She was feeling frisky. I grabbed the camera. We pushed the coffee table aside. She lay on the carpet, twisted her body into new and inventive positions. This one showed her thong. You can guess what happened next.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
THE WOMEN'S SAUNA
I knew a girl named Laska--like "Alaska," without the "a." She was from Alaska, but not named for the state. Actually, she told me, Laska is a Russian word, and it means beautiful. Her family was Russian decedents, belonging to a sect of Russian Orthodoxy called the Old Believers. They'd escaped Russia in Czarist times, scattered across the world, including small villages in the former Russian territories of Alaska.
Laska told me of her childhood in the village. The men fished and drank vodka, she said. The women grew tubers and canned what vegetables they could grow in the short summers. They kept goats for milk, cream, butter. They sewed the men's work clothes and dresses for church. At nights, they would sauna. It's a tradition shared by nearly all cold-climate cultures. It was a time to relax from the day's chores. The men and women had separate saunas. That time, said Laska, was her fondest memory of the village, and growing up.
The sauna was a safe place. No drunk fathers, no abusive uncles. No chores and no scoldings from mothers and aunts and grandmothers. Some of the women had already had babies, and some were not yet married. Some women looked more Scandinavian, other's were part-Inuit. Whatever their body shape, size, or age, in the sauna they were all the same.
"American culture," said Laska, "doesn't have this. It's sad."
"It's sad," I agreed.
I knew a girl named Laska--like "Alaska," without the "a." She was from Alaska, but not named for the state. Actually, she told me, Laska is a Russian word, and it means beautiful. Her family was Russian decedents, belonging to a sect of Russian Orthodoxy called the Old Believers. They'd escaped Russia in Czarist times, scattered across the world, including small villages in the former Russian territories of Alaska.
Laska told me of her childhood in the village. The men fished and drank vodka, she said. The women grew tubers and canned what vegetables they could grow in the short summers. They kept goats for milk, cream, butter. They sewed the men's work clothes and dresses for church. At nights, they would sauna. It's a tradition shared by nearly all cold-climate cultures. It was a time to relax from the day's chores. The men and women had separate saunas. That time, said Laska, was her fondest memory of the village, and growing up.
The sauna was a safe place. No drunk fathers, no abusive uncles. No chores and no scoldings from mothers and aunts and grandmothers. Some of the women had already had babies, and some were not yet married. Some women looked more Scandinavian, other's were part-Inuit. Whatever their body shape, size, or age, in the sauna they were all the same."American culture," said Laska, "doesn't have this. It's sad."
"It's sad," I agreed.
GIRLFRIEND IS A CENTERFOLD
When I was growing up, my dad had a stack of Penthouse magazines stashed under my parent's bed. Of course I found them. And when I had the house to myself, of course I looked. How erotic it was then, even just a glimpse of a girl with a tank top and no shorts. A peek of a public patch. These were the older girls, the ones we Freshmen dreamed of dating--Seniors, cheerleaders, the girls who played tennis or swam. The girls who wore rugby shirts of their jock boyfriends. Girls who talked of boys at bathroom mirrors. The girls who were our counsellors at camp when we were 12 and they were 15--such a divide then. We were still kids; they were in the adult world of high school, with boyfriends. They had "made out." We could only dream of stealing a peek, in a shower room, like our favorite scene in "Porky's," or in a magazine.
Here's to those years of innocence, the desire before the experience. It is agonizing and awkward when you are going through it, but looking back, what any of us would give to look at a girl like this and feel that way again.
Friday, February 27, 2009
KODAK MOMENT
How sexy that this couple stops along a nature walk. She goes down on him, pulls out his penis and begins to suck. That alone would be enough for a sexy-sex experience. But even better: she holds the camera at arms's length. She snaps a picture of her inspired work. He thinks he is a lucky bastard, twice.
How sexy that this couple stops along a nature walk. She goes down on him, pulls out his penis and begins to suck. That alone would be enough for a sexy-sex experience. But even better: she holds the camera at arms's length. She snaps a picture of her inspired work. He thinks he is a lucky bastard, twice.
ALL-AMERICAN COUPLE
How lovely, an American couple, smiles. In their first house, and wedding pictures in albums. You see them at work, at dinner parties. You think--they are so good looking together. They are the young man you want to marry your daughter; the daughter for your son. A handsome couple. Successful. Going places.
And, maybe, we think for a moment--they must have good sex. We want to believe that any couple so good looking, so full of promise will have the sex that sets the example for the rest of us. We want his cock to be hard; her body to be firm. We want them to suck and fuck and be our inspiration.
Or maybe most people don't. Maybe they go to church and don't want to think of the newlyweds boinking. Maybe, when traveling and trying to sleep in a hotel bed, the sound of bedsprings drifts through the thin walls--maybe some are annoyed. Some don't want to think of other's sex lives. But I do.
Lying in that hotel bed, hearing the mattress moan. Driving down streets of houses. Shopping. I want to think that in every town, in every social circle, is a couple as good looking and happy as this, who love each other, and love love love to get it on.
And, maybe, we think for a moment--they must have good sex. We want to believe that any couple so good looking, so full of promise will have the sex that sets the example for the rest of us. We want his cock to be hard; her body to be firm. We want them to suck and fuck and be our inspiration.
Or maybe most people don't. Maybe they go to church and don't want to think of the newlyweds boinking. Maybe, when traveling and trying to sleep in a hotel bed, the sound of bedsprings drifts through the thin walls--maybe some are annoyed. Some don't want to think of other's sex lives. But I do.
Lying in that hotel bed, hearing the mattress moan. Driving down streets of houses. Shopping. I want to think that in every town, in every social circle, is a couple as good looking and happy as this, who love each other, and love love love to get it on.
THROUGH THE SAN JUAN ISLANDS
On a ferry ride in Puget Sound, heading to Canada, they stopped on the side deck of the ship just long enough to snap a photo. The wind and spray of the water was chilly. No one else was out on deck. She quickly tugged down her top enough. The moment was only a few seconds, but the memory lasts forever.
On a ferry ride in Puget Sound, heading to Canada, they stopped on the side deck of the ship just long enough to snap a photo. The wind and spray of the water was chilly. No one else was out on deck. She quickly tugged down her top enough. The moment was only a few seconds, but the memory lasts forever.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
CURTAINS SO THIN
This is just such a sexy image. It reminds us that the curtains of the neighbors are so thin. Maybe we visit for neighborhood socials. Maybe we look in their fridge at a dinner party as we help in the kitchen. Maybe we use their bathrooms and soap, and can't help but get a small glimpse of their daily lives. Would coats ever be put in the bedroom; would guests fetch them at the end of the evening, and ever glance up and notice two steel bolts in the ceiling?
Wold we guess, as we head home, each to our respective beds, that this couple pulls out their swing. She strips and spreads. His bare knee is in the shot as he leans back to snap a photo. What happens next. Does he stroke himself to the sight of her suspended, stretched out? Is it his voyeur fantasy to see his wife open as a sex toy? Is it her exhibitionism fantasy, to hang from the ceiling, opened wide, watching him stroke his cock? Will they touch themselves to orgasm separately, or only for a while, until he can no longer hold back.
He stands, hip height to her in the swing. In the background are shoes in the closet, laundry. But for now, this is not a bedroom, but a sex den. He is in control and she is helpless. She has surrendered to the swing's restraint. He has grown lustful, seeing her open to his sexual power.
His cock is hard, pointed at her and lubed. Will he push it in her wet vagina, or take her in the butt? She is spread, open, voluntarily helpless. She knows he will take her how he wants, and fuck her in the swing, hard. And then pull out, and snap another photo of her, dripping his cum. She'll feel dirty, and used, and that' perfect. Because her life in the suburbs is only sustained with a little spice to her sex life.
She doesn't care if her neighbor's notice the bolts on the ceiling. She knows what they do in their bedrooms when they get home is their own business--and no doubt, just as kinky.
EYE CONTACT
They couldn't believe their luck. Scott and Amanda talked in general terms, joked even, about picking up a woman to take home to bed. In public it became a silly game--"look at her, how about those legs in bed? " she'd joke to him. OR he'd joke to her, "think she's a good kisser?" In bed, the jokes became erotically charged. As they used their hands and mouths on each other, they'd describe what their imaginary third partner would be doing.
On her knees, with him mounting her from behind, they'd pretend their third partner was below them, her tongue soft and warm, licking both of them at the intersection of their sex. This imaginary playmate made him hard and her wet, as each pictured the fantasy in their minds, but neither really knew what the other was picturing. Then, when they met Megan, there was no question. She was hot--sexy hot--with a drop-dead body, and lovely face. They both fell for her instantly, both wanted her, and to share her. As they talked, the more they liked Megan. As they learned more about her life, relaxing over drinks on their couch, Megan told them that in college she'd dated both men and women, that she liked both, but that it in college everyone was experimenting, and now, out in the work force, it was hard to meet people who were both sexy and normal. Amanda and Scott's eyes met: we've found the one, they silently said to each other.
More drinks flowed and more talk of college and sex, and Scott and Amanda continuously meet each other's glance--a check in and an afirmation that this was really happening. Their looked, wild with anticipation, kept saying yes.
Megan shared that she'd broken up with her last boyfriend, and to get some distance moved to this city. She thought it'd be an easy next chapter to start, but she'd found everything difficult, finding an apartment, getting a job, and making friends.
"Impossible," said Amanda, "you're so beautiful and funny."
Megan smiled, but shook her head. "No, it's amazing how hard it is to make a circle of friends on a new town. I've been temping for the past 6 months--when it's lunch time or happy hour after work, no one asks "the temp" if they want to come along. I even joined a gym. But when I go their, everyone's working out, with headphones, totally doing their thing."
"But I'm sure you get hit on," insisted Amanda.
"Yeah," said Megan, with a laugh, "hit on by exactly the meatheads you don't want to be hit on. It's not like the normal, sexy people like you two actually hit on me. I mean, think about it. You guys have each other and have a hot sex life. I don't want to get hit on by the lonely, desperate, and dumbass men who think they're players."
"Well I would hit on you," assured Amanda. It was a bold thing for her to say, and when it came out, she felt instantly nervous and exposed. But Megan smiled and hugged her.
Amanda and her husband Scott exchanged looks. It was on.
Amanda took a cue from what Megan had said. She began bragging about her sex life with her husband, and went into detail about his generously-sized member. She was trying to get Megan to picture her husband's cock, hard.
Amanda was so proud of it. She loved to suck on it, and she imagined it out and within reach of her lips. She wanted to taste it and give Megan a taste. To share his erection, like a favorite toy she'd share with a BFF as a girl.Megan told her she was lucky to have a hot and hung husband like Scott. Amanda agreed, but said that she was slightly jealous of Megan.
"Of me? Are you kidding--look at you two. You are both so gorgeous, You have a house, and...you've like got it all."
"But you have experience I never had," confessed Amanda. The two women had not moved apart since their hug, and were sitting closely together. Amanada lower her voice, almost to a whispher, as if confessing a deep, personal secret. "I've never even kissed a girl." She glanced at Scott. He nodded.
All three could sense the direction and the next step.
"Oh, well, it's no big deal," said Megan. "It's just a kiss."
The two women looked into each other's eyes and slowly moved together, until their lips met. Megan began to kiss Amanda. Amanda melted, letting herself be carried by the new sensation, and by the eagerness of what would come next. They kissed for what seemed like several minutes. Megan's tongue and lips so soft, so gentle. It was not at all like being kissed by a man.
Everything next seemed to flow as if a dream. No one talked, but everyone seemed to move as if they'd all done it a dozens of times, as if they were already familiar lovers. Perhaps it was because Megan had been with both men and women before, or perhaps because Scott and Amabda had imagined and re=played the scenarios over and over in their minds. Or perhaps their is a deep-down, inherent human memory of sex from thousands of generations that kicks in. Clothes came off and within seconds Megan was naked, Amanda only in her panties, and Scott only in a t-shirt.
Scott had reclined to let Megan turn her attention to his cock, which was, she found, large as promised. It was stiff and eager and waiting for her mouth. Megan's upturned hips seemed to invite Amanda for her first taste of a woman. This would be it--the crossing point and no turning back. Amanda and Scott sharing Megan, pleasuring her, and in turn, being pleasured. Amanda was inches from Megan's pussy. She could see it wet, glistening, and inviting. She leaned her face forward, inhaled, nd took her first taste. She looked up at Scott, fixing his stare with her eyes. He was blissed out, getting the knob of his thick cock sucked by Megan. Their eye contact said it all. It was exactly as they had pictured it.
ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH, COLORADO
It's funny to look back at yearbooks. Say, for example, you saw just the close up of this young woman. She looks like she's in college. The cateye glasses and haircut put her about mid-1960s. She was in high school, no doubt, when Kennedy was shot.
There's a certain assumed innocence of that time--before the assignations of both Kennedy brothers, and MLK, before the riots and before Vietnam became nightly news. Perhaps it was a small bubble of American history, bound to burst. But for a short time, Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best set the tone of the times. Dad went to work, mom cooked dinner, and the family said grace before eating.
Looking at old yearbooks, the women with shoulder-length, flipped hair, and the men in crew cuts, it's easy to imagine they were barely a few years past Boy Scouts and Home Ec class. If these faces were the onces we saw on TV, they said, "Aw sucks," and "golly" a lot. They asked Veronica if she'd "go steady."
Take the photo in a wider lens, in color, see that Veronica goes camping with friends in the Colorado Rockies. She's set out coco and coffee, as the kettle heats over the campfire. Above the the kitchen counter she's set up, she looks like the All-American girl. And below, is another story.
What a wonderful image. It reminds us that we were all young once, and never that innocent.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
GO ORGANIC!
In the past couple years, there is a growing concern for the safety of plastic sex toys. Known as phthalates, potentially dangerous compounds are found in cheaper sex toys, such as plastic vibrators, anal beads, and jelly dildos. Controversy over the health impact of phthalates, which are compounds or esters of phthalic acid, has raged for years in Europe and the US.
Avoiding the risk altogether, some woman are turning to Mother Nature for a more traditional helping hand. So instead of driving to the cheap sex store by the truck stop--you can turn to your backyard garden, for an all-natural, home-grown solution. What an easy (and fun way) to "go green."
In the past couple years, there is a growing concern for the safety of plastic sex toys. Known as phthalates, potentially dangerous compounds are found in cheaper sex toys, such as plastic vibrators, anal beads, and jelly dildos. Controversy over the health impact of phthalates, which are compounds or esters of phthalic acid, has raged for years in Europe and the US.
Avoiding the risk altogether, some woman are turning to Mother Nature for a more traditional helping hand. So instead of driving to the cheap sex store by the truck stop--you can turn to your backyard garden, for an all-natural, home-grown solution. What an easy (and fun way) to "go green."
WHY COKE TASTES BETTER IN A BOTTLE
Anyone who had Coke in the old fashioned glass bottles knows that it tastes different than in the can. It's not the container's material, as some claim. Rather, the Coke in glass bottles (made in Mexico and shipped to the US) are sweetened the old fashioned way--real sugar cane. Soda pop manufactured in the US are sweetened by high fructose corn syrup. The difference is clear.
Anyone who had Coke in the old fashioned glass bottles knows that it tastes different than in the can. It's not the container's material, as some claim. Rather, the Coke in glass bottles (made in Mexico and shipped to the US) are sweetened the old fashioned way--real sugar cane. Soda pop manufactured in the US are sweetened by high fructose corn syrup. The difference is clear.
THE PHOTOGRAPHER
One of the things my ex-girlfriend and I shared was a love of photography. She always had her camera in hand. In the mornings, she'd take photos of light through her window. She'd take pictures of me, and I took pictures of her, like this one. The relationship is gone, much like the morning light. Temporary, passing even as we felt it slide across skin, and golden. Warm and golden.
One of the things my ex-girlfriend and I shared was a love of photography. She always had her camera in hand. In the mornings, she'd take photos of light through her window. She'd take pictures of me, and I took pictures of her, like this one. The relationship is gone, much like the morning light. Temporary, passing even as we felt it slide across skin, and golden. Warm and golden.
SOCKS AND UNDERWEAR, EACH MORNING
It's our daily routine. At some point we stand beside a dresser and pick put underwear and socks for the day. Some folks are just up, still groggy. Some have walked the dog or had a run. Yet whatever the differences before or after this moment, there's a universal similarity. A moment when we are so completely in the familiar and routine that we're not even aware that we're dressed or undressed. We're just looking for some socks or underwear in the drawer. It's such a completely candid moment. It's captured in this image.
It's our daily routine. At some point we stand beside a dresser and pick put underwear and socks for the day. Some folks are just up, still groggy. Some have walked the dog or had a run. Yet whatever the differences before or after this moment, there's a universal similarity. A moment when we are so completely in the familiar and routine that we're not even aware that we're dressed or undressed. We're just looking for some socks or underwear in the drawer. It's such a completely candid moment. It's captured in this image.
MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE BED
This is just a fun photo. There are several stories that could go with this shot. Perhaps it was a weekend day, and a couple, feeling frisky, but bored, decided to take some pictures. That's a nice thought. Or perhaps, and the story I like to imagine, is that this is a self-portrait. That the girl not only set up her camera on her bedside dresser (just the right height to frame the bed), and then not only picked just what she wanted to wear (a skirt, nothing else), but she also, in her creative process, took her mirror from the wall and positioned it just so.
She pushed the self-timer. And beep-beep-beep...the red light flashed. She hopped onto the bed, straddled the mirror, hitched up her skirt and smiled just as the shutter snapped.
This is just a fun photo. There are several stories that could go with this shot. Perhaps it was a weekend day, and a couple, feeling frisky, but bored, decided to take some pictures. That's a nice thought. Or perhaps, and the story I like to imagine, is that this is a self-portrait. That the girl not only set up her camera on her bedside dresser (just the right height to frame the bed), and then not only picked just what she wanted to wear (a skirt, nothing else), but she also, in her creative process, took her mirror from the wall and positioned it just so.
She pushed the self-timer. And beep-beep-beep...the red light flashed. She hopped onto the bed, straddled the mirror, hitched up her skirt and smiled just as the shutter snapped.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
COASTAL VIEWPOINT
This is sort of a plain photo--and that's half of what makes it so great. Here is a woman in a plain white shirt, black nylon jogging pants, white tennis shoes. She has a matching wind breaker, because it's windy. And her purse. She wears a wedding ring. She's with her husband, no doubt, perhaps on vacation, or celebrating their anniversary. Has it been a few years since they met and married? She's put on a few pounds over the years (doesn't everyone), but she's feeling sexier than ever in her 30s. She keeps her public patch perfectly groomed into a rectangular strip. It was how all the Playboy models looked in the early 90s, when she was in college. Hard to believe that was more than 15 years ago... but she still keeps her hairs trimmed that way, and thinks it still looks pretty sexy, and knows it still turns her husband's head.
She's outdoors, but its not remote. She's in some wooden structure, perched on a coastal cliff, for tourists to look out. There's another viewpoint a hundred yards back. Many have come before, like the people in the background. Is that a golf course? The manicured lawn of a hotel? There's a group of people, strolling, taking in the sight of the ocean, and the sprit of the salty wind. Perhaps this couple was with the larger group, perhaps they walked up to this outlook. Were they thinking then of flashing? Were they trying to get a little distance from the group?
The woman set down her purse, stripped off her windbreaker, preparing to lift her shirt. But the green structure was only waist-high. The crowd was still in sight. If she pulled up her shirt, they others wouldn't be able to see her breasts, but, if looking that direction, would see the action of lifting the shirt and the camera flash. So instead, she pulled down her pants, just enough. Behind the wooden half-wall, no one would be any the wiser. They'd see her back, and the camera flash. It would look like any typical vacation snapshot.
Hurry... there's another couple, headed this way.
If they only knew.
This is sort of a plain photo--and that's half of what makes it so great. Here is a woman in a plain white shirt, black nylon jogging pants, white tennis shoes. She has a matching wind breaker, because it's windy. And her purse. She wears a wedding ring. She's with her husband, no doubt, perhaps on vacation, or celebrating their anniversary. Has it been a few years since they met and married? She's put on a few pounds over the years (doesn't everyone), but she's feeling sexier than ever in her 30s. She keeps her public patch perfectly groomed into a rectangular strip. It was how all the Playboy models looked in the early 90s, when she was in college. Hard to believe that was more than 15 years ago... but she still keeps her hairs trimmed that way, and thinks it still looks pretty sexy, and knows it still turns her husband's head.
She's outdoors, but its not remote. She's in some wooden structure, perched on a coastal cliff, for tourists to look out. There's another viewpoint a hundred yards back. Many have come before, like the people in the background. Is that a golf course? The manicured lawn of a hotel? There's a group of people, strolling, taking in the sight of the ocean, and the sprit of the salty wind. Perhaps this couple was with the larger group, perhaps they walked up to this outlook. Were they thinking then of flashing? Were they trying to get a little distance from the group?
The woman set down her purse, stripped off her windbreaker, preparing to lift her shirt. But the green structure was only waist-high. The crowd was still in sight. If she pulled up her shirt, they others wouldn't be able to see her breasts, but, if looking that direction, would see the action of lifting the shirt and the camera flash. So instead, she pulled down her pants, just enough. Behind the wooden half-wall, no one would be any the wiser. They'd see her back, and the camera flash. It would look like any typical vacation snapshot.
Hurry... there's another couple, headed this way.
If they only knew.
BW TORSO
Some say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Granted, everyone has their personal preferences. The ancient Greeks believed, however, in the universal quality of beauty. They felt it resulted from balance and proportion. They rendered it in marble, as if to capture their vision of perfect form. Today, we do it with digital pixels. But across the span of millennia, the concept of beauty is as sexy now as it was back then. The graceful lines of a bare-breasted torso is still a sight to behold. Ancient or Modern can not deny its enduring appeal.
Some say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Granted, everyone has their personal preferences. The ancient Greeks believed, however, in the universal quality of beauty. They felt it resulted from balance and proportion. They rendered it in marble, as if to capture their vision of perfect form. Today, we do it with digital pixels. But across the span of millennia, the concept of beauty is as sexy now as it was back then. The graceful lines of a bare-breasted torso is still a sight to behold. Ancient or Modern can not deny its enduring appeal.
COSMO SAYS
At every grocery checkstand, Cosmo promises 5 new ways to drive him wild in bed, 7 naughty tricks he wished you knew, and the the 10 sure ways to leave him begging for more.
Apparently this woman read her Cosmo, and has chucked it in the waste basket. Did she get this idea between the covers, or on her own? Either way, it looks like she figured out exactly how to seduce her man. No doubt, he'll be begging for more.
At every grocery checkstand, Cosmo promises 5 new ways to drive him wild in bed, 7 naughty tricks he wished you knew, and the the 10 sure ways to leave him begging for more.
Apparently this woman read her Cosmo, and has chucked it in the waste basket. Did she get this idea between the covers, or on her own? Either way, it looks like she figured out exactly how to seduce her man. No doubt, he'll be begging for more.
A HELPING HAND
Every morning a man of sexual age wakes with an erection. The penis is often thickest upon waking, hard or semi hard, but enough to block the urethra. With a boner, a man cannot pee. That means in the morning, he must either let his hard-on subside until he can relieve his bladder, or beat off hard and fast, and take care of that business first, and then, growing soft, complete the rest of his morning rituals.
When he is in the bathroom, suggest that you want to lend a helping hand. Gently hold his cock, heavy and thick in the morning. Tell him you want to feel the sensation of his penis as it unloads its morning urine, and aim his cock as he pisses. You'll find it a totally different sensation, a sense of power, and perhaps even a little erotic, without any mess. Most men will hold their cock as they pee to direct. They do it everyday, day after day, year after year. Most don't even give it a conciouss thought. They will as your hand wraps around their shaft.
He may grow harder in your grasp, and unable to relieve himself. The fullness of his bladder and the strain of his hard-on will only make his orgasm faster and more intense. Without even a word, begin to stroke him--slowly and build. You'll find his body jumps to attention. Beat him off, just as he would--just as he has--in front of the toilet. Men, you see, are creatures of practical, efficient habits. When they feel the urge, they go to the toliet, where they can wack off fast and then wipe and flush. Take advantage of this. Beat him off as he stands in the place he usually does his deed. He body will be trained to let loose within a few moments.
When he unloads his night's load of cum, gently stroke out the last drops, and still holding his cock, feel it soften and then let him know, it's ok to pee. The sensation of pissing while being gently held will feel like an extended orgasm, making him light headed, and weak in the knees.
Every morning a man of sexual age wakes with an erection. The penis is often thickest upon waking, hard or semi hard, but enough to block the urethra. With a boner, a man cannot pee. That means in the morning, he must either let his hard-on subside until he can relieve his bladder, or beat off hard and fast, and take care of that business first, and then, growing soft, complete the rest of his morning rituals.
When he is in the bathroom, suggest that you want to lend a helping hand. Gently hold his cock, heavy and thick in the morning. Tell him you want to feel the sensation of his penis as it unloads its morning urine, and aim his cock as he pisses. You'll find it a totally different sensation, a sense of power, and perhaps even a little erotic, without any mess. Most men will hold their cock as they pee to direct. They do it everyday, day after day, year after year. Most don't even give it a conciouss thought. They will as your hand wraps around their shaft.
He may grow harder in your grasp, and unable to relieve himself. The fullness of his bladder and the strain of his hard-on will only make his orgasm faster and more intense. Without even a word, begin to stroke him--slowly and build. You'll find his body jumps to attention. Beat him off, just as he would--just as he has--in front of the toilet. Men, you see, are creatures of practical, efficient habits. When they feel the urge, they go to the toliet, where they can wack off fast and then wipe and flush. Take advantage of this. Beat him off as he stands in the place he usually does his deed. He body will be trained to let loose within a few moments. When he unloads his night's load of cum, gently stroke out the last drops, and still holding his cock, feel it soften and then let him know, it's ok to pee. The sensation of pissing while being gently held will feel like an extended orgasm, making him light headed, and weak in the knees.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
ANON WIFE, OLD TIME
When photography was invented, it was both praised and criticized for its ability to precisely render its subject in clear detail. Painting and literature could be blurred. An individual could be composited with to create a factious character, or a generalized, or idealized image. But the camera captured every detail. A photograph of a woman was not any woman in general, but the specific person. So photographers of the 19th Century turned to prostitutes for their models--women whose reputations had already been "soiled."
In this image, the woman in the center as her eyes blotched out. Perhaps an unexpected blemish of the old paper and chemicals. Very possible. Yet look closely, there are no other blemishes. The faces of the other two women are clear. Enough, even, to identify them on the street. No other part of the women's bodies are blotched. A nipple on the left is clearly visible. Even a darker spot, perhaps a dab of the photographer's touch-up brush has accentuated the anus of center woman. It's as if the photographer wants to conceal the woman's identity, while drawing attention to her buttocks, parted by the two harlots beside her.
In ancient Rome, the prostitutes were exhibited naked on rooftops above public highways. It is said that when the legions of Roman's citizen-soldiers marched back to Rome, some of the Patrician wives would stand on rooftops, wearing only masks. The danger and excitement that discovery could bring. Now, thousands of wives post themselves online, sometimes fully exposed, and sometimes holding back just enough details to maintain their anonymity. Being looked upon with the thinnest mask of anonymity is a thrill indeed.
I'd like to think that this image shows a woman of means and status, who wanted the thrill of posing in a "French postcard." For this one sitting, she could expose herself, conceal her face, and draw attention to her lewdest, most forbidden part. Sodomy, after all, is a Biblical sin.
That fact doesn't stop us now, and no doubt, more than a 125 years ago it didn't either.
When photography was invented, it was both praised and criticized for its ability to precisely render its subject in clear detail. Painting and literature could be blurred. An individual could be composited with to create a factious character, or a generalized, or idealized image. But the camera captured every detail. A photograph of a woman was not any woman in general, but the specific person. So photographers of the 19th Century turned to prostitutes for their models--women whose reputations had already been "soiled."
In this image, the woman in the center as her eyes blotched out. Perhaps an unexpected blemish of the old paper and chemicals. Very possible. Yet look closely, there are no other blemishes. The faces of the other two women are clear. Enough, even, to identify them on the street. No other part of the women's bodies are blotched. A nipple on the left is clearly visible. Even a darker spot, perhaps a dab of the photographer's touch-up brush has accentuated the anus of center woman. It's as if the photographer wants to conceal the woman's identity, while drawing attention to her buttocks, parted by the two harlots beside her.
In ancient Rome, the prostitutes were exhibited naked on rooftops above public highways. It is said that when the legions of Roman's citizen-soldiers marched back to Rome, some of the Patrician wives would stand on rooftops, wearing only masks. The danger and excitement that discovery could bring. Now, thousands of wives post themselves online, sometimes fully exposed, and sometimes holding back just enough details to maintain their anonymity. Being looked upon with the thinnest mask of anonymity is a thrill indeed.
I'd like to think that this image shows a woman of means and status, who wanted the thrill of posing in a "French postcard." For this one sitting, she could expose herself, conceal her face, and draw attention to her lewdest, most forbidden part. Sodomy, after all, is a Biblical sin.
That fact doesn't stop us now, and no doubt, more than a 125 years ago it didn't either.
CITY GIRL, COUNTRY BOY
She liked alt country and whisky and thought that qualified her to go to graduate school in the West. That was 1998, when everyone was into alt country and leather boots were in style. The tall, black leather boots, that is. No one told her you couldn't ride a horse in those heels. But never mind. As a girl from a wealthy family, she had gone to summer camp that had horses. And she'd even slept in a sleeping bag--on the floor--at her best friend's lake cabin in New Hampshire. So she was qualified, she concluded, to apply for and head West for grad school, in a creative writing program, one of the famous ones, she'd heard, where people go West, and write about the rugged but forgiving mountains and tough but poetic cowboys.
I was from the West, and so became her first fascination. My beat-up truck rattled us around the university town, where late nights we'd hit the VFW bar, waltz to Patty Page songs, and soak our metaphors in sour mash and the spill of neon.
She wanted what I had, to own it and wear it like pearlsnaps on a faded denim shirt. She wanted what I offered and as I guy, that was enough for me. I was flattered, too naivie to understand that she'd try me on like a shirt, and after a while move back home to big city stores that carried the new trends.
But for a time, the nights were slow country and scotch. The poetry of stoic sad that is the sky of the West.
She was a big girl--tall as me, and maybe as heavy. Dishwater blonde hair she liked to braid because she thought it more western. She had solid legs and some paunch to her stomach. Her breasts were large but soft: When she wore a jogging bra, she looked like a B-cup, but once she peeled it off, her natural D-cup breasts sagged from their weight. I don't mean that to be critical; in fact, she was one of the most natural girls I've ever met. She liked to eat and drink and laugh, and had an easy self-confidence of the rich and well-educated. She knew her body, and simply accentuated her strengths and minimized the rest.
On a hike, she'd wear an athletic shirt that gathered and shaped her breasts. But that action alone is not what made her sexy. She'd forgo a bra, so when she hiked, and stopped to peel off her jacket, the cool air would pinch her nipples. She knew this, and knew that I would notice. That any man would notice. She'd wear a black skirt and her black boots, so just a few inches of her thighs showed creamy and smooth. She knew how and where to draw the eye. She knew that on a hike, she'd get in front and as she slipped in her boots that she wore, knowing they'd slip, that I'd push her up the hills from behind. A carefully planned placement of my hands--not just to feel her butt--but to feel it and not feel any elastic band of underwear. I'd realize this and as we hiked, try to catch any excuse to peek up her skirt. She knew I couldn't see up it unless I lay on the ground looking up, or she sat and opened her legs. She had considered both options and picked her favorite.
We climbed to the top of the hill behind the university. She spread out a blanket, and pulled beer from her backpack. Concealed by scrub brush, we sat and drank. She sat cross-legged. I could just barely see the hint of her body in the shadow of the skirt. She knew I was trying to peek, horny as hell now, and getting drunk. She timed it well. Just enough beers to shake away any reservations, not enough to get drunk, sloppy, or sour. The spring sun soft in the bare brushes, the air warm and smelling of spring and new growth and damp earth. Enough chill in the air to want to feel a warm body against a warm body. "What glorious sun," she said, tilting her head back, the sun flashing on her face, and at the same time, her knees drawing up, her skirt lifting, showing me what I had desired. What she had built up to be desired. And desire I did.
She liked alt country and whisky and thought that qualified her to go to graduate school in the West. That was 1998, when everyone was into alt country and leather boots were in style. The tall, black leather boots, that is. No one told her you couldn't ride a horse in those heels. But never mind. As a girl from a wealthy family, she had gone to summer camp that had horses. And she'd even slept in a sleeping bag--on the floor--at her best friend's lake cabin in New Hampshire. So she was qualified, she concluded, to apply for and head West for grad school, in a creative writing program, one of the famous ones, she'd heard, where people go West, and write about the rugged but forgiving mountains and tough but poetic cowboys.
I was from the West, and so became her first fascination. My beat-up truck rattled us around the university town, where late nights we'd hit the VFW bar, waltz to Patty Page songs, and soak our metaphors in sour mash and the spill of neon.
She wanted what I had, to own it and wear it like pearlsnaps on a faded denim shirt. She wanted what I offered and as I guy, that was enough for me. I was flattered, too naivie to understand that she'd try me on like a shirt, and after a while move back home to big city stores that carried the new trends.
But for a time, the nights were slow country and scotch. The poetry of stoic sad that is the sky of the West.
She was a big girl--tall as me, and maybe as heavy. Dishwater blonde hair she liked to braid because she thought it more western. She had solid legs and some paunch to her stomach. Her breasts were large but soft: When she wore a jogging bra, she looked like a B-cup, but once she peeled it off, her natural D-cup breasts sagged from their weight. I don't mean that to be critical; in fact, she was one of the most natural girls I've ever met. She liked to eat and drink and laugh, and had an easy self-confidence of the rich and well-educated. She knew her body, and simply accentuated her strengths and minimized the rest.
On a hike, she'd wear an athletic shirt that gathered and shaped her breasts. But that action alone is not what made her sexy. She'd forgo a bra, so when she hiked, and stopped to peel off her jacket, the cool air would pinch her nipples. She knew this, and knew that I would notice. That any man would notice. She'd wear a black skirt and her black boots, so just a few inches of her thighs showed creamy and smooth. She knew how and where to draw the eye. She knew that on a hike, she'd get in front and as she slipped in her boots that she wore, knowing they'd slip, that I'd push her up the hills from behind. A carefully planned placement of my hands--not just to feel her butt--but to feel it and not feel any elastic band of underwear. I'd realize this and as we hiked, try to catch any excuse to peek up her skirt. She knew I couldn't see up it unless I lay on the ground looking up, or she sat and opened her legs. She had considered both options and picked her favorite.
We climbed to the top of the hill behind the university. She spread out a blanket, and pulled beer from her backpack. Concealed by scrub brush, we sat and drank. She sat cross-legged. I could just barely see the hint of her body in the shadow of the skirt. She knew I was trying to peek, horny as hell now, and getting drunk. She timed it well. Just enough beers to shake away any reservations, not enough to get drunk, sloppy, or sour. The spring sun soft in the bare brushes, the air warm and smelling of spring and new growth and damp earth. Enough chill in the air to want to feel a warm body against a warm body. "What glorious sun," she said, tilting her head back, the sun flashing on her face, and at the same time, her knees drawing up, her skirt lifting, showing me what I had desired. What she had built up to be desired. And desire I did.
PANTY PEEK
Here's a small tribute to girls who know that a little flash of panties can be as erotic to a man as any hardcore porn. In fact, every sexy-sex girl knows that sometimes concealing while revealing is the sexiest of all. For those who know how to "flaunt it if ya got it."
ROADTRIP ROOMMATES
Claire and Amy met freshman year. They had mutual friends, but weren't really that close until Junior year. That year, neither had plans for spring break. Claire had finally broken it off with her high school boyfriend back home. Amy couldn't afford to join her friends in Cancun. Neither had seen Yellowstone and they figured it was only a two-day drive from their college, and they could buy some simple groceries to fix for meals, split gas, and share budget motel rooms. All in all, it'd be an affordable adventure for Amy; for Claire, it beat sitting around thinking about her ex.
During the long drive on the first day, the girls got to know each other. They found much in common and laughed easily. The first night, they pulled off the highway at roadside motel. They could save more money by getting a single room with queen bed, than a double room. Three years of living in dorms had prepared both girls for living in tight quarters. So they slept in the same bed, brushed teeth, and changed in front of the other without a second thought. In fact, after her shower, Claire came out in her towel, and opened her laptop. She spent the next hour logged onto facebook, to see if her ex had posted any spring break photos. "He's probably already found some bikini bimbo," Claire said, more to the room than to Amy as she unpacked.
After the long drive, Amy was sore, tired, and tense. She was ready to unwind. As she stepped into the small bathroom, still steamed from Claire's shower, she knew she'd masturbate. For years the running water from a bath spigot was a sure way to get her off. Instinctively, her body became wet in anticipation. Amy stripped and started the bath, letting the water warm to her touch. With her other hand, she was already playing with herself. The water was just about perfect and her knees were already getting a bit wobbly. But she realized she'd forgotten her hair tie, and she didn't want to sleep with wet hair.
Amy started to open the bathroom door, but stopped suddenly. In the motel room mirror, she could see the reflection of the bed, and on the bed Claire. She was still on her knees, staring at her laptop. But her towel had come loose from her waist. The mirror gave a perfect vantage of Claire's backside, her smooth, upturned buttock, and between them, her hand, and a finger, slowly sliding in and out.
Amy stood, frozen, silent, transfixed. Peeking through the bathroom door into the mirror, Amy could see the entire scene. To see Amy, Claire would have had to turn all the way around to look into the mirror, and even then, from the bed, it might have been too low an angle to see Amy, peeking from the crack of the door. With the water still running, Claire had assumed exactly what Amy had assumed--that each girl had at least 15 minutes of private time. Apparently, Claire was just as much in need of a good frigging as Amy.
While Amy loved the sensation of running water, for Claire, it was online porn. She'd learned this almost by accident. About a year ago, while visiting her boyfriend, she'd borrowed his computer to check her flight info. She was surprised when she found a list of porn urls in his browser history. Apparently he'd either forgotten to clear it, or never thought she'd look. Regardless, she'd seen it, and when she confronted him about it, he said: "Look, we're long distance and I still have needs...wouldn't you rather me looking at girls online than in person?" Mad and shocked and hurt and confused and mostly embarrassed as she was, she agreed. She had him show her the sites he frequented. To her surprise, the images of women aroused her. Looking at them, she could play herself in the scene: she could be both the woman giving pleasure and the one receiving. When she returned to college, she explored the sites in more detail.
At first, Claire liked the video clips uploaded by amateur couples. As she watched, she could imagine herself and her boyfriend. Again and again, she found herself fixating on the female and almost tuning the man out. Maybe because the long distance relationship was becoming more and more distant, more strained. She and her boyfriend were getting in more and more filghts, misunderstandings, and misread emails. Or maybe she just liked looking at girls her age, imagining herself in their place. She spent more and more time visiting sites like Sapphic Erotica that showed galleries of girls with other girls. As she surfed, she'd grow wet and aroused. Soon she'd be touching herself. And then she'd be no longer surfing but fully masturbating, and then shaking in wave after wave of orgasm.
Now Claire was on the motel bed. Amy had just stepped in the shower, and Claire knew she had some alone time. Claire had been checking facebook, that much was true, but as soon as Claire heard the water running, she flipped over to one of her regular sites. In a few seconds, she was enjoying the sight of two girls. Still on her knees, she reached back. She wetted her finger with her own juices and circled it around her clit. It swelled and hardened in response. She flicked it lightly, imagining a tongue. It wasn't her ex-boyfriend's tongue, no. It was one of the girls in the pictures. Or maybe a girl like Amy. She was pretty cute. She had dark brown hair, almost black. It was straight and fell to her shoulder blades. She had a nice body. A-cup breasts, like Claire, and a great ass. Before the shower, Amy had been standing at the mirror in a thong.
Amy had never actually been with another girl, but as she touched herself, she began to fantasize. On her knees on the bed, her hand moved up and down over, her finger slipped in, and pulled her wetness over her clit. She shuddered, imagining Amy's tongue grazing her clit, nibbling, and then sliding into her. It felt so good to imagine Amy's breath on her folds. She pushed her hips up, imagining Amy's tongue sliding up from her folds to her sensitive wrinkles. She so was sensitive there. Her boyfriend, he'd poke in that area until it hurt. It wasn't a place that could be forced. It was a place to be unlocked.
She let out a little gasp as she worked a finger into her back. She knew it was soon. With one finger in back and the other hand rubbing her clit, she worked herself closer and closer... the water was still running...she knew she could do it. Closer and closer, she could feel the waves begin to build. She could imagine Amy now laying below her, the two of them locked in a 69. With Claire's face pushed against the bedsheet and her hips in the air, she imagined her mouth locked on Amy's pussy, while she humped Amy's face. Her hips bounced up and down on her hand, pushing in her front and back, releasing intense spasm of orgasm after orgasm. She made a sound like a whimper as she tried to hold it in and not make a sound.
What she didn't know was that Amy had been fixed at the door the whole time. Amy had watched in the mirror as Claire brought herself to climax. Perhaps it was the fact that Amy was already pre-meditating a good solid masturbation session, perhaps the sound of running water triggered in her a pavlovian response. Perhaps because she'd already been touching herself, eager in anticipation. Maybe it was all of these things combined, plus the sight of Claire on the bed, her hips up and spread, her finger disappearing in her vagina. Amy had never watched another woman masturbate before. But she couldn't stop looking. Without even thinking, she found her hand matching the pace of Claire's hand. She was shocked to see Claire's finger slide out of her soaking vagina and circle her anus. Claire gasped when she pushed her finger into her back, and Amy let out a gasp, too. But she couldn't help it; Amy let her free hand slide behind her. With a curious finger, she began to caress the tight ring of sensitive flesh. "Oh!" thought Amy, "that is nice." It tickled, but in a good way. She felt the sensation connect to her clit.
Amy watched Claire in the mirror. She moved her hips as Claire bucked her hips up and down. Faster and faster, the two girls moved in unison. Amy watched as Claire drove both fingers deep. Claire began to shake, and Amy bite her lip to hold in a cry.
She was coming. And coming. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell. She caught herself and quietly closed the door again.
She sat on the toliet, regaining her breath and balance. She waited a minute or two to let Claire recompose herself. Then Amy turned off the bathwater. Running water had been her best private moments, but what she just experienced was completely different, and so much better, she thought. She wasn't tired anymore, but refreshed. She felt energized and flush. She cleaned up a little and slipped on some fresh underwear. She'd picked her lime green undies with a mismatched green and white camisole for bed. It wasn't her sexiest outfit; all cotton, she'd picked it just for sleeping. She looked at herself in the mirror, her small breasts framed by her tight top, her nipples still hard, poking through the fabric. She and Claire had similar bodies. The way Claire touched herself felt good as Amy copied. Maybe their bodies felt the same, responded the same? Where Claire's breasts the same firmness when squeezed? Was her trimmed pubic hair soft or coarse? Did she smell the same, taste the same?
These were the thoughts running through Amy's mind when she heard a soft knock at the bathroom door. Claire entered, dressed for bed in a camisole and red cotton underwear. Amy tried not to glance down at Claire's nipples, also hard and poking through the thin fabric. Amy had hugged plenty of her friends over the years, but somehow it'd always been about the hug, not the physical sensation. It was always so platonic. Now she wondered what it would be like to hug Claire, and feel their nipples, hard, and touching through their shirts.
Without realizing it, she had moved closer to Claire, as Claire, in turn was being pulled to Amy. It was like feeling a tug of gravity Without a word or without looking at each other, they came together. Amy lifted her hands around Claire as their mouths met. They began a long, slow kiss. Their hands moved over each others' backs, shoulders, through their hair. Amy's fingers slipped across Claire's shoulder, and the thin strap fell easily.
They didn't know what was next, but they knew where it was heading. They knew soon enough they'd both be on the bed, completely naked, their legs entwined. Kissing, lips and breasts and down each other's belly's for a first taste. They knew they'd feel each others' fingers penetrating, opening them in ways they'd never been opened. And, at age 21, they knew enough about life and love to know first times are what you make them, and first times always matter.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
DRESSED TO IMPRESS
It was summer --long days--and warm cool evenings. She picked out a cute outfit to hit the town. A silky top that she wore without bra. The fabric caressed her nipples, and turned her on. As she walked in her cute white flats, her firm breasts jiggled in the loose fabric. Her nipples were hard, poking through the thin material. She knew he noticed. Everyone they passed did, and it turned her on. She was getting wet, thinking about what they would do later. When she excused herself to go to the bathroom, she stuffed her panties in her purse. After dinner and several drinks, she was aglow, smiling, and aroused. The cool summer air tickled her freshly shaved pussy. At some steps, she pretended she needed to sit down to rest. As she sat, she showed him her surprise.
It was summer --long days--and warm cool evenings. She picked out a cute outfit to hit the town. A silky top that she wore without bra. The fabric caressed her nipples, and turned her on. As she walked in her cute white flats, her firm breasts jiggled in the loose fabric. Her nipples were hard, poking through the thin material. She knew he noticed. Everyone they passed did, and it turned her on. She was getting wet, thinking about what they would do later. When she excused herself to go to the bathroom, she stuffed her panties in her purse. After dinner and several drinks, she was aglow, smiling, and aroused. The cool summer air tickled her freshly shaved pussy. At some steps, she pretended she needed to sit down to rest. As she sat, she showed him her surprise.
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