my life, like I need food and water.  She sustains me, supports me.  She centers me.  I want to be close to her.  I want that intimacy, that sexuality, to feel her physically consuming me the way she consumes me emotionally, mentally, and hell, probably spiritually.

Christ, that sounds fucking crazy.  It sounds like an unhealthy infatuation.  Hell, maybe it is.  Ashley is my obsession.    She is the physical representation of everything that is good and wholesome in my world, and I want to be a part of it, in every imaginable way.  And to be constantly denied the sexual intimacy that I want, that I crave, from someone who is otherwise everything I could possibly want and need…

My phone blinks off.  I hastily reignite the screen, rereading the message, over and over, anxiously, obsessively.  Fuck, I’m so angry at her that I can’t think.  Four days later, and I’m still angry.  Does that make me juvenile, I wonder?  Am I a spoiled, immature brat?  Or am I justified, and this is righteous indignation that I’m experiencing?  I don’t have the slightest clue.  All I know is, I’m fucking furious.  I’m frustrated beyond words, beyond any hope of reconciliation.  I need something to change, but I don’t know how to change it, and that just fuels the anger.  It’s probably why I’m still mad, I think.  I’m a published scientist, a researcher, a theoretician, a programmer.  Hell, I’m a fucking genius.  And yet I can’t find a solution to the one thing that I need more than anything else in this world.

What good is intellect if it can’t give you the things you need, if it only makes you dwell on alternate scenarios, how things could be different but never are?

That’s my problem.  I’m dwelling.  I need to stop thinking about things.  I need to stop letting the situation get to me.  I need to immerse myself in infidelity, to find pleasure and satisfaction in my marital indiscretion.  Ashley won’t give me that, for whatever reason, so I should get it elsewhere.

But I don’t want to get it elsewhere.  I want what we used to have, and I’m afraid that in losing it, we’re about to lose everything else.

I don’t think my marriage is over.  I’m sure I’ll go home soon.  But isn’t leaving, for any amount of time, an indicator of what’s to come?  Is the ability to just up and leave for days at a time the litmus test for a failing marriage?  If so, where does mine fall on the scale?  Are we on the cusp of a major failure?  Am I about to become another divorce statistic?  The idea is heartbreaking.

And I realize now, I’m not bitter.  I’m just sad.

I reread the message.  I consider the words, the implication.  And I have no idea what to do.

For now, I put the phone to sleep.