A while ago—a long while ago—I had an idea for a story. I began, but life got messy, kids got born, and walls got painted. When I eventually came back to it I couldn’t seem to take it anywhere; I kept re-writing and changing but it was stale. The only thing I never changed was the style—it’s first person perspective (which is fun to write) and second person narrative, a narrative that fascinates me—I just love the way it sucks me right in (me the reader, not the writer).

So.

The story is lame and I’m stuck. I begin thinking about other second person narrative stories I’ve read, what I might cannibalize from them. There aren’t many, unless you count instruction manuals, but there used to be these choose your own adventure stories. I don’t know if they still do this stuff anymore with books—they probably do, I hope they do—I know they have games like that, but if you don’t know what they are the name is pretty self explanatory: you pick a direction at a key point in the story—explore the creepy mansion(p.36) or follow the light you saw in the woods(p.45), tell your best friend about the secret door(p.15) or don’t(next page)—and lead the tale in the direction you want. As a kid, I always went back and re-read the book, making different choices until I had read every possible scenario.

I doubt I’m the first person to do an erotic story like this, but it’s the first time and erotic story is doin’ me like this. And I saw a problem right away with the perspective: I’ve automatically excluded a woman from being the object or addressee, what with all the ‘your cock’-s and all. (sorry girls, but if you use your imaginations … :D) To make it worse, the style of the writing is awkward, switching as it does between first and second person, thought and speech, even changing tenses at least once so far. I have abused the uses of punctuation and grammar. There are things implied and hinted at. Some things you will have to figure out for yourself with clues. And there is only one choice to make after all. I wanted to do more but it was turning into War and Peace—kinda like this foreword.:p The idea did jump-start my imagination, though.

I freely admit I broke many rules. Frankly, it may be confusing although I hope not. Rather then just tell a story, I wanted to create a mood, set a scene, make it intimate. To paraphrase—a story not only of sight and sound but of mind. To that end I also broke it into sections. O-intermissions if you will. Plus I haven’t finished it yet.

I ask only this ... try to read it as if it were a voice-over or a letter, don’t be too hard on me for the rules I broke, and that if you can, if your browser has an option for it(I don’t know if they all do)—indulge me and please set your text size to small.

As always, criticism is welcome.

Thanks. ~x~

__________________
Trees give peace to the souls of men * Nora Waln

The forest would be very quiet if no other birds sang than those who sing the best * Henry van Dyke

some fairly sordid tales, rambles, and anecdotes
Hypothetically Speaking * Something More * Cammy Interrupted * An Experimental Vacation * Masked * so..damn..hot * Thank You * My toy, his idea * no.19 Maple Lane * I Have A Surprise For You * Yesterday * In a Quiet Kitchen * help me decide * untitled prose * more untitled prose

I stroke a finger around the dimmer switch, dowsing the lights to a subtle glow and stroll to you slowly, pausing once to let my robe fall, again to slip off my nightie … once more to drop my panties, leaving a trail of crumpled pajamas on the floor.

You watch me from the center of the bed, already naked, resting on a dozen soft blankets, propped up by a hundred supple pillows, contemplating a thousand different ways a promise might be fulfilled, wondering when the hell our room got so huge it took eight hours to cross it.

Um, wait.

Sorry. I need to back up a bit here. What I should say is that you’re probably naked. Maybe the silk scarves that criss-cross your wrists and lash them to the phallic symbol that adorns the headboard and calls itself a finial make you feel decently covered—but somehow, I suspect they don’t.

We’re agreed then?

Good.

You glance to the right, at the little nightstand who’s contents were all you could look at until I walked through the door—waiting for me, already tethered, very aware of that table, wondering what you heard in the shower, if you even heard anything at all, and if what you think you heard—excuse me—think you may have heard meant what you believe it does, confusing yourself with tenses and thinking heard is a funny sounding kind of a word. And staring at that table. Your glance now shows you the same things occupy it since your last scrutiny. The lamp and book that normally sit there like a cozy old married couple have some very racy house guests.

Clustered near the center, on top of the book, are three small bottles. There’s a bottle of lube and two of the antique perfume bottles we have collected over the years—and filled whenever we found something worthy of their artistry—two of the sultan’s most sumptuous houris flanking a plain, boring, everyday, opaque bottle of lube looking even shabbier for the teeth marks in it’s blue flick-top. Lube serves it’s purpose, and does so commendably, but the oils—now there’s something to appreciate, to splurge on, to covet. You’re exhilarated by the sight of the mother of pearl bottle, with it’s beautiful teardrop shape and rose quartz stopper; the vanilla oil you know it holds. But the other one … the other one is ruby red waterglass with so many facets on it’s surface it seems to ripple like the real thing, shaped like a bud vase and looking like a bottle of sex. And til now had stood empty—at least you thought it was empty—on the bathroom shelf. A new one, you can’t wait, your jaw tightens, your cock throbs.

Behind the bottles, on the far corner of the table, the one opposite the lamp, lies a strap-on—you’ve never seen it before—with a skin-colored cock sticking straight up and demonstrating exactly what it means to say the devil in the details—sticking straight up from a tangled free-for-all of bullhide straps that are only a slim inch yet look strong enough to harness an ox, and brassy metal D-rings that wink the light back at you from somewhere amid the many loops. And no, it’s not a stretch to imagine this strap-on has a brassy side.

Nearest you is a jeweled silver hair-clip that holds at least a dozen colorful feathers in its many rounded teeth and tries, unsuccessfully, to conceal itself under a strip of black cloth—some sort of glossy fabric, synthetic and stretchy looking.

A little to the right is a battery powered vibrator about four inches long or so—sexy, slim and creamy white—lying on wrinkles of purple terrycloth. Such a nimble little funfaerie … and so naughty, too.

And behind that naughty little funfaerie sits a tumbler, and a heavy glass pitcher half-full of icy water and half fogged over, sweating driblets, cocooning a neon-green glass dildo.

You look back at me, an eyebrow raised. Planning a marathon are we?

Ignoring your wit, wearing only an impish smile, I climb on the bed and lick your right foot. From your heel to your instep, swirling up to your ankle—a bite—a lazy, wet trail over your calf … your knee, bending it to create that crease behind, licking it like it’s pussy—probing, stroking, lapping … up your thigh … your balls … your navel. Your cock bumps along my body as I move onward … my chin … my throat … my breasts … my ribs—I hesitate, back-up, cut my teeth on a nipple—bumpity-bump back over my ribs … my stomach … my hip. I lick your neck and the swirls of your ears and check on the restraints. They’re fine, of course—only a friendly reminder—and I lie right on top of you; pressing my weight … into you. Your cock is… well, you could say it’s trapped … right against my thigh and I kiss your mouth; a long, deep kiss. Lots of tongue. Head titling, lip licking. It goes on for days and I shift and wiggle, grinding against you. Nipples tangle with the hair on your chest. Fingers play with the sensitive curls at your nape and go slip-slip-slipping behind your ear and down, riding the curve of your shoulder, skimming up your arm soft as a cat’s tail, over bound wrists, curling to a fist between the palms of your hands. You close your fingers, giving it a quick squeeze and I slither down your body—an inch … three … eight—tilt my hips forward so I can press my clit to your thigh, press my lips to your neck. My knee prods between your legs, opening folds of wet pussy with a slurp and I rock slick bud to prickly skin. I drag my mouth to your cheek, leave a damp trail on your thigh, breathe muddled words in your ear—hhhiii’mmmmwhhhhe’rrrgoinngggtoooomahhhkyhhoooucum mt’nighhht. azhardazyoucan. azmanytimezzazyoucan … bhhhuut …

… I look at your face and reach between us—even though you didn’t catch more than three words(cum,hard…..butt?)they felt so goddamn good huffing into your head that your cock is swollen almost beyond bearing regardless. My palm and fingers feel so cold against the hot blood your heart is pumping to your aching cock … my knuckles dig into your stomach, your hips move reflexively, craving friction. Your eyes roll back …

… but you’ll have to trust me. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? You shake your head—Not a word.—and fuck my hand. I laugh. Alright then, I’ll rephrase: what would you say if I told you someone incredibly sexy … namely me … has arranged for you, us, to fulfill a fantasy—a previously thought to be entirely quixotic fantasy— without exactly … checking with you first? Would you be willing?

You ponder this cryptic query, feel me sliding over your thigh in a most. sleazy. manner… exaggerated, slow … ‘round and ‘round and ‘round … windmilling. Waiting for an answer.

It sinks in and you roll your eyes. I can’t help a nerdy snort.

Scrutinizing me now—which fantasy?. I shake my head with a secret smile. You smile back. Good. Stop moving.

No friction anymore, just pressure and pressure and pressure … and my hair tickles your face as I lean closer and lick your neck. I lick all of it; pulse points and throat and chin and larynx and jawbone and tendon and hollow. My body is so relaxed, even the parts I am moving against you—my fingers, my mouth, my hand, my pussy—relaxed and heavy and sensual and on top of you and lulling you with smooth pressure … pressure on your cock, pressure on your body. Give over. Close your eyes. Sink deeper into the rumpled blanket and soft pillows. Bobbing along on a warm sea of mattress … sailing the waves of pleasure … so relaxed … boneless, weightless … my hand begins to move and pressure mingles with friction and you’re embraced front and back, head to toe.

Getting a hand-job.

What could be finer than this?

Not much, I tell you.

I shift to angle my head and you notice a gooey spot on your stomach. The throbbing distended head of your cock is poking out from my fist and you can feel my abdomen compressing it, squeezing out thick, sticky drops. Anticipation tightens your balls. Skin slides, the pressure on your chest lifts; you open your eyes. You see me reach for one of the oils—the new bottle. Throwing a leg over your waist, I sit on my shins to straddle you, hips gripped in my legs, cock nestled in the warm cleft of my ass, abdomen suctioned to my dripping sex. My cunt weaves a string to the pit of your stomach, tugging hard on your solar plexus every time I mouth your abs with my slick pussy, making your stomach flip-flop. I could cum right now. Just like this. Doing nothing but this—this erotic soul kiss, this raw contact—as I have before, leaving the taste of me in your navel and the aftershocks of my undoing in your gut. But right now I arch my back deeply, tickling your thighs with my hair, exposing my throat and stretching my stomach. I slide the stopper from the long neck of the bottle and place it between my breasts and draw it down, down, angling it, slipping it between us. It disappears to the round red top, and, oh fuck, you are so jealous of that slender piece of frosted glass, want to take its place, to be the one who’s slipping into that dark wet, stroking, and coaxing breathy moans. I straighten up and slide it out one small millimeter at a time, noticing the tight set of your jaw with no small amount of wicked satisfaction. I put the stopper on the towel so I can pour a short stream of the oil into my cupped palm. Returning the bottle to the table so I can finger the little pool I created … watching you watch me … stirring it around and around, releasing it’s fragrance. Mint … you sniff … subtle but there. My finger emerges, saturated, and hovers high above your nipple. A fat, trembling drop takes forever to fall—warmth spreading, rippling out, intensifying. You were expecting cold; instead it’s just this side of fire.

You ask me where i got this.

I smirk—At a store.—and stick out my tongue. I’m such a minx.

Your eyes follow my fingers to my own nipple, watching them roll and pinch and pleasure. I lean forward, careful not to tip my palm and spill my stash of liquid heat, and press my nipple to your lips. Bite me. Your tongue slithers out on reconnaissance, gets coated in a tasteless slick. Warm. Tingly … a little too tingly, almost like licking a nine volt. Altogether not the best of sensations; you’ll stick with teeth thankyouverymuch, and avoid using your eyes at all costs.

I. Said. Bite! Your teeth close over the peak. Harder! The little bud is firm and tight. You move your head from side to side, stretching, pulling on me like taffy. Damnit! I. Said. Harder! You thrash your head, yanking and wrenching and twisting and tugging and anything else you can think of. God, how I love this. It hurts and I fucking love it. And I’m scream-moaning dirty half-words and gasps of pleasure/pain. Your own nipple buzzes and tingles in empathy, you can feel it tugging for fucks’ sake. There’s a rhythm to the pulling on your belly now and more and more my moans sing in harmony with the contractions slurping at it. You want me to cum, want to watch my face, the shivers and body jerks, feel the wet against your skin, the convulsions drinking you up, but I’ll tell you a secret here—here, like this, but not there, in the room—I’m not going to cum. Not this time. I want to prolong that before-it’s-too-late moment. See how close I can get to it. How many times. Deny it. Suspend it. For as long as I can I want to savor the continuing pulsing ache of anticipation that comes with it. Until tears prick the backs of my eyes and the pain of waiting is more than I can bear. And I’ll tell you another secret—when you finally ease that pain with a smooth thrust, filling me slowly, taking up all the space until the ache has nowhere left, it feels like … like heaven. Like absolution. Like completion. Deliverance. Salvation. A symphony. Perfection. Like all the clichés you can think of rolled into one. Like touching life.

That’s enough.—I sit back abruptly—thank you,—I smile— that was nice.

Nice!?, you think, affronted. Until you notice how I’m afraid to move, struggling to keep in check—a smug sense of payback for the captive to know that the only thing between his tormentor and an orgasm is a ripple of his stomach or a bucking of his hips.

I drizzle the rest of the oil on your chest, massaging the warmth into bunched muscles, my fingers chasing after zings of sensation, leading around electric caresses and so careful for the moment to keep my pussy away from your skin. Leaning down, I blow on a nipple, graze it, blow on it, graze it, blow on it. Bend your knees. I reach behind my back and press my palm against your butt, spreading the last of the oil on your ass and right on up to the tip of your cock. My middle finger slips back down, riding the crease. My palm presses your sac up … up … over, lifting, cupping, almost, almost but not quite touching(cock, cock, there, righthere;soclose, justabit-ohpleasehigher, touchit-squeezeit, nowtouchitnow)rests back down … disappears, my finger rides back again, slipping deeper, creeping closer. It starts all over. And over. And over. And goddamnit! you wish I would touch your cock already. And fuck me that oil—inflaming, thrilling, breath-stealing oil. You pull your hand down to touch where I won’t, where the oil will … is … finally—whoops!—you swear in frustration. A string of utterly vile nonsense punctuated by yanks and twists.

Your little tantrum makes me giggle. Oh, this’ll be fun.

I release you and reach for that little black strip of cloth—Sometimes, I whisper as I slip it over your head, there can be surprises within a surprise and promise means possibility.—and it fashions itself to the concave shape of your eyes, snug, pressurized, densely dark. Sounds, taste, touch, fragrance. They are your guides now. And me.

Your right wrist is loosed; your body dips as I move off you to sit on the edge of the bed.

A dull clink. Water and ice tumble over glass.

You can come in now.

thump.

thump.

thump.

Even though it's what you more-than-half expected, suddenly you feel very vulnerable.

__________________
Trees give peace to the souls of men * Nora Waln

The forest would be very quiet if no other birds sang than those who sing the best * Henry van Dyke

some fairly sordid tales, rambles, and anecdotes
Hypothetically Speaking * Something More * Cammy Interrupted * An Experimental Vacation * Masked * so..damn..hot * Thank You * My toy, his idea * no.19 Maple Lane * I Have A Surprise For You * Yesterday * In a Quiet Kitchen * help me decide * untitled prose * more untitled prose

What happens next takes point six-oh-nine seconds from beginning to end but drags on for approximately a year: a door opens, emitting a short creak, very close-(to the right. likely source: the louvered closet next to the nightstand)- reflex drives you to strike out in that direction, the side of your hand smacks into flesh-(much much sooner than you anticipate)-someone umpfs, a splash-thud; a bark of surprised pain; a laugh.

That landed on my toes, you knucklehead. Relax, wouldjya? … or I’ll tie your wrist back up.

Chastened, mumbling apologies until a small finger presses your lips shut.

Don’t worry about it. Touch yourself; we want to watch.

Hesitating, more than a little embarrassed, silently contemplating the circumstances—

Who is this person?-you rack your brain for someone we both know who just happens to be debauched enough to do this, come up with absolutely no one; someone only I know? … how the fuck would you know.

Options:

One ~you could take off the blindfold—you’ve got a free hand after all.

Two ~you could ask straight-up; who, what, when and how.

Three ~you could ferret out the section of your brain that won’t shut up and tell it take a cue from your cock and sod off.

Four ~you could remain in liberating ignorance of how, when, what and who—

wait a minute. is there even a who here? could I have rigged the door? you wouldn’t put it past me and it would certainly be possible to do so—a length of string, a well timed pull, the reason for this itchy blindfold. and no matter how hard you strain, you can’t hear anything that indicates another person—not since you began this little internal investigation. (and let’s face it, that could have been three hours ago for all you know.) not even anyone breathing, although my own quiet respiration is clearly audible in the heavy silence … well, nothing since ‘The Calamity’, anyway (as it will later come to be affectionately known). Then again—

To sum up: you’re picking apart the moment.

Stop it. Stop thinking. Just do it.—your hand is gently guided to your cock—Stroke. Let us watch.

Someone … someone else, some … some stranger … watching you … maybe … watching you … stroke your cock, but … but can’t see … not sure … ah—that thought alone could make you cum using only the lightest touch—is this real? … or a clever fabrication? … go slow … take it easy … settle … but, Fuck-An-A, someone’s watching … a jolt of lust zaps you from the back of your neck to the bottom of your feet.

A loud click … several cold drops on the head of your cock; fuel to the fire. You stroke to the tip and work the lube down. Long and slow until I say otherwise. Your breathing is heavy and irregular. Your mouth is tight and dry. My voice paints a picture for you, detailing each upstroke that swells the head and expresses another pearl of pre-cum; illustrating each down-stroke that stretches the skin and highlights lube-polished ridges. Slower. Move your hips. Something soft blocks your hand from achieving the next full upstroke. Lips? Probably. Yes. Cushioning you from teeth, sucking hard on the tip, only the tip, for an eternity … with an unusually precise scrutiny—you recognize one of my more favorite tactics. Damn! why can’t you get me to swallow more? You quicken the pace, trying to trip me up, and feel the recognition of your feeble attempt in my answering snicker. I’m pushing you against the roof of my mouth and humming … humming … humming… Go faster, commands a very muffled voice. You hesitate. I know what you’re thinking behind that dark blindfold; your head is pressed deep into the pillow and your teeth are clenched. Let go your inhibitions, would ya? Feels fucking good, right? Damn right it does. I love this … you love this, so … perform for me, already! … and for whoever else is here. … maybe. Planting your feet for leverage (I knew you’d come around if you just took a sec to think it through.) and pumping … fingers slipping … pushing aside the mouth, the lips … over the head … and over the head … and over the head … and over the head, listening to the sloppy-wet noises of a thoroughly slippery hand-fuck. Damn, baby … so sexy. You feel a hand … who’s? … wrap around yours, forcing you to squeeze your cock even tighter. I know you want to cum but you can’t. Not yet, anyway. But go faster. I want to watch so you will…not…cum. I know it feels good but don’t…don’t cum…not yet … go faster.—(Fuck! When in the hell am I gonna learn that telling you not to cum only makes you wannafuckingcum.)

Holding back the inevitable insanity by gritting your teeth, using your hips as pistons, you force your cock faster and faster through your tight fist. Moaning in that harsh way you know I cream for. More cold lube drips onto your dick and hand and the wet sounds get … uhhhmm … wetter. A hand slides under your ass, massaging that minty oil around-(oochrist! you forgot about that!)-a finger slips inside your tight hole, probing for that sweet spot that drives you crazy, and slips out again. Fingers caress your chest, pinch your nipples. Hands … too many hands? … moving and roaming … a lot … you can’t concentrate enough to count them … touching you … everywhere. The finger slip in again, the oil tingles, the sensation is … indescribable—it must have its own fingers … a zillion of them. You can’t control it anymore, you want to but this is … it’s too excessive … the fantasy … the hands … working deep—your skin is crawling with the need to cum. You think about other things: times-tables, fiber optics, Alaskan salmon, the Doppler effect, exchange rates, Barbara Walters-(eww!—hey! she kinda looks like Dr. Ruth, the sex expert with a bossy German accent … accents, now they’re sexy … dirty talk with sexy accents). Fuckitall, it’s not working. Just when you know that you couldn’t do this—not for one more second—and keep yourself from ejecting streams of cum onto your stomach, you feel a hand grip your forearm and jerk it away. For a second you feel like you’re going to cum anyway—phantom friction.

That slim finger—it must be mine, for who else knows how to flick and twitch inside you in just that way?—is still now. Your heartbeat slows, your mind focuses again. Your arm is placed above your head to be tied to the headboard again. And now you’re sure; that’s my finger inside you, and there’s a palm on your chest, and your wrist was just tied up.

Holy mindfuck.

You must admit, though, you did it to yourself.

Someone besides us, someone who just watched you jerk off … helped you, even? … is standing right here in this room. Wickedness thickens your blood and you expel a shaky laugh. The bed dips right, the finger slips out, and you roll back to level. You feel a smooth body brushing weightlessly across your stomach, then up both sides along your ribs, under your arms to the backs of your arms. You can feel slight warmth from right above your face and inhale. That’s me, you know my scent. I must be straddling you. Those are my thighs touching your arms, that is my pussy giving off the heat you can feel.

Open your mouth. You hear my knees pop as I lower myself a bit. You feel my fingers against your lips, spreading my swollen labia. Stick out your tongue. Your tongue comes in contact with the hard little bud and I sigh. My hips shift and I rock back and forth against you, my thighs brushing your arms, my toenails scoring your sides, my clit stroking your tongue. You start to lick and I pull back. Ah-ah-ah…not allowed. Just hold still while I take my pleasure. Thirsty?—You can hear the puckish laughter in my voice.

I shift again, licking my clit against your hard tongue. The bud all tight and small, tickling the tip of your tongue as it moves over and back across it, circling around so that you taste cushy lips and bumpy-wet skin. A hand wraps around your cock, stroking. Fingers brush your mouth again as I spread my cunt wider. Your tongue is guided to dripping entrance and I lower myself onto it oh so slowly. Automatically you flex that muscle, making it a hard, slender hook. Ahhh, yesss. Good … so good. Can you taste that? Can you feel that? I tense around your tongue, sucking on it, rising up and coming down on you again and again … can’t go very deep, but it’s deep enough. You can feel the throbbing, taste the tangy nectar. The hand that strokes you falters. You moan … someone else moans. It sounds like they are maybe to your right. You hear slurpy sounds—definitely on the right—like someone fingering a wet pussy, or stoking a slick cock. So sweet … to just get a little …torture to feel your tongue …just … just barely inside, when what I want … what I really really want is … is your cock … deep. Over and over I pierce myself, moaning, panting, gasping, groaning. My voice sounds far away. Your cock is getting its massage again, doubling the frequency of squishy noises and such, but now that you’ve heard it you can’t stop hearing it. Those sounds! Those sounds are driving you crazy. Sounds of fucking, right there and you can’t even watch, you can only listen and imagine…and you don’t even know what to imagine. You picture a girl, cunt stretched wide around a fantastically thick dildo, pumping away. A guy stroking his well-lubed cock.

Get the lube, and … that. Rustling—to the right again—a soft thud … a click … the wet release of lube from it’s bottle … a hissing breath … cold droplets on your chin … a very brief touch upon your chest … fingers playing with your lips.

Close your mouth, rest your tongue. My hands disappear and your head dips a little, something knocks against the wall above your head … my clit settles on your nose—I’m ready. ( ready for what?) Yesssss! ohhh-yess … this is going to feel—I giggle—very naughty. My clit slides down the bridge your nose again, maybe because hips shift slightly?, probably to allow access to my ... whichplace? for ... whateveritis? You get a quick taste of my cunt … not there then.

Hole-EE fuck—deeper … as much of it as you can. Please! Someone is holding it, fucking me with it. Sounds … slurping, sticky and filling your head. You listen hard to it, in the dark, getting high on the sexual haze. Your brain feels fuzzy, buzzing. Something keeps chucking you under your jaw, repeatedly, occasionally scratching. And now the buzzing is in your ears. You feel like you've stood up too fast. A knuckle bumps into your chin, then something harder than that. My breathing is harsh, my moans—a low, almost constant rumble. The buzzing abruptly grows louder, filling your head. You can feel it in your face, on your nose. I scream ... I actually scream. I cuh-can't anymore ... ohfuck ... open your mouth. Sobbing. My clit bumps against your teeth in my haste to press it against your mouth—you know what I want. Jittering quakes from the vibrator pressed deep in my ass shimmy up your tongue as you french-kiss my pussy past the last barrier to convulsing, dripping orgasm and humming pleasure that milks and feeds your mouth.

The bed bounces as I tumble off you and land on the left. A hand lazily brushes your side, tickling your hip and ribs, traveling up to your armpit and bicep, then back down again. I wipe the moisture from your mouth and walk my fingers down to your belly, pausing to pinch a nipple, and finally down to your groin. OK? You tell me that yes, you’re okay. You sure now, right? That it’s not just me … pretending? Cause I know that’s what you were thinking. You nod. A sticky hand wraps around your cock, squeezing the shaft. You know that whoever it is fucked my ass while you licked me to orgasm? Again you nod (and shiver). I chuckle—You felt those good vibrations, did you? You shiver again. You want to cum so badly, I know you do, so I begin to slip my fingers over the head with every stroke—hmm, you feel so good…so hard…so ready. I think I want to make you cum. Rustling, to the right, lots of it, a clink, and then nothing for a moment. Your body dips again to the left, the hand stroking you never falters; more weight on the bed. I'll watch your cock slide through my fingers while I jerk you off. I'll watch it twitch and pulse when I make you cum. Fuck you. Stroke you. Milk you. I know it’s throbbing, I can feel it. And it feels so fucking good. I know it aches. I know what you want ... I’m going to give it to you.

Now that my voice is quiet you notice the bed is bouncing. Lightly. And the sounds. Gulping … and lapping … sounds like a dog, ferchristsake. Feel my hand, feel it grip you. Feel it milk you like the tightest cunt. Feel it squeeze you like the sweetest pussy. When you cum, I’ll see it…we’ll see it.

You almost want to tell me to shut up. In fact, if I wasn’t saying such indecent things, you would. Not tha—oo-wait she’s quiet again … Ok, so it’s not a lapping dog(phew!), more like slapping … kinda … but fast, really fast …drubbing and clicking …drubbing and clicking. A picture of some 80’s rocker flicking his tongue like a cunnilingus champion on a berserker rage pops in your head. Shit! what’s making that sound; whatever it is it sounds fucking hot. You’re about to swallow your pride and ask for a feeble clue—We’ll watch as ri(fuckitall, she’s talking again)nd splatter on your stomach and I’ll le(whoops! missed a good part; pay attention!)iss your(fuck!)mouth so you can taste it, too. My hand is pumping you … pumping you … pumping—I start growling … at least, you hope it’s me.

grrwah … hofuck. spank it. yes, like that. perrrfect … no! go faster. oh, ohfuck, up, yesohgodyes, up there! whoafuck-ohyes-oh-oh ……… wanna know wh-what …… feels so good? You nod your head crazily. Muh-my pussy … hsss getting spuh-spuh-spanked … oh-ohfuck … buh-by the tip of the strap-on … h-hard … really hard … right on my wet cunt … right there … an-an fast, so fuh-fast …fuck it feels good … mmmm you’re cock issso pretty right before you cum.

You’re belly constricts and everything else fades out as a pulsing orgasm holds you immobile a minute; forever. A few hot streams of cum jettison onto your chest and stomach and you can move again. Your chest heaves as a greedy tongue cleans off your stomach—just like I said I would. Kisses your mouth, transferring the flavor—just like I said I would. Cool air replaces my body-heat and the bed dips to left of center.

Come closer. You shake your restraints, thinking duh, I can’t moo-oove. Oh—I giggle—I’m not talking to you. I’m going to tell you who is here with us … if you want to know? Suddenly nervous, you shake your head. Alright…are you ready to know if it’s a man or woman? You nod.

The bed dips again as more weight presses on the mattress. Here, give me your hand, we’re going to let him feel for himself. Your mouth goes dry with anticipation…you can’t honestly say if you’d rather a man or a woman, both prospects excite you.

A hand touches your thigh; it’s larger than mine but soft…hmmm. It strokes your leg, squeezing and massaging … skims your torso—Can you tell yet?—hovers over your soft cock … knuckles brushing, tickling … fingertips dancing. You hear heavy breathing: not mine. And a pounding heartbeat: yours. Fingers graze over to your right nipple, circling around and around. Something wet replaces them … a hot probing tongue. The hand that was teasing your cock finally wraps around, squeezes tight … tighter … tighter. Hot breath washes over your nipple. Teeth close around it, pulling. Hair barley brushes your chest. The hand on your cock begins to stroke slowly. You’re getting hard again. Waiting. This is killing you. Who is this? Which do you want? The wet tongue that was on your nipple travels to the head of your cock—licking and licking and licking the whole way there. Lips close around the thick head, sucking.

Do you know yet? No, damnit. You’re still not sure.

Tell me … right now … don’t think, which do you want?

Both! you blurt, shocked but caught up in the moment, drunk on lust and feeling like anything goes, thrusting your hips, forcing your cock into that eager mouth.

Tsk, tsk … how greedy you are. But that, I’m afraid, was beyond even my own debauched talents and capacity for shady dealings.

You falter. Shady dealings!?

I’m kidding.
.
.
.
Well, except for that one dealing. But it was only slightly shady/stop sucking; I’m going to untie one of his hands. Your cock and hand are loosed almost simultaneously. Immediately you reach out, trying to grab … anything. At this point, you’d take a touch of any body part, really—but all you get is air. A giggle.

You flinch as someone grabs your free hand and guides it. Your fingertips are allowed the merest stroke. Skin; smooth with hard bumps just beneath the surface. A fiendish chuckle. A backbone.

Bitch.

Alright. Enough. Cry mercy and I’ll let you touch something that will tell you exactly what you want to know. You curse me for a sadistic hussy … I’ll accept that. … your hand is transferred to another … for a fleeting moment your wrist feels the slithery effect of too many fingers occupying not enough space. A hand wraps around your wrist, turning it so that your palm is up, your fingers open. Let him touch you somewhere … telltale. It guides you … mild heat radiating from above.

Raise your hand…just a little bit…

__________________
Trees give peace to the souls of men * Nora Waln

The forest would be very quiet if no other birds sang than those who sing the best * Henry van Dyke

some fairly sordid tales, rambles, and anecdotes
Hypothetically Speaking * Something More * Cammy Interrupted * An Experimental Vacation * Masked * so..damn..hot * Thank You * My toy, his idea * no.19 Maple Lane * I Have A Surprise For You * Yesterday * In a Quiet Kitchen * help me decide * untitled prose * more untitled prose