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Well, hello there.

Forgive my absence. Very recently, I found myself suddenly faced with a series of unexpected deadlines for work, and I had to throw my focus into that. Then, I had to revise a manuscript that was accepted for publication. (Hallelujah.) Since finishing those professional tasks, I have been terribly busy these past weeks being terribly not busy–that is, I went on a vacation. Not a work vacation, wherein I have a little fun in between meetings or presentations or field work, but a true-blue, honest-to-God vacation, hiking and swimming and boating and site-seeing hundreds of miles away from what anyone would call civilization. It was refreshing, to say the least.

Then Ashley went on vacation without me for a week.

And Tina came to visit.

It is a fascinating experience, having my lover in my home when my wife is gone. For four days, Tina and I interacted as though we were a long-term couple. We cooked together, we spent time at the beach, we went out for drinks, all the while holding hands and stealing kisses and sharing quiet jokes and whispered innuendo. We slept in the same bed, woke up together, showered together. The spats and misunderstandings of the past months simply disappeared. We were best friends again, lovers in the truest sense of the word. I can’t tell you how badly I missed that.

And the sex. Holy fuck, the sex was mind-blowing. Passionate and intense, occasionally frantic, never shorter than an hour, and always at least twice a day. Tina is truly insatiable in bed.

Sadly, all good things must end. I recently said goodbye to her, and she has begun the long return trip to her home across the country. It was decidedly painful to watch her go. Neither of us managed it without a few tears.

I am now sitting alone in my home, at my computer for the first time in two weeks. Her scent still lingers in my house, and I occasionally close my eyes as I inhale, savoring the aroma and remembering the feel of her hand in mine, her lips against mine, her hair on my shoulder. I am still uncertain how I came to be in this position, being in love with two women, my wife and my lover.  It is a difficult thing to manage, but weeks like this are more than worth the effort.

So again, forgive my absence. I assure you, I have not forgotten my regular readers, and I am working on a couple of different entries that I intend to post here soon. But, I am also closing in on the end of my contract with my current institution, thus much of my attention must shift to work, both in terms of completing required manuscripts and datasets, and of finding a new position. As such, I may not be as regular a blogger as I have been recently, but I will continue to work here as time permits.

I hope all is well with you, my friends and readers.

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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.”

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.

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

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.

“There you go, that’s the right spot!”

I mumble something in response.  Or, rather, I would, if my face weren’t fully buried between Pretty Grad Student’s legs.  Instead, I produce a sound that I hope she interprets as equal parts affirmation and arousal.  I put a deep, throaty sound in there for good measure, as I’ve come to understand that such sounds, like growling or groaning, produce vibrations up the throat, through the mouth, and across the more sensitive parts of a woman’s lower anatomy.  It seems to work, because she jumps slightly and laughs, then purrs approvingly.

I grab her legs and pull them onto my shoulders, then take hold of her hips to pull her forward to the very edge of the couch, where I sit, kneeling, on the floor.  I sit a bit taller, angling her pelvis upward and giving me better access to her.   My right arm circles around her thigh, my hand on her pelvic mound, applying gentle pressure below her navel, as I run my tongue in counterclockwise circles around her clit.  I position my left hand to cradle her ass, using the tip of my left thumb to tease her inner labia, fully exposed and swollen after half an hour of cunnilingus.  I occasionally slip my thumb past her labia, barely penetrating her, each time eliciting a shiver and a groan of pleasure.

“Quit teasing me…”  She says it plaintively, as though she isn’t enjoying the attention.  But I know better.  I’ve got her patterns figured out, and can read her like a book.  I know counterclockwise tongue movements get her worked up but won’t take her all the way.  I know the pelvic shakes are the first step toward a body-rattling orgasm, but it won’t happen unless I press just right on her pelvis.  I know that fully penetrating her with my finger, while applying that pressure and moving my tongue clockwise, will upgrade her pleasure from body-rattling to back-arching, hair-pulling, and full-on squealing.  It makes no sense to me, but it’s what works for her.

I pull my head back just enough to speak.  “But I’m having fun here.”  I draw out the vowels and speak in hushed tones that I know produce more warm breath across her exposed labia.

She whines and squirms on the couch.  “Please, sweetheart, don’t make me beg…”

“You’re already begging.”  I rest my cheek against her inner thigh, flick my tongue across her clit.  She squirms again.

“I wasn’t… I just…”  Another whine, and she bucks her hips up.  “Please just make me cum…”

I glide my thumb across her labia, softly caressing the shape of her.  “You’re sure?”

Her hips move in a little circle, trying to draw my finger in.  “Uh-huh…”

I sigh, feigning frustration.  “Fine.”  I turn my head and resume my attentions to her clit, but work my tongue in slow, lazy clockwise circles.  I press down against her pelvis, below her navel.  I slip my thumb into her, pressing upward against her inner wall, and not moving it otherwise.  Instantly, her behavior changes.  She gasps and throws her head back into the couch, between the back cushions, to mute the squeal of delight that escapes her throat.  Her back arches, pressing small, lovely, firm breasts into the air.  Her fingers lace into my hair and pull my face against her, tugging my hair almost painfully.  I feel her muscles contract around my thumb, then loosen, then tighten again, rhythmically squeezing me as her orgasm spreads through her.  And I continue the motion, slow clockwise circles, tracing the shape of her clit but never fully covering it, helping her forward and through the pleasure, until she squeals a second time and pushes my head away.  She begins to laugh maniacally, running her hands up her stomach to her breasts, squeezing them and tugging on her nipples.

“Goddamn,” she says between heavy breaths, “you must’ve gotten your master’s in pussy.”

“I’m more of a self-educated amateur,” I say with a grin.  I wipe my lips and chin with the fingers of my left hand, savoring the smell that lingers on them.  I then rise and move to the kitchen sink, where I wash them and my face.

“What, no time for me to help you out?”  Her voice is plaintive again.

“Not tonight,” I answer politely as I dry my hands and chin.  “I really just wanted to eat you out.”

“Well, any fucking time, baby.”  Pretty Grad Student grins and walks toward me in her short athletic socks, lithe and lean and tanned and muscled, and kisses me.  I return the gesture, and she presses her hips against mine.  My cock throbs, begging for release, but I bite back the groan, stifling it behind her tongue as it darts past my lips.

I smile at her and sigh.  “Night sweetheart.”  I stroke her cheek lightly, then slap her bare ass.  She squeals again.

I show myself out and return to my car.  A few minutes later, I step into the foyer of my house.  Ashley smiles.  “Hi honey.  Late night?”

“Busy as always,” I answer.  “Got another five pages of the manuscript finished, though.”

“Of course you did,” she says brightly.  “You work harder than anyone I’ve ever known.”  She hugs me around the neck.

“You have no idea,” I answer, and I kiss her.  She gasps, then sighs against my lips, and slips her tongue into my mouth.

I remember where my tongue was ten minutes ago.  A pang of guilt stabs at my chest as a shiver of approval runs up my spine.

I sit on one of the two couches in the communal living area, relishing the deep cushions and plush fabrics.  I have a thing for old furniture.  It’s softer, more pliable, because of its lived-in character, and this couch is exceptionally old.  It feels lovely under my intoxicated fingers.

Beside me, a young woman chatters away about her dream of becoming an “alternative fashion designer”.  Before the six-pack and ninth shot kicked in, I’d asked her what that meant, and she’d described a number of designs she had in mind based on insect anatomy.  I recall being vaguely horrified by the idea of a woman made up to resemble a praying mantis, given that the females of the species are sexually cannibalistic following copulation, and that my only real interest is in her sexual qualities makes it particularly concerning.  But she’s attractive enough that I’m willing to risk having my skull eaten.  She’s tall  with little curvature, save for one of the more amazing racks I’ve ever seen–perky, round, at least a large C, made all the larger by her slender frame, barely covered by a skin-tight black tanktop.  She wears nothing under the tank or her baggy green cargo pants, based on the view she’d inadvertently given me bending over earlier.  She sports a nose ring and multiple earrings, and a colorful tattoo creeps up her back, along her neck, onto her buzzed scalp.  I have no idea what her name is, but I’ve never fucked a girl with a shaved head, and damn if her decidedly punk appearance isn’t driving me crazy.

Or rather, it would be, if the ethanol hadn’t suddenly kicked in with full force.  It’s making me much more interested in the upholstery than I should be.  But I do my best to nod and appear interested as she describes, in more detail than one would imagine possible, her idea to recreate a moth’s wing patterning using black embroidery on a grey dress.

“That’s cool,” I say absently.  “Though I’m not sure there’s much of a market for that kind of thing here in the South.  Maybe Chicago or Detroit, someplace with a larger punk subculture?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!”  She starts to say something else, but a noise behind her distracts her.  A noise best described as slobbery.

We both look over her shoulder, to the other couch in the living area, where Hank and a European girl are making out.  Intensely so.  She’s laying on top of him, her shirt tossed across the room, her jeans open and half down around her hips.  His lips smack loudly against her tongue, producing the slobbery sound.  It’s not as pleasant as one might imagine.  (Or, perhaps, precisely as pleasant.)

“How did I miss that,” I mumble to myself.  I glance at the punk girl.  “I suddenly feel decidedly left out.”

“Yeah, me too.”  She shrugs.  “Wanna make out?”

I blink.  “Umm… yes?”

In one swift, sudden movement, she straddles me and wraps her arms around my shoulders.  She kisses me deeply, immediately moaning, as though this were something she’d been considering and desperately wanting for hours.  It catches me off guard, and I laugh against her lips.

She responds by biting my lower lip and muttering through clenched teeth, “Shut up,” grabbing my hands, and placing them firmly on her breasts.  They’re every bit as firm as I had imagined, yet pliant, moving under my touch in the way only natural flesh can.  The laughter is replaced by a groan in the back of my throat, and I grind my hips up against hers, kneading flesh and smelling gin and tasting stale cigarettes on her tongue.

She abruptly pulls back and looks at me, panting, her chest rising and falling heavily.  Her eyes are wide with what my inebriated brain interprets as desire.  “Bathroom,” she says simply.  “Now.”  I’m too drunk to argue (not that I would, mind you).

She leaps to her feet, pulls me to mine, and leads me down the hall, into the bathroom.  She slams the door shut behind her and pulls her shirt off in one deft motion.  Her cargo pants are so baggy that all she does is unbutton them, and they fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a pair of combat boots.  Her body is long, lean, completely smooth and without a single hair.  She drops to her knees in front of me, releasing my jeans with practiced ease.  Perhaps a bit too practiced.  But my concerns evaporate as she pulls my semi-turgid length into her mouth.  She helps me out of my jeans, and I pull my shirt over my head, allowing her to do as she pleases.  My head falls back and I close my eyes, sighing contentedly as I listen to the wet, slippery noises she produces.

I can still hear Hank slobbering on the European girl.  It makes me giggle.

Without warning, she jumps to her feet and moves around me to the bathroom sink.  She hops up onto it, sitting precariously on the edge, while pulling me toward her.  “Now, fuck me.”

“Who am I to tell a pretty girl no,” I answer, my best inebriated attempt at wit.

She reaches up and puts her hand over my mouth, her voice breathy.  “No, don’t talk.  Just fuck me.”

Well.  Yes ma’am.

I close what little distance remains between us and press my length against her.  She’s incredibly moist, so much so that I imagine her cargo pants must be soaked.  One easy thrust buries me inside of her, and she cries out softly, quietly.  She wraps one leg around my hips, the heel of her boot against my lower back, and plants her other foot on the long bathroom counter, spreading herself wide, taking me in as deeply as she can.  She places her hands squarely on my ass, holding me against her as she rocks her hips, guiding my movements precisely the way she wants them.  There is very little thrusting–it’s more a gyration, my shaft rotation clockwise inside of her, her smooth groin gliding against mine.

It’s almost like I’m a sex toy.  I like it.

I relax and let her show me precisely what she wants.  She presses her breasts against my chest and hides her face in my neck, whimpering with each movement, whispering words of encouragement and complimenting my size and skill between moans of approval.  I let my hands explore her back, tracing her spine, her shoulder blades.  I kiss her ear, her temple, smell the alcohol in her skin, feel her loins tighten, the muscles contracting rhythmically, pulling at me, as she gasps against my throat, almost growling through her orgasm.  I hear her whispering, “You too… you too… cum for me…”   And I grind harder against her, at her prompting.  I gasp once, grunt… and she pushes me back, dropping to her knees and grabbing my length, stroking hard, fast, furious.  My breath catches in my throat, my eyes close, and I release, her hand moving expertly along my shaft, guiding me through my own orgasm, coaxing every bit of life out of me that she can.

As I come to, I open my eyes and look down at her.  I expect to see her chest or face covered in my cum, but I am surprised–hell, more than surprised–to see that she actually jerked me off onto her head.  The thick white ropes cling to her shortly buzzed hair, pooling in some places, stretching out in others, drawing lines and amorphous shapes across her scalp and forehead.  It looks remarkably like a two-tone abstract painting.  I can’t help but laugh.

“Now that’s a hell of a sight,” I say contentedly.  She grins and sucks the last remaining bit from the head of my cock, making a little *pop* in the process.

“Most guys like that,” she says, standing and stretching languidly before me.  “It’s unexpected.”  She runs her hands over her head in a most unladylike fashion, scraping as much off as she can before washing her hands.  I step behind her and press my slowly relaxing length against her ass.  She growls playfully and pushes back against me.

“Next time, maybe I’ll consider eating it for you,” she casually remarks as she dresses.  I start to respond, but she covers my mouth again, kisses my cheek, and whispers into my ear,  “You’re a damn good fuck, honey.  Don’t spoil it by talking now.”  She steps back and gives my cock a playful squeeze.  “I’ll see you again real soon.”

And she exits the bathroom, leaving me standing naked in the bathroom.

I look down at my clothes, then at myself.  I grin.  “Well.  That was fun.”

Has it become obvious to anyone else that I’ve struggled lately with things to write about?

I have a strict format I follow when I’m engaging in creative writing.  The first step of this method is the creation of a one-word sentence that can sum up the entire thing.  You might think of this as a “thesis statement”, if you’re a classically trained grammar nazi, but I think of it more as a seed, the point from which every other word develops.  A few that I’ve been recently considering include,

  • Having sex in a crowded theater is less exciting than it sounds.
  • Sometimes I can’t believe I’m a published author.
  • Regular people are just sexual deviants waiting for a proper shove down the bell curve.
  • Unless the giver is exceptionally skilled, road head is more distracting than pleasurable.
  • If you’re going to ask me to lick your ass, please wash it first.
  • Spontaneous orgies are more enjoyable when the door is locked.
  • Cumming on a girl’s shaved head looks an awful lot like a white-and-cream Pollock painting.
  • Fortunately, fucking has no language barrier.
  • How am I the only guy not getting blown tonight?
  • I’ve never bought a plane ticket just to fuck a woman I’ve never met, but damn is it tempting.
  • “Umm, I use that to shave my taint.”
  • I hope God has a sense of humor, otherwise I’m going straight to Hell for this one.
  • “You’re the first white guy I’ve ever met who’s hung like a black man and works it like a Mexican.”
  • A pumice stone is a necessary addition to the arsenal of sexual preparatory materials.
  • “I’m fairly certain this falls outside the manufacturer’s intended use of the playground equipment.”

I’m not sure what it is that I look for in a good post, but these all seem viable to me.  And that’s the problem, I think.  I have so much to say, to share, that singling out any one thing becomes exceedingly difficult.  I feel like anyone can write about sex.  I’d rather write something meaningful, or at least interesting to my regular readers.  After all, you guys set the bar pretty damned high.

But I also feel that too much of my writing has changed from its original intent.  I still find that catharsis when I write, but going back over my recent entries, I feel that the emphasis has changed in the months since challenging myself to commit my thoughts to paper, and becoming a member of this community.  I take great satisfaction in knowing that most of the people who read this blog enjoy my writing and find pleasure, even sexual arousal, in the stories I choose to share.  But I wonder if that satisfaction is becoming, or has already become, my reason for sharing.  Rather than to discuss my sexual addiction, or my general weakness in regard to physical pleasure, I wonder if I now write to tantalize, to intrigue, to entertain.

If so, does that mean I have developed as a writer?  Have I found an outlet for my creative and sexual energies?  Has meeting so many people with my same weaknesses, my same desires, made me more comfortable with my indiscretions?  Have I simply given up on using this blog as a means of improving myself, and has the quality of my writing diminished because of it?

These are some weighty thoughts running around my noggin.  Too weighty for a beautiful Tuesday afternoon, methinks.

I would be interested in knowing what my regular readers think.  Also, if any of those topics I put up top seem particularly interesting, feel free to say so.  It’ll be nice to have someone else tell me what to write for a change.

In the meantime, I’m going to commit these weighty thoughts to the depths of my yoga mat and see what it tells me.

Oh lord, am I ever happy you only turn 30 once.  I celebrated this in the most debauched manner possible.  (I didn’t know my body was still capable of processing that much ethanol in one sitting.)  Fortunately, I survived, with a few more battle scars, and another notch on the ol’ bedpost.  Maybe I’ll share in the near future.  But, for now, here is the conclusion to my most recent memory.  Enjoy.

———————————————————————–

I lift my head and place two fingers under Jenny’s chin, turning her face toward mine.  Her eyes are closed, but she opens them as I place my hand against the side of her neck.  We look at each other, and I practically count the seconds as they tick by, waiting for the right moment.  But Jenny surprises me by lifting her lips to mine quickly, and with more eagerness than I had anticipated.  Her tongue grazes my lips, and I hear a faint sound of longing emanate from her throat as we kiss on the front porch swing.

She may not be skilled at flirting, but Jenny is a remarkably talented kisser.

She wraps one arm around my shoulders, and her other hand rests comfortably against my sternum.  Whatever hesitance had previously possessed her has gone; she begins squeezing my shoulders, my upper arms, my chest, almost as though exploring, testing the consistency, the “give” of my body under her fingers.  As her hands discover new places to examine, her kisses increase in intensity, the occasional lash against my lip developing into a full dance between our tongues, moving from my mouth to hears, with an occasional break when she ducks her head just enough to permit her to bite my lip, tugging it insistently, pulling me closer to her, maneuvering me with her mouth against mine.  Before I realize it, she’s pulled me to the middle of the swing and has vaulted onto my lap, straddling my waist.

She breaks the kiss and looks down at me, eyes glassy, lips parted as she pants softly for breath.  I place my hands on her hips and pull her down against me, knowing that her skirt has left only her undergarments between her skin and my jeans.  She rocks back and forth along my zipper, and the hardness beneath, and her glassy eyes almost roll back into her head, which falls back as she groans softly.  She grips my neck, bracing herself as she moves along with the motion I’ve established, and lifts her head to look at me again.

“We need a place to go,” she whispers between thrusts.  “Right now.”

I contemplate this, as deeply as my one-track mind will permit.  “Well… the bedroom is being used by the potheads, so that’s out…”  I glance toward the parking lot.  “We could take my truck someplace, if you wanted, but it will be cramped…”

“UGH.  FUCK that.”  She leans back and begins grappling with my belt.  It only takes me a moment to catch up to her train of thought, and I practically slap her hands away to more quickly free myself.  Jenny reaches under her skirt, and I feel her hand wrapping around my shaft.  Sensitive skin rubs against cotton, then against her own bare flesh, hot and incredibly moist.  She positions herself against me, adjusts the lay of her skirt to more fully cover us, grips the sides of my neck again, and relaxes her legs.  Gravity forces her down, slides my cock into her until I can feel her cervix pressing against me.  Her expression is somewhat pained at first, but as she begins to rock, her face gradually relaxes.  I try to match her movements, but the sway of the porch swing under us prevents me from from discovering a comfortable rhythm.  She is seemingly unbothered by the swaying, using it to keep herself moving with minimal effort, and is too caught up in the moment to notice my difficulty.  Instead, I slide my hands along her stomach beneath the tank top, enjoying the feel of baby fat beneath my hands, the softness diminishing as I move further up along her torso, her breasts small but quite firm beneath my touch.  I explore her body as she explored mine, testing the softness of her skin, the tension of her muscles as she rocks against me, as she finds her release, and I find mine.

Jenny catches her breath and slides off of my lap, groaning in the process.  She adjusts her clothing again as she sits beside me on the swing, then puts her head on my shoulder with a long, satisfied sigh.  “That was truly enjoyable,” she comments.

I sigh and give my own grunt of affirmation.  I slip my arm around her shoulder and pull her in closer to my side.  “Enjoyable, and thoroughly appreciated,” I answer.

Jenny gets situated against me, her head back in the follow below my collar.  I hear her say, almost timidly, “That was a one-time deal, wasn’t it?”

I look down at her.  “That depends,” I say, the concern obvious in my voice.  “If you mean, was that the beginning of an unexpected relationship… I’m afraid the answer is no.  But if you’re asking whether we can do this whenever we want… well, I suppose that’s up to you.”

“You have a girlfriend,” she says matter of factly.

“Which is why this isn’t a relationship.  Well, not yet, anyway.  I don’t know about the future.  I just try to bask in the present.”  I kiss the top of her head.  “And presently, I am thoroughly enjoying your company, and would have whether this happened or not.”

Jenny says nothing for a few moments, then she says, almost defeatedly, “That’s what I was afraid of.”  She turns her head and kisses my chest.  “For what it’s worth, you’re probably the most incredible guy I’ve ever met.  But I’m no one’s plaything.”

“I understand,” I answer honestly.

Jenny quietly rises from the swing, picks up her melted drink, and goes back inside.  I retrieve my scotch, also thoroughly melted, flick the june bug off the rim, and take a long, hard pull.

Kelly’s lips are pressed firmly against my own.  She’s a surprisingly talented kisser, occasionally darting her tongue teasingly across my lips, nipping at them, varying the pressure of her kiss and turning her head slightly to keep things interesting.  Her hands grip my shoulders, and mine rest comfortably on her round, well-muscled ass.  I’ve never kissed anyone this good, or with a body this fantastically toned, and the sensation of her lean, petite frame pressed against mine is maddening.

She suddenly breaks the kiss and takes a deep breath, her eyes wide, and she whispers through panting breaths, “Do you have any condoms?”

I blink in confusion.  She and I had made out once before, but she had been slightly drunk and was in a relationship with a guy back home, so I wasn’t expecting such an abrupt question, or even the opportunity to actually pursue something physical with her.  So all I can manage to say is, “Umm… no?”

“That’s a shame,” she says.  Her fingertips trace circles on my stomach–wait, when did she unbutton my shirt?

“A shame?” I repeat blankly.  “Why?”  Master of witty rapport, that’s me.

“Because if you did,” she answers calmly, “I’d fuck you right now.”

Consider my mind fully blown.

“Do you want me to–”

Kelly cuts me off by grabbing my crotch.  She bites her lower lip as she gives my hard length a tentative squeeze between forefinger and thumb, gasping in what I think is surprise.  “Holy… yeah, that will do.”  She steps away and sits on my bed.  “I’ll wait here.”

I bolt out of my dorm room faster than any man in history has moved before.  In a heartbeat, I’m knocking insistently on my neighbor’s door.  He opens it and immediately starts laughing at me, standing in the hall with my half-buttoned shirt hanging open, my hair unkempt from the aggressively physical make-out session.  “Dude, nice outfit.  She fuck you or what?”

“Not yet!”  I say, a little louder than I had intended.  “You owe me a condom.  Pay up.”

He laughs again as he retrieves a wooden cigar box, which he holds open to me.  “Take your pick.  Lubed or unlubed, colored, ribbed?  I even have some glow-in-the-dark ones that are usually good for a laugh.”

“Don’t care,” I reply.  I take a mixed handful of the small square packages and quickly about-face.  I hear him say something to the effect of, “Optimistic, aren’t we?” as I close the door to my dorm room behind me.

Kelly is still sitting on my bed, leaning back casually on her elbows.  “Did you get one?”

“More than one,” I answer, tossing the fistful of condoms on the bed beside her.  “I took the potluck approach.”

“I bet we can use them all tonight,” Kelly says, her voice suddenly more husky, almost raspy.  The sound makes my heart race in anticipation, and she beckons–literally, with one crooked finger.

I step forward, and she quickly, and a little too expertly, hooks her thumbs through my belt loops, pulling my hips toward her face.  I watch in astonishment as she leans her face toward me, biting at the button of my jeans and tugging, pulling it through the slot with a deft turn of her head.  She grips the zipper with her lips and draws that down as well.

Without thinking, I mutter, “Hope you’re not planning on gnawing your way through my boxers.  This is my favorite pair.”  I immediately remind myself to shut the fuck up.

Kelly looks up at me, eyes gleaming wickedly, and simply says, “Nah.”  Her thumbs hook under the waistline, and she pulls down, freeing me from my jeans and boxers in one easy pull.  She looks away from me, to my fully erect member, and I hear her gasp again.  “Holy shit, are you kidding me?!”  She wraps her hand around my shaft and moves me around as if inspecting me.  The scrutiny makes me slightly uncomfortable, but the feeling disappears as she draws me into her mouth.  I can’t stop myself from groaning as I feel her throat muscles contract, pulling me down her throat.  She makes a small, unpleasant choking sound as she pulls her head back, and she gasps, this time for air.

“Nope, can’t deepthroat you,” she says as she wipes her mouth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to choke you,” I mutter.

Kelly laughs brightly.  “Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.  Besides, there are plenty of other things I can do with this.”  She stresses “this” by grabbing my shaft again and squeezing gently.  I can barely breathe, I’m so…  Aroused?  Horny?  No, I think the only appropriate word is maddened, driven to the brink of insanity by the anticipation of what’s to come.  Every nerve in my body is tingling, and I am hyperaware of every touch of her skin against mine as she removes my shirt… the sight of her standing and disrobing, exposing pale flesh, tiny yet perky breasts, a well-groomed landing strip… the sound of rumbling bass and high guitar chords…

…wait, what?

Through the walls, I hear, “I’ve been really tryyyyyyyyyyin’, baaaaaaby…”

Oh no.

The music continues, and Marvin Gaye croons to us.  “Tryin’ tah hooold back this feelin’, for soooooo looooooooooooooooooong…”

Kelly and I both look to the wall, eyes wide.  “And if you feel like I feel baby… come on, whoa, come on…”

Kelly quickly presses her fully nude body against mine, dancing against me, and sings along, “Let’s get it ooooooooooooon…………”  She nails the falsetto squeal and laughs again as she rests her head on my shoulder.  “Your neighbors have a fucked up sense of humor.”

“Yeah,” I say numbly, “sorry about that.  I got the condoms from him, so I guess he thought this would be funny.”

“Well…”  She looks up at me, and the wicked gleam in her eyes returns.  “If they want to be spectators, we may as well give them a good show…”

Within minutes, and for the next several hours, the music is drowned out by Kelly’s high-pitched, pleading cries, and I can’t help but think that this is what Marvin had in mind.

The next morning, I walk bleary-eyed into the communal kitchen of my hall, and am immediately greeted by thunderous applause and cheers from my hallmates.  My neighbor gives me a firm thumbs up.

All I can do is bow.