The Reunion

“I just want to drop off my luggage, then maybe we could grab something to eat?

She nodded. He’d only been in town fifteen minutes and she hadn’t seen him in years. Whatever else she was planning for the weekend, it could wait while he had a meal, couldn’t it?

She smiled to herself. Actually, no. It couldn’t.

They reached his hotel, handed the valet the car keys, and he was glad he’d put out the extra few bucks and booked into one of the best. Crisp sheets on the bed, instantaneous room service, a well-stocked mini bar and lighting so deep you could bathe in it. They kissed – tentatively at first, a little nervous, a little shy. But his tongue had a will of its own, wrapping itself around hers, discovering the taste of her mouth, the strength of her lips, the sharpness of her teeth. His hands were on her breasts, pressing them against her body, her rock-hard nipples compressed against the firmness of her palms, as he backed her towards the wall. He stepped back a little once they reached it, and his fingers deftly undid the buttons of her blouse, his mouth still welded to hers.

She reached behind, unclasping her bra. Sliding under the material, his hands returned to her breasts, caressing their bareness, kneading the flesh while his thumb idly flicked at her nipples, sending sudden jolts of pleasure whispering down her spine. She wrestled to get at his shirt buttons, felt his wiry chest hair against her fingertips, and she broke his grip, broke his kiss, and took one of his lead-pellet nipples between her lips.

His hands were on her ass now; hers were tracing a sharp fingernail above the waistband of his pants, dipping occasionally beneath the fabric to scratch a vertical path from his belly-button down; it was a bit of a squeeze, but her hand forced its way down the front of his trousers, her fingers reaching… his cock was hard and pointing straight up; she curved her hand and two fingers and her thumb grasped its head and squeezed lightly. Roughly, his hands had hitched her skirt up, were making their own way down the back of her tights, his fingers tracing a blunt path down the crease of her ass. They paused at her anus, lingered for a moment and then continued on their journey, to the very edge of her vagina.

She could feel how wet she was, and shivered as one probing finger began smearing her juices back round towards her ass, rubbing them into the soft skin and poking, tentatively again, at her ass-hole. Releasing her light grip on the greasy head of his penis, she unbuttoned his waistband and slowly unzipped his pants, pulling down his underpants as she did so. A breath of musk touched her nostrils and a tremor of fresh excitement washed through her pussy as she took his surprisingly thick shaft in her hand. He half-sighed, half groaned, and his free hand shifted from her back to the top of her head, gently but firmly trying to push her down.

She stood her ground. She didn’t know why guys always do that – if a girl wants to suck him, she’s going to. She doesn’t need encouragement, and she certainly doesn’t need force. Instead, she kissed his chest; let her lower lip bruise his nipple before baring her teeth and biting it lightly. Now both of his hands were on her head, and she broke away from him altogether. “I think I need to lie down,” she whispered and walked to the bed, pulling her tights and panties off, shrugging away her blouse and bra.

She crouched on the comforter, watching as he undressed, gasping as she saw how far and straight his cock stood out from his body, eight throbbing, fat inches, with the pre-cum forming a thick, viscous drip from the tip. He joined her on the bed and she kissed him hard, tracing her fingers across his belly, through his groin, around the tops of his thighs. His hips were shifting with her movements, trying to direct his cock into her hand, but she was faster than him, running her fingertips behind his knees, then up and across his buttocks.

“Touch me again,” he breathed, and she let her hand move to his scrotum, pushing her thumb into the tight skin that stretched across his hard balls. She massaged them with her palm, while she worked her way up to squeeze the very base of his dick between her index and middle finger. His hand was on her mound now, palm flat against her pubes while the very tip of his middle finger forced itself between the lips. She ground herself against it, the motion rippling against her clit as she forced his finger in deeper; then rewarded him by taking him fully in her hand, slowly jerking him.

His juice pooled thick on her fingers, his smell was heavy in her nose. Without letting go of his penis, she pushed him backwards, his legs dangling off the end of the bed, and held his cock straight up in the air. Then, moving to kneel on the floor between his legs, she lowered her head and ran a questing tongue across him; her tongue tingling as it swept through the sticky coating that seemed to be flooding out of him. She worked up a blob of saliva and let it drip down, swirling it into his own juice with her tongue, then took him into her mouth.

He half-growled, half-groaned his approval, as she gave his helmet a firm suck. She opened her eyes and gazed up his body; he lay completely askew, his arms and legs a jumble of angles, his own eyes tightly shut. Every movement she made, though, brought another exhortation, a series of increasingly explicit orders and instructions that thrilled me to the core: “Bite me… yeah, like that. But deeper… I want to feel your teeth at the root… oh God, that’s right, that’s it… hold me there… don’t move… now suck me like you’ve never sucked before….”

She obeyed every one, tightening her lips even more firmly around him; “don’t stop….”

Don’t worry, I don’t intend to. His words, his taste, his passion, all merged magically into the pounding of the blood in her ears, and she continued relishing, almost worshipping, that hot, seemingly endless shaft, her lips pursed around his flesh, clinging tightly to the hot, salty skin, while one hand held him firm and upright, and the other slid wildly across his thigh.

He clutched her hair, pulled her head up roughly. “Tell me how much you love it… love sucking it.”

“I adore it… so hard, so firm”; she knew exactly what he wanted to hear her say. “You fill my mouth, I want to suck you forever. And when you cum, I want to taste every drop.” Yet, even as her words were devoted to the matter in hand, and his cock shivered with excitement at the devotions that she dedicated to it, her mind was planning the evening’s real highlight… the main event, as it were. She’d spotted the fruit bowl the moment they walked into the room, and she’d long ago moved the it off the table, to the floor by the foot of the bed. Now, ending the conversation by taking one of his balls deep into her mouth, she reached out and plucked two grapes off their stalk, and rolled them in her palm, warming them just enough that their entry into her body would not come as such a shock.

“But now you have to do something for me,” she whispered, kissing his cock, then his stomach, then slowly up his chest, while her fingers slipped the first grape into her dripping hole. His hands were at her waist, hauling her up his body; with one last heave, she was astride his face, her pussy just inches from his mouth. His tongue snaked out; she felt it at her lips and sank down, enveloping it and then clenched her muscles, seeking out the grape, forcing it to the front… and pushed it into his mouth.

Well, he’d said he wanted something to eat.

Songs that make me SMILE #6

How Not To Be A Dominant III

The scary thing is, people like this really exist

Below Blue London

BELOW BLUE LONDON (NOVEL) by Chrissie Bentley

An explosive cavalcade of ageless eroticism and timeless sensuality

Print edition - buy here
e-book edition - buy here

BELOW BLUE LONDON
Chrissie Bentley
Rated: 3 Quills: The Feasting Hall
Length: Scroll
Price: 4.99
ISBN: 1-60180-102-5

Michelle Carter, a young professional in her first ever London apartment, discovers that she and her roommate, Janet, are not alone.

The past, too, inhabits the rooms, a sensual, tactile past that reaches back over 200 years, to draw the two women into the succession of sexual encounters that must be relived before they can be understood.

Set exclusively on London's Isle of Dogs, a tiny patch of land that has seen countless changes over the centuries, Below Blue London is a seamless combination of explicit erotic detail and expert historical documentation.

Sweeping from Yuppie brokers to Victorian dockers, from the desperation of poverty to the complacency of wealth, from the horror of the London Blitz to the luxury of the Royal Court, Below Blue London is an historical epic like no other

EXCERPT
Wednesday night, though, the whole flat felt weird. I noticed it the moment I walked in. I'd had to go into the office that morning, and ended up stuck there all day. It didn't matter too much, because Janet was at the library again, and she'd not been home for long herself, when I stumbled through the door.

She was in her room. “It's okay, I'm using Bluetac, and I promise to clean it off when I leave.” One wall was festooned with diagrams. “I found a bunch of old Ordnance Survey maps. I photocopied them onto that clear plastic stuff, all in different color inks, and now I'm trying to line them up. Trouble is, they've changed the shape of the streets a few times and with so many other landmarks having either been demolished or altered, it's a total bitch. Every time you think you've got it, you notice something's a little bit out of whack, so you fix that and something else goes askew.”

“What else do you have up here?”

“I found some photographs in the library collection. It's amazing the stuff they have hidden away in that place. So I copied them, had them blown up. Look at this one, you can actually see the peoples' faces. I'd love to know who they were.”

“You could try the local genealogical society. I'm sure there is one. People are really into that family tree stuff these days.”

“Yeah, I will. Anyway, that's that, and over here, these are just a load of newspaper stories that I need to sort out. I've only skimmed them so far, but there looks to be some rather juicy....”

“Cunny.”

We both jumped.

“I want to feel you in my cunny.”

“Those are the same voices I heard before,” Janet whispered, and her hand reached for mine. “I thought I could feel something when I got home, but I was so anxious to get started, I put it down to nerves.”

“I felt it as well,” I confessed. “But same thing. We got talking and--”

“But lick me first. Make me wet, make me overflow.”

Janet's grip tightened. We sat on the bed as the entire room shuddered to the sound of a gasping sigh.

There were no more words, but there was no need for them. The hitching moans of a woman surrendering herself to the most voluptuous cunnilingus filled the air, the scent...the taste...of pussy flooded my senses and when I stole a glance at Janet, she was there as well, licking and being licked, encouraging and experiencing her own barreling orgasm. And then another sensation, of reaching out and being reached for, a hot, strong stiffness that was both a part of me, and apart from me, in my hand and being handled; in my mouth and being mouthed. Taking control and surrendering, silken wet and forged steel firm, salty and sweet.

“Look at the wall!” Janet's voice was barely a whisper, but I heard her and turned.

Locked in a convulsive 69, they were silhouettes, but they weren't silhouettes. You could make out every feature, every muscle, every curve of their bodies, but there was no sense of dimension, no depth or perspective. It was like watching an old, washed out and over-exposed silent movie being projected onto the side of a fish tank. A face, a woman's face, turned and stared towards us.

How Not To Be A Dominant II

More Second Life inspired weirdness...

My thoughts exactly....

see more ICHC After Dark

Exquisite

Another exquisite image from my friend Sun Lover, purveyor of past delights in this department... the pose and the passion in the pic are unmistakable, and if you can scroll your eyes slowly down her body, and don't just jump the fun parts first, can you even imagine a better way of starting the day?

How not to be a Dominant (and other lessons)

Say it with Flowers

I WANT TO FUCK YOUR BRAINS LOOSE!!!!!!!!!!!

The Story of O

A great book, it is truthfully said, is more than a story. It is also an idea, and it is equally true that the better the story, the greater the idea. Some of the most influential novels in modern literary history can also be ranked among some of the most boring. But they all affected the way people live, and did so in a way that permeates our culture and language to this day.

read more on the book's background at Eden Fantasys.

A mid-1970s movie version (The Story of Joanna) starring Jamie Gillis and directed by Gerard Damiano only glanced at the novel itself, but will still be a familiar tale to anyone who discussed the unread book behind the gymnasium in High School.

My own novel Miss America was written with at least half my memory fixed on the distorted descriptions that I picked up in the years before and after I finally read it. And visitors to the Second Life virtual world will not only find communities, but entire life forces built around the characters, places, the acts and even the sex toys that appear in the book. Few of which, again, bear more than superficial resemblance to anything conceived by Anne Desclos/Pauline Réage herself.

Which, in turn, is the story’s greatest triumph.

French erotica of the late 1940s/early 1950s was all but consumed by bondage and BDSM (a symbol, say the sociologists, of the country’s liberation from Nazi rule at the end of the Second World War). Watch the short stag films that make up the DVD Vintage Erotica Anno 1950, and elements of The Story of O flicker in almost every reel.

For Réage, the greatest challenge was surely to transfer that imagery to the printed page, and it is true that little of what she writes is any more graphic than the action appearing in those flickering little films. It was the establishment’s response, and the attendant knee jerk publicity that attends any attempt to “ban” or “suppress” a piece of art which sent the Story of O soaring into legend. But having done so, the book proved that it deserved its notoriety.


Without ever setting out to write a text book, Réage penned the ultimate treatise; without ever imagining that she would be instructing the next half century on the mores and morals of dominance and submission, she wrote the last word in self-help books. And so deftly did she weave her tale that any attempt (and there have been many) to detail the book’s actual contents, as opposed to their imagined ones, simply fall into cliche and salacious vagaries. Because ultimately, the Story of O is not about its titular heroine getting fucked five ways to Christmas by a succession of her Master’s closest friends; nor about a seemingly independent fashion photographer’s descent into the realms of sexual slavery; nor even about the average male reader’s uncontrollable urge to go out and buy a Master coat or cloak of their own, and find a girl they can use in the same way as O.

It is about empowerment; it is about strength; and it is about freedom. All of which continue to blaze no matter how distorted the mirror they are seen through.