A Treatise in the Correction of a Masturbator (a Victorian Story) FF/M

The proud and manly flesh swelled as the young man rubbed his Peter up and down. In the full bloom of tumescence his member was a testament to Venus herself, carved not out of marble from the quarries of Old Rome, but of flesh. Oh what a glorious feeling it was as images of the female bosom filled his imagination! The other boys had told him about frigging and knew it was wrong, but now in the first blush of manhood, he could not help himself.

In the darkness – both literal and in the more figurative sense of his act, he moved his errant and sinful hand faster and faster in fervent anticipation of that moment when his seed would burst forth like the eruption of Vesuvius and cover the inside of his bed linens with its telltale milky and glutinous fluid.

So enraptured was he of this shameful act, my dear reader, that he was unaware of the door to his room opening and a silent and dark figure that glided to the side of bed.

Unaware, that is, until the mistress of the house – for that is who the shadowy figure was of course, looking on her young charge now so rapturously occupied by his sinful act of self pollution – pulled, with a great and righteous flourish his bed coverings off of him, exposing his shame. There it bobbed in the air, a pale, venous and throbbing agent of the Beast himself. A viscous and clear liquid covered the head, glistening in the light of her lamp. She knew, from years of dealing with obstinate and uncouth youth, exactly what the young man had been doing and the passions that moved him. Still this knowledge this did not temper her fury – if anything, it added to it. This boy would learn, as all the others had, the penalty for such contemptible and disgusting pursuits of fleshy pleasure. The flesh would most certainly pay a terrible price.

Tongue Island (F/M)

This is a story for a friend of mine. I hope she enjoys it.

It had a name in its native Polynesian, but for him it would always be Tongue Island. Not the most romantic of names he supposed, at least for him, but it was descriptive enough. Nor, he reflected, did the name accurately reflect the hedonistic and wonton qualities of this small, out of the way bit of paradise. Maybe something like Juice-Dripping-Down-Her-Shaking-Thighs Island or Orgasm Island or simply Her Island. For it was her island. She owned it, having purchased it from the proceeds of one best seller or another.

He was bound to her chair. The special chair she had made by a special shop in London. His head and neck supported below the padded hole, he had perfect access to her. He could – and had on several occasions over the past few days – spent hours here, his tongue working furiously.

She owned him too, he thought. Or at least the most important parts of him. Not in any sort of master-slave way, filled with elaborate protocols and ritual. No, it was more basic than that. More unsaid. More real. His submission and servitude was something they both understood and – perhaps more she than he – enjoyed for their mutual benefit. Hell, he was the one who asked to be put in this place. In his place. She was only too kind to help, to spread her thighs and drink her coconut milk as he lapped at her folds, drinking in her musk.

The deal they had struck had been simple – one hundred orgasms for her, followed by one for him. If she desired it of him at that point, of course. If he had earned it and had refrained from too much complaint. If he had been proper in his attentions.

He hoped he was pleasing her sufficiently. He remembered the cane. He licked with more urgency. She moaned.

The Good Girl (M/F)

The Good Girl

She was a good girl. You’d look at her and think “pink.” Even if she weren’t wearing something pink (and this would be unusual, because she almost always wore something in that shade – a fuzzy pink top, a skirt with pink polka dots, pink nail polish) you’d still think it of her. Let’s look at the way she was good. She recycled. She was the first to bring the ice cream when you finally left your jerk boyfriend and needed some convincing that he was in fact a jerk. She was nice to small children and helped lost puppies. She told the truth. She voted Democrat. She rode her bike. She didn’t eat tuna.

She was good. She didn’t own a black bra. A black bra with lace on it. A black bra that was ever so sheer and treated her nipples not as two sisters to be squashed and repressed into non-sexual glands, but rather treated them as a lover would. Teasing them into hard little targets of desire and want, flaunting, poking through the black fabric, saying to the world, “Look at us, goddamn it! Don’t you want a taste?” No, she didn’t have a bra like that. A black bra.

The Hunger (F/M, cbt, bondage)

She felt the hunger again. It was 2:37 on a Tuesday. Sometimes the hunger worked like that. She swiveled back and forth in her chair and looked at the computer on her desk. After a moment’s consideration (the hunger did not go away in this moment), she opened her email program. She looked at her throne in the corner of the room. She scanned the responses to her post. Most of them she had trashed, right off the bat. A few she had corresponded with. Of those, this one seemed good. So did that one. That one was good but he rambled on and on. She picked the funny one with dark hair. He looked kind of cute and boyish.

Her initial email to this chosen one was to the point: “Can you be at my place by 6:30 this evening? I am hungry.” She then listed her city and signed it “Y.”

The Wind in the Trees F/m who becomes M

The wind blows through the trees. Coming from the North it crosses the plains, blowing over the fallow earth and through towns forgotten and past the shuttered houses in these towns that cling to the map and to memory.

It was not always so.

In the spring of the year that did not seem to have a summer or fall, he found himself bent over the wooden kitchen chair in one of these houses. The child that is no more was, at that point, very much a child, very much unaware of his future of houses foreclosed and cars repossessed and of loves found and misplaced.

Small fingers grip the chair’s seat.

She stands behind him, holding the wooden spoon. The woman feels his pain, deep inside her. It is a mother’s pain, a dull ache in a place where once the child had floated, sleeping in perfect oblivion.

Fingers again. The fingers of a man claw at the black rubberized sheet.

The cane whistles and strikes.

The pain purifies.

The child cries.

And the wooden spoon falls again. Strikes again. He cries out. She takes on his pain and holds it deep inside once again.

The leaves rustle in the wind.

“What do you want to do today?”

The two-hundred dollars sit on the battered table.

“I want you to cane me.”

END

June and the Dentist’s Chair M/F

(Well, in this story June actually gets it, and we get to watch….)

“Oh crap,” thought June. “Oh crap, crap, crap.” Foul language for her, this word “crap”, and she felt the warm tendrils of shame rising up her neck, coloring her face. She glanced to her left – her husband had not heard her. The offensive language had remained safely trapped behind her pursed red lips.

She gripped her handbag in her right hand, looked down at the pavement and attempted to hurry her husband along by walking a bit faster and pulling his hand. “We really must hurry dear, or we’ll be late. The store might close.”

The Perils of Breast Augmentation and a Date with Kali

The bitch bites and the bitch bites hard. Her name is Kali and she wrapped with all coyness and innocence around my member, her sharp little teeth at the ready. Kali was a small tube, about an inch and a half or so in diameter, lined with dull spikes, locked around that most sensitive (and stupid) part of me. I’m not quite sure why we call her Kali other than she is what’s known in kinky circles as a Kali’s Teeth Bracelet and there’s something somehow satisfying about personifying her.

Nourishment F/M

The Neighborhood Preschool in Silverlake is a collection of low-slung buildings on the south end of the reservoir. I was running late, as usual, with traffic in the southland being what it is and working in the Industry with its long hours. Note the capital I in Industry – although I would claim otherwise to relatives from the East, I love the affectation. To me, the Industry-capital-I is the real Hollywood. It’s the polar opposite of what you see at the travesty of tourism and tawdriness that is the Hollywood and Highland Center. The real Industry is people like me – middle-aged, with a family and a mortgage, politically liberal despite the Ranger Rover, showing up late to my son’s kindergarten orientation.

There were about 45 parents in the room when I took my seat next to my wife. I knew most of them from the playground and the potlucks and the pick-ups and drop-offs that are a part of life when you’re the parent of a preschooler. The principle of the school where most of our kids would be attending school next year as kindergarteners was droning on about the state of California and requirements for immunizations and birth certificates. Honestly, it’s not my fault I couldn’t pay attention. I looked around the room and Karen was breastfeeding her baby Zoe.

In retrospect, I will admit that what happened next was my fault. I stared. Pathetic, isn’t it?
Thankfully, women using their breasts for what nature intended is a pretty common thing in Southern California – while we may be the world capital for boob jobs, we’re also pretty high up there for La Leche League attendance. But I wasn’t thinking about the many benefits of breastfeeding when I was taking in Karen’s left boob, admiring the soft and gentle curve of the underside, desperately wishing to glimpse a brown nipple as Zoe pulled away. Even at the time, I felt some remorse. Not because what they were doing was an inherently private act, but because I was turning it into a sexual one – at least for me. Maybe it was an occupational hazard – too many years working in a town that seemed dedicated to little beyond celebrating a hyper-sexualized version of womanhood. But I’m rationalizing. Karen looked up and caught my eye. As she pulled down her shirt, I quickly turned my attention back to the principle.

She is 01gm3v.jpg

She is 01gm3v.jpg. Pure sex. Almost gynecological. Leaning over, ass thrust up, lips full and inviting – hairless. It’s pussy primal. It’s the place where babies come from and cocks go, the place of adolescent girl rubbing herself under the covers and finding wetness for the first time, it is the place of blood. A place where I can never really truly go.

She is, for all intents and purposes, what I’d call a girlfriend these days. 01gm3v.jpg is one half of relationship, a relationship built upon my needs alone. Since she is of the genus .jpg rather than say .mov or .wmv she doesn’t move and she doesn’t talk and I guess that’s fine with me.

Lillian’s Place – Christopher’s Story F/M

I could tell you just where Lillian’s Place is but it wouldn’t do you any good. I could tell you about the street and the little the alley that runs off of it; what the sign outside looks like; the steps you have to descend to gain entrance, but unless you needed to show up there, you wouldn’t find it. That’s how it works.

Of course, I didn’t know any of this the first time I found myself sitting across the bar from Lillian herself ordering a Jack and Coke. At least, I was trying to order a Jack and Coke. It had been a Jack and Coke type of day. Lillian didn’t seem to care.