A nasty habit



He laid the pack of cigarettes down next to her, along with the gold engraved lighter.

“You know how to get what you want,” he told her, sitting down at her feet.

She looked at the pack, menthol, the longest cigarettes you could buy.  She opened the pack, drew one out.

As she did, he reached up and dragged a finger from her navel, down, over her panties. The touch was enough to spur her on to pick up the lighter. She paused for a moment, so did he.

“Go ahead, put it in your mouth,” he told her, looking up between her knees.

She put the cigarette in her mouth, not in the center of her lips. He wanted it a certain way, in the corner of her mouth, her lips pursed around the filter. She flicked the lighter, it hissed and sizzled as she lit the cigarette.

“It’s a terrible habit,” he told her. “Trashy. You shouldn’t start.”

But, it wasn’t a habit. It was a means to an end.

As she sucked the end of the cigarette, he slid her underwear down her legs, gently pushing her knees apart, opening her up. He looked up, she put it in her mouth again, another drag.

When the nicotine hit her lungs, she refused to cough. When it her bloodstream, the dizziness set in just as his mouth started its path up her thighs.

She pulled the acrid smoke into her lungs, tapped ashes into the ashtray her had brought along with the cigarettes. It felt foreign, unnatural in her mouth. As another wave of disorientation swirled in her head, his tongue slid up her pussy, coming to rest on her clit with a soft kiss.

He paused and looked up at her, she looked him in the eyes, brought the cigarette to her lips.

He smiled. “Inhale.” She did. Held it in her lungs for a beat, two. Blew the smoke out toward him, it wreathed around his face.

He moaned, ever so softly, and put his mouth back to her cunt. As his tongue pushed inside, she forgot about the cigarette. Her head fell back, completely immersed in the sensations his tongue was creating.

He stopped. She remembered. Put the cigarette back in her mouth, sucked the smoke into her mouth, a wisp of it escaping as she pulled it out of her mouth.

“Yes baby, that’s it,” he told her. Coaching her, teaching her how to please him. “That’s perfect.”

As the words left his mouth, he returned to her pussy, juices running down his chin. A finger slipped inside her, causing her to catch her breath.

She tasted the tobacco, the menthol. She wondered if she tasted different when she smoked, if the bitter flavor of the cigarettes flowed from her lungs to her pussy.

“Do i taste like this Newport?” she asked him as his tongue made another slow circuit of her cunt, up, circling her clit, slowly back down and into her.

“No, no you don’t. Nothing but sweet pussy.”

He was licking her slowly, too slowly to make her come. He knew this. He knew as long as he was eating her, she would continue smoking. She came to the lipstick stained filter, crushed it out in the ashtray.

“If you want me to keep sucking your pussy …” She opened the box of cigarettes, slid another out of the pack, lit it.

He sucked her pussy as she sucked the cigarette, another wave of dizziness coming over her, unaccustomed to smoking. She blew the smoke out, peeking down as he lifted his eyes to watch her smoke.

“Don’t stop,” she asked as he found a rhythm flicking his tongue over her clit.

“I won’t if you don’t.”

She kept smoking, as he kept licking her. As she felt her orgasm building, she continued smoking. When she felt herself tumbling into it, she crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, shouting without words.

He smiled, came up to kiss her. She tasted herself on his lips, knowing he was tasting the cigarette on her tongue.

“It’s a nasty habit,” he told her. “You really shouldn’t start.”


House Cat



Have you ever had a cat? A well-fed, well-petted and loved housecat?

That’s how I feel when you touch me. The way a cat rubs her face against your hand when you stroke her, eyes  closed, concentrating on the feel of your fingers against her whiskers.

You hands on my thighs, your fingertips tracing my arm – I find myself closing my eyes, shutting out everything but the sensation of your touch.

You reach for me whenever I am within arms’ reach, simply to touch me, feel me. You draw me in, hold me, your hands roaming over my back, my ass, into my hair.

I feel like a cat that weaves itself around your ankles, wanting you to stroke its entire body.

From the first time you kissed me, tentatively, exploring, seeking to find if it felt as easy and natural as talking had been. And it was. Smooth, velvety, tongues curling around each other as perfectly as a kitten laps up cream.

When you slip your hands into my clothes, to stroke my thigh or gather a breast into your hand, it feels so perfect, I want to wrap myself around your hand, I want you to never stop touching me.

Your fingers find their way between my legs, sliding into the wetness there, and I feel myself squeezing, you are somehow both gentle and demanding, your mouth over mine. I just feel it, just enjoy the sensation.

And after you have made me come, I feel as content as that cat that has had its food, and is curled up in a puddle of sunlight streaming through the window. I am content to bask in the feeling the endorphins flowing through my body, the satisfaction of being well fucked. I stretch, sleepy, full, happy.

But, as we all know, a cat is never completely satisfied. You fed me, and I will be back.

Taking It



There are never declarations of love. No promises or comparing what we have to anything else. No discussions of our pasts, or future, or our present, except what happens when we are together.

He doesn’t give me sex or orgasms. He just offers it. It’s there for the taking. And I take it, greedily.

He touches me everywhere. My hand, my elbow, the back of my neck. His hand runs the length of my leg, up my thigh, then down to repeat the motion. It feels good on my skin, it feels good on his hand. But, it is not urgent, it is not demanding.

We both know we have as long as we want. We can see each other all night, or for an hour, or tomorrow. So, we take our time. Long, velvet kisses. Pauses to talk or laugh or listen to a verse of a song.

Everything is soft and easy, languid in its lack of demand. I can do with and to and for him what I want. And take what I want as well.

I feel guilty about it – about the way I am in bed with him. I tell him this after ride myself to one more orgasm. Because, usually, it is a two-way street, I give as much as I get. But, with this  man, I simply take.

His fingers plunge into me, and I find myself fucking them. I know, on some level of consciousness, that I am doing this. Some part of my brain realizes that I am simply making myself come on him. But, I keep doing it.

Often, after I come, he asks, “Are you alright?” This puzzles me, but I think it is because it is apparent I am lost in a world of my own.

I am using his body. I straddle him, I suck him, I taste the skin on his throat and grab handfuls of his hair, grind against his leg.

He finds the spot inside me that creates the tension in my pussy, that makes my thighs tighten, that pulls an almost burning sensation from my belly down. And I realize I don’t care if it is turning him on, if it is what he wants. I know it is what I want, and I reach down and shove his fingers even deeper into me, knowing tomorrow I will be raw and sore to the touch.

And when he is inside me, I know I am being a selfish, greedy lover, something I don’t think I have ever been before. I do what feels good to me, I put his dick where it feels the best, move the way that I like, grinding on him until I get what I want.

I tease my clit, I put my fingers inside me beside his cock, it is all about me and what I like. I’ve never touched myself so much when I am not alone. I suppose I could stop, not be this way, pay more attention to what he wants.

But, I do not.

I go to his bed knowing that my orgasm is there, I go after it. It is not him making love to me so much as me masturbating, using his body, fucking him in the way that makes me come, the way that makes me happy, the way I want.

I feel guilty, not enough to stop doing it, but still, I feel as though I should do more for him, be giving and selfless in bed. I shouldn’t be so determined to just do what feels good to me, I should ask what he wants, what he likes, what he fantasizes about or what he wishes I would

I tell myself that, I plan to, I really do. But, then we are together, and my mind simply doesn’t go there, to a sexually altruistic place, to the place where I try to be a good lover. I just get myself off.

I’ve never been a user of people, for any reason. I don’t like that part of my personality that would want to do that. Yet, I do it with this man. It is a confession – that I am being a selfish woman. But, I find that is what I need right now in my life. I want, I need, to paraphrase the song, be the sistah who is doing it for myself.

And as long as he will let me, I will keep getting what I want from him.

Taking it.

Who is in Control?



Kashmir. The rhythm of the song, slow, steady, is all I hear. I see nothing. I feel the ties that are holding my arms above my head, my legs to the corners of the mattress. I smell the the liquor on my breath, the joint in the ashtray. I smell him, the mix of whiskey and cigarettes I have come to know is him, and something else. A sharp, almost metallic taste that is always there. Is it bitterness, seeping out his pores? Is it desire? Demand?
He does demand this. Of course, the power, he tells me, is in the submission. In allowing him to tie me to his bed. To blindfold me, play music so loud it drowns everything else out but that beat, the rhythm, low, marching forward.
I know the lights are on, I know he is watching me, looking for signs of weakness, of  submission. I know if I tell him, he will stop. But I don’t want him to stop, even as I pull against the ties that bind my arms to the headboard
He leaves me, I hear nothing, see nothing, I don’t know where he is or what he is doing.
Then I hear ice clinking in a glass, and I realize he has paused. He is pouring a drink. Stopping to have a smoke perhaps. Yes, I smell a match, the acrid smoke of his cigarette. He is sitting, from the sounds he makes, on the chair in the corner of the room, looking. Biding his time. Planning perhaps? Does he have a plan?
He always has a plan. He is always in control. He orchestrated this entire evening, from the drinks to the music to the choice of material with which to tie me to the bed.
Tinkle of ice, drag, exhale smoke. He is watching me, I think through the haze of my buzz and the almost electric charges that are arcing over and through my body. I want more, I want his mouth on  me, more than the kisses on my mouth, the biting of my breasts, the almost casual licks and sucks he has made all along my arms and legs and pussy.
I realize I am twisting in the bed.
I feel the mattress sink between my feet, he is on the bed. Robert sings for someone to let the sun beat down upon his face. I feel his hands on my knees, I want to wrap my legs around his hips and pull him to me, but my legs are tied, the leather straps giving just enough to allow me pull my thighs up ever so slightly, fuck I want to lift my legs!
He climbs up my body, straddling me, I realize he has taken his clothes off, I feel his legs, on each side of me. I want his cock, goddam it’s right there, I can feel him, smell him, fuck.
He brushes my lips with his cock. I try to reach toward it, guide it into my mouth, I can feel the straps as my hands try to grab him, fuck I have never been so fucking frustrated.
Why don’t I have him untie me, I know he would if I ask. He made sure I knew that before led me in  here, before he poured the drinks, took my clothes off, kissing me after every article came off. I knew before he put the Zepplin on.
So why don’t I tell him to let me go? Why do I pull against the soft yet so strong leather that keeps me from reaching down and grabbing his ass, pushing his dick into my mouth? I don’t know, I only know that I want to grab his cock, shove it into my mouth, feel the shape of it push past my lips and onto the back of my throat, swallowing him as I reach behind him, making him fuck my mouth.
But I also know I that I love the fact that I can’t.
He makes an “uh-uh” noise, as if I am a cat greedy for a treat. He waits, as Robert sings of the songs that have caressed his ears, and then I feel the head of his dick on my face, and I suck him into my mouth, and feel grateful that he has done what I could not, shoved his cock into my mouth.
He pushes in, I feel the restraints on my ankles and wrists as I strain against them, I feel my pelvis lift off the bed, oh my god him in my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat. He stays there, giving me, finally, what I want, I can feel my pussy dripping down on the the bed. Fuck yes, oh my god yes.
Then, he is gone.
Fuck! Please, my mind screams, maybe I say it outloud, I can’t really hear myself over the sound of Kashmir, but he is gone, off the bed, not touching me anywhere. I want him back, I can feel myself reaching for him, but he is gone.
Then I feel him, again, on the bed, between my legs.
“Please,” I say.
“Fuck me, please fuck me.”
I ask this, but I don’t ask that he untie me. I could make him fuck me, I could be free to pull his body to mine, but I  don’t ask him to untie me, instead I plead for him to fuck me.
He stops moving, as if he is considering whether he will give me what he wants. He has the power, who is he kidding, even if I have him untie me. The he will have made me choose to stop, and fuck that.  I’m not a pussy.
I feel him crawling closer between my legs, his hands are on each side of my head on the bed, he is on top of me, but not inside of me. What the actual fuck. I pull and pull against the leather holding my arms and legs, I cannot think beyond how close he is, his dick touching my pussy.
Robert is singing about what he feeeee-eeeels as he plunges into me, I lift myself to him, pull at the leather, fuck yes, and I am coming, riding an orgasm so hard I think I may actually die. I feel myself clenching onto him, down a spiral, my hands grasping at nothing, screaming along with as Robert Plant begs for me to let him take me there …  and the beat back, on and on ….

The next day, they are still there, the restraints, I see them when I walk into the bedroom. I realize I can hear echoes of what the fuck ever happened here last night. The sight of the leather, peeping out from under the mattress, sends a bolt to my pussy as my face gets red.
He says I had the power to make him stop. But I didn’t. So, who is in control?

And I hear the opening chords of Kashmir, demanding that I return.

Silly Wine



He is a serious man.
His music, a mixture of death metal, heavily orchestrated rock and classical, is serious. His books, Poe and Sagan and math texts, are serious, as is his outlook on matters, from politics to culture to the environment.
His eyes are serious. He doesn’t just look at things or places or people, he examines them, he observes and registers and commits to memory. If he is looking at you, you can feel it. His gaze gives you a sensation not unlike the feeling certain tribes have about being photographed, that the look will take something from your soul.
His drink is serious – whiskey, straight, no ice, no chaser, usually straight from the bottle. When he does drink wine, it is red, dry. No fruity swill for this man.
So when I poured him a glass of my champagne, I knew he wouldn’t drink it. It was very cold, and very fruity, and very sweet, a celebratory drink for a happy evening. When you are in a long distance relationship, you celebrate every moment spent together. We are seldom apart when I visit him – I go to the post office with him, we sit outside together when he smokes, he stands behind me in the bathroom as I dry my hair, kissing my neck.
I put his glass down in front of him, and there it remained, undrunk. Which didn’t surprise me. A silly drink for such a serious man? Never gonna happen.
We sat in silence, occasionally touching each other, each in our own thoughts, knowing it was our last night together for what could be months. It is always a bittersweet evening, the last night of each visit.
So his glass sat, untouched, on the table along with the detritus of the day: a plate from our snacks, the dog’s toy, sunscreen and a towel from the beach. We were relaxed, our skin tender from the sun, buzzed from simply being together. I was on my second, or was it the third? glass of wine, starting to get giggly and silly, which always makes me a bit self-conscious, being so very goofy around such a very serious man. I’m laying on the couch, my feet in his lap, just soaking in the moment.
“Lift your hips,” he tells me, and at first I don’t quite get what he means. It’s not a request, no, it’s not a demand, you get every day.
So, I lift my hips, and he pushes my sundress up, and lays the towel underneath my ass.
“Why? What are you going to do?” I ask. I have no idea where this is going, but any scenario which includes him pushing up my skirt has my instant attention.
“I’m going to drink my champagne,” he says, a gleam in his eyes, his very serious face belying nothing.
He pushes my knees apart, picks up his glass, pours just the tiniest bit on me, which trickles down onto my pussy, cold and bubbling. It takes my breath, everything about it, the cold liquid with its effervescence, the fact that he is doing this, his eyes being on me down there.
He licks it off, sucking the wine off me, savoring the mixed flavors of my juices and the sweet champagne. He pulls away, grins up at me, and pours some more on me.
The fizzy wine almost burns while it is cold, a sensation like nothing I have ever felt. Then his mouth, warm and soft, sucking the liquid off me, kissing me, then pouring more wine.
“Oh my god,” I utter the cliche, but even as it echoes in my head, I’m beyond caring. I am simply floating away on sensation. His mouth, the wine dripping down on the towel, my head swirling with all this, this moment.
Then, his glass is empty.
He has sucked all of this silly wine off me, making serious business of it, befitting the serious man he is, the intense lover, this man who can quote Plato and claims to be a distant cousin of Shakespeare.
He slides his body up mine, I feel his hardon through his jeans, huge, as it presses into my stomach, I feel my pussy twitch, wanting, begging, dripping.
He kisses me. I taste myself and champagne, and him.
“I will never drink champagne any other way,” he tells me, a silly thing to say. I giggle, wrapping my legs around him.
“I promise you, I won’t let you”
That shit is serious.

#erotica #sex

Whiskey in Wonderland



“You want another?”
And I do. What happens here is, after all, not reality. I can drink to my heart’s content, fuck a man within moments of first laying eyes on him. I can say outrageous things, be this brave woman, this is not real. So he brings me another, pours himself another whiskey.

“Hey, I could stir it with my dick,” he says, eyes mischievous.

I wonder if he would, know I would drink it anyway, would suck the liquid off him, it would taste like our sex. The thought of it sends a tiny shockwave down through my stomach into my pussy.

He brings me my drink, walks the few feet from where I’m sitting on his couch (am I really sitting here? The last day seems a blur, this can’t really be happening.) I am barely dressed, and of course, I don’t care, don’t care he can see me, I’m not real, this is not real. I don’t do this kind of thing.

I see him, looking, his mind working, always toward the evitable destination – sex. He gets a smirk on his mouth, one that will become familiar, but now, is just another interesting quirk.

“What if I want you in mine?” he asks, and I’m not sure what he means. So he clarifies. “What if I want my drink to taste like your pussy?”

Which takes my breath, but I’m all cool, as this isn’t real, so I am not going melt. The liquor, sleep deprivation and endorphins from some long awaited sex have me loose, I just laugh, yea, what if he does want his drink to taste like pussy. My pussy.

His smirk turns into a walk, putting his drink down on the coffee table, there is no hesitation, he knows what he is going to do, and he does. He doesn’t ask, he spreads my legs and puts his mouth to me like a starving man. I lose myself in the sensations, his tongue ever so slowing tracing every crease and fold, his fingers reaching up into me, my god, I am thanking every woman who ever told him ‘here, yes, that’s how’ and I am lost.

But, he stops, and I am slammed back into my unreal reality. I slowly open my eyes, he is standing over me, grinning, picking up his drink from the coffee table. Looking me dead in the eye, he uses his fingers, the fingers he just pulled out of my dripping pussy, to stir his whiskey.

He sucks the liquor off his fingers, drinks from the glass. Closes his eyes, as if savoring the flavor.

I like this unreality. I think Wonderland is just the place for me.

International Affairs




That was her idea of Berlin. Decadent. Wicked. Sexual and dark. Like the Liza Minnelli movie.

Yet when she got there, it didn’t seem that different than any other place, at least from the airport to the hotel. Her tourist English-to-German translation book got her around Berlin as much as she needed to; this was not a sightseeing trip. The Brandenburg Gate and Charlottenburg Palace would have to be experienced another time.

Julianna sat in the back of the nightclub, watching the group of men drink and make half-hearted passes at the waitress, and thought how much easier it had been than she had expected. A friend had given her his sky-miles for the plane ticket, an unexpected bonus at work had made it easy to hide the expense of the hotel. A few of her vacation days, and some vague story to her husband about work training, and she was gone.

The men in the nightclub ordered another round, she noticed they had moved to Jagermeister from beer. Hidden in the shadows, it was easy to observe the group without being noticed. It wasn’t like any of them expected her to be here, only two of the men knew she existed, one of them knew what she looked like.

And she wondered if he would know her if he saw her. It is hard, sometimes, for her recognize a person from a photograph, even a recent one. Would you walk past someone you have seen in a picture, never noticing them?

She wondered.

She had recognized James the second she saw him. He had mentioned the name of the hotel, even emailed her pictures of it, so she was certain where to go when she got to Germany. And sure enough, by simply sitting in the lobby, she had watched them check in – him, his best mate, his brother and a couple of other men, a stag party weekend.

It would have been difficult to miss them, she had thought as she watched. Six Englishmen, laughing louder than anyone else in the lobby, she figured they had starting drinking on the plane and continued at the airport. She had felt a bit creepy, watching the group, like an international stalker, which in fact she was. But, it was too late to back out now.

Julianna could have changed her plan, sent a note to his room, a message, call the hotel phone. She could’ve turned around and go back to the States without even seeing him, he would never have known she was there.

But now, it was in for a penny in for a pound. She sat in the darkened nightclub, the music started and a couple of girls dressed in bikinis took the stage, dancing lethargically, it was obvious there were not the headliners. The men at the table looked at them, made a couple of comments, but mainly simply talked among themselves, doing shots, drinking beer, shouting, each trying to out-drink and out-manly each other.

But she only watched one closely. He was in profile to her, short hair more salt than pepper, his lovely smile almost hidden in the darkness of the club. He wasn’t as loud as the others, almost reserved compared to the younger men in the group.

But she knew he was not the proper Englishman he appeared to be, that his mind was as sexual as anyone she had ever known. They had shared these thoughts, things they had done, things they wanted to do, things they did with each other, through a computer screen. She knew his kinks, and there were many, how he got off on watching a woman’s fingers sink into her pussy, how he had shared a lover with his friend, how he fucked his wife with other women’s faces, and breasts and pussies, in his head.

One of those pusses was her own.

They had met, as is almost always the case in the 21st century, online, a sex website where most of what people said was a gross exaggeration if not complete bullshit. They both knew that when they struck up a conversation in a chat room with pornographic images in between the lines of talk.

So she knew how his mind worked. She knew what he was thinking, as he talked to the topless women walking past the table, that he was indeed noticing them, thinking of what he wanted to do with them and to them. She was looking at him with the same thoughts.

James, her horny Brit, leaned in to talk to a woman, then threw back his head and laughed. She took this opportunity of his distraction to signal the waitress, and used tourist English-to-German to order a round of drinks for the table. She told the waitress, as best she could, to tell the men the drinks were from the redhead in the back. She used the word “red” verbatim, and head using a mixture of broken German and gestures, she hoped the young woman would get it right.

She wasn’t sure if her horny Brit would think of her at the mention of a redhead, especially while sitting drunkenly eyeing women in a Berlin nightclub. Maybe some distant synapse would fire in the back of his mind, maybe not. But, it was a first move.

For all I know, she told herself as she watched the waitress load her tray with the drinks, he may have a whole herd of redheads, the reference may not mean a damn thing to him. What she knew of him, she realized, was what he chose to share, how honest he wanted to be.

But she also knew, somehow, that he was honest with her, as she was with him; there was really very little reason to lie. They lived in two different worlds, it never occurred to either of them that they would ever meet, much less have a relationship beyond what they already had: words across a screen.

When he invited her to join him in Berlin, it was more of a throw away comment, part of conversation about the trip. But the seed of an idea was planted, and now here she sat, hidden in the back of the club, steadily drinking to calm her nerves and quiet the doubt that was in the back of her mind

And it was working, she was relaxing, she pulled a chair up to use as a footrest and leaned back, watching as the waitress set down the drinks and tried to explain to six drunken Brits that an American woman with red hair, hidden in the shadows in the back, had bought their drinks. The men turned and looked, squinting into the darkness. She knew she was hidden, so she gave a small half-wave, which seemed to satisfy the group, who turned back to the dancers on the stage.

Except her horny Brit. He did glance back up at the stage, but kept turning back to toward the back.

She stood up, the buzz she had been working on suddenly deserting her. She went to the DJ, who had been playing a collection of bad techno, and handed him a slip of paper with the requests she wanted in German. Her thighs threatened to turn to jelly as she walked through  the few couples groping each other on the dance floor.

She walked toward the table of men, and he looked up, as if he had been expecting her, looking for her. As the techno beat faded, and the funk of the song she requested came up, he froze,  her horny Brit. His mouth opened, his jaw literally dropped. None of the other men seemed to notice, save for the man sitting next to him, who followed his eyes to her walking toward them.

George Michael began explaining what she wanted.

“There’s things that you guess, and things that you know,” George sang, “There’s boys you can trust and girls that you don’t. . . “

She reached the table, as she watched his friend talk into his ear, a question, and he simply nodded in response, too shocked to speak. She walked around the table, singing along with George, and reached her hands out to the man with his mouth open, who started laughing, pure joy on his face, trying to find the presence of mind to stand.

She continued dancing, grabbing the hands he offered and pulling him up onto his feet, out to the dance floor. He stood, motionless, watching her, and for a split second, she wasn’t sure what his next move would be, but then he was there, his arms around her, holding her to himself, so tightly she couldn’t breathe. They didn’t move, just stood there, each feeling the other, unsure they could trust it.

She opened her eyes and saw the men at the table all looking at them, almost as shocked as her dance partner. She pushed herself out of his embrace, as George Michael helped her tell her long distance lover why she was there.

“Every man’s got his patience, and here’s where mine ends. I want your sex.”

She kept dancing, her heart beating harder and faster than it ever had. Each time George sang, “I want your sex,” she felt herself get more and more aroused, knowing now that he was indeed glad she was there, regardless of the five men now openly staring and asking each other what the fuck was going on.

James simply stood, letting reality catch up with his blown mind. She danced around him, her hands never leaving his body, trailing around his waist, getting close enough to smell the liquor on his breath, then turning around, finally kissing his mouth just as George asked, “What’s your definition of dirty baby, what you consider pornography?”

His hands went behind her waist, pulled her closer, he closed his mouth over hers, every sweet kiss she ever imagined rolled off his tongue and on to hers. The music kept pounding, she no longer saw or cared about the men he was with, or the looks from strangers, the other couples dancing around them. Her throat closed up, tears she had fought down threatened to choke her. She opened her eyes to see James was the same, shiny reflections of the dance floor lights spilled over onto his face.

The song ended, Marvin Gaye’s smooth voice began asking for Sexual Healing.

“Ba-aa-a-bee, I’m hot just like an oven, I need some lovin . . .”

Julianna and James swayed together, oblivious. He tried to ask questions, she didn’t, wouldn’t, answer. This was not the time. Now, this dance, was everything, them together, holding each other.

James reached up and untied the ribbon that held the braid down her back, loosening her hair, his fingers in it, just as she knew he would.

She could feel his hard on through his jeans, without realizing it she raised a leg to pull him closer, her skirt hiking up her thigh, where his hand felt like velvet, sliding higher, she could think of nothing but how she wanted him inside her, there, in that instant, on the dance floor of a strip club in Berlin Germany.

She wrapped her arms up around his neck, pulling him close, and put her mouth near his ear.

“Please,” was all she could get out, a whisper, a plea.

James made a noise in his throat, no words, just longing, desire. Anguish.

Before she realized they were moving, he led her across the floor to an elevator. She heard men calling after him, along with Marvin, whispering for them to “get up get up get up, let’s make love tonight.” As the doors slid open and people left the lift, they entered, never letting go of each other. The doors closed, and they were as to being alone as they had ever been.

James held her against the wall, kissing kissing kissing her, his mouth never leaving her body. She reached down, unbuttoned his jeans, shoved her hand inside. His cock jumped, throbbed at her touch. She heard a sound come from her mouth, half moan half sob, and found herself on her knees, desperate to have him in her mouth, after months of imagining.

And it was perfect, his dick swelling in her mouth, his hands in her hair, she was moving on pure instinct and emotion, no technique or thought. She put her hands behind him, pulling him forward, wanting more and more of him.

The elevator emitted a sound, James had not pushed a button to indicate where they were going, he reached over and found the STOP button, pushed it.

“No,” Julianna told him. “Please, take me to your room, your bed,” she said, standing to face him. “I have waited so long, I was so scared I was doing something foolish . . . “

“How could you think that?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. He put his hands on either side of her face, aligning their eyes, making sure he had her attention. “I love you, you know that, don’t you? Haven’t you felt it, all these months? Why would you feel like this is anything except right, this is what we have talked about, this is what I want.”

The sound of his voice, his accent, the longing in his words, made her wonder if she would be able to stand erect much longer.

James pressed a button, the elevator jumped. They kissed again, harder, their breath coming fast. Hands pulled at clothes, the couple stumbled toward his room, he barely had the presence of mind to slide his card in the door to unlock it. They fell into the room, not looking for the bed, nor caring if they found it. All they knew this moment, the taste and feel, the solidity of each other, the reality of this.

But find the bed they did, Julianna peeled James’ shirt from him as she fell back on the bed. He pushed her knees up to her chest, splaying her open.

“God you are beautiful, the pictures are not enough,” he told her as he plunged his finger into her, so wet and open she dripped out onto the bed. He put his mouth onto her, she could feel him loving her, loving her cunt. She had never come instantly, but she did, simply from the tip of his tongue touching her clit. She shouted, wordless sounds, sobs, a prayer of thanks and love.

“Please, please, haven’t we waited long enough?” She pulled him up to her, clamping her legs around his waist, pushing his jeans down over his ass.

“Baby, oh Julianna, yes,” he opened her blouse, sucking one breast then the other, hesitating at the mouth of her pussy, savoring the moment.

“I love you,” they said, laughing at themselves for saying it in unison. James pushed down, Julianna pulled him into her, months of electronic sex became real.

“My horny Brit.”

“My American bird.”

Pussy Worship



Worship – reverent honor and homage paid to God or a sacred personage, or to any object regarded as sacred;formal or ceremonious rendering of such honor and homage;adoring reverence or regard; the object of adoring reverence or regard.


Reverent. Sacred, adoring, honor and homage. Such words for worship. Something truly loved, cherished, but more than that. Worshipped.

And how does a man worship, exactly? It depends on the altar on which he is kneeling. If he is worshipping money and power, perhaps at the stock exchange, to worship a higher being, he would go to church. To pay homage to a sports team, a stadium, to honor a movie star, a theater, or perhaps the red carpet.

He worshipped in bed.

Between my legs, on his knees – a disciple, studying and touching and seeing and learning. Like a ceremony, he begins at my mouth, my neck, shoulders, breasts. He touches and feels and caresses, gauging reactions, listening to words and wordless sounds I form. Then he is there, I look down to see him, his face is barely visible, his eyes no long on me but on my pussy. He reaches out touches me, sliding a finger up and down, his eyes close, a blind man memorizing his prayer book. Both hands now encourage my thighs to fall open, his thumbs open me like a flower. Praise the lord.

He is slow, his mouth sliding then sucking then licking. Then stopping, whether to pause for reflection or to pull me back from this rabbit hole of sensation that I sliding through, I don’t know. I have no thought, nothing but this, the feeling, the adoration, I don’t feel like I have to do anything. Just be, simply lay back and open my legs, Jesus take the wheel. He reaches underneath me, lifts my ass off the mattress, puts his mouth to me like a man drinking wine, slowly, lingering, rolling his tongue over me. He is savoring my pussy. Lord have mercy, I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Slowly he feasts, then moves harder, faster, his fingers finding places in me I didn’t know existed. Then, back down to earth, slow, calm, each time I find myself returning to reality, floating lazily along this trip. Only to go through more rapids, hard and rough and heart pounding, my stomach drops with the rush of it.

Then, he doesn’t stop, and I see god, or whatever it is that I’m am thanking for making me a woman, with a pussy, so that this man can worship me, do this to me, it is everything I will ever feel. My pussy clenches, I hear myself call out, sob and gasp, I don’t even attempt to be quiet. He is worshipping, but I am shouting Hallelujah.  

I feel drained, I can imagine it is like that for a deity, being the receiver of such fierce and complete devotion is exhausting. He lays with me, his hand cupped between my legs, telling me a prayer of thanks. Are ya kidding me? I have seldom received such gifts, and never without strings attached. I drift away, his face near mine, his mouth whispering a rosary of sweet nothings. Amen



The best orgasm of my life began, oddly enough, not in a bed. Or a dance floor, doing the tango to Spanish guitars, our pelvises grinding as we stared soulfully  into each other eyes. The best orgasm of my life began when we, the man who brought me to this orgasm (because he did, it was not a ‘joint effort’ kind of thing, like mind blowing sex usually is, it was all him), he and I were not alone, but in public.

We wandered the music store, stopping here and there, he would touch a guitar, reverently, his fingers barely making contact with the strings, so that just a hint of sound would escape. His hand would trail over the keys of a piano, stopping to play a chord, two, a few notes, simply for the joy of making the sound.

As he found these instruments, he also found me, barely out of physical contact for a moment, one hand touching a drum or a horn, the other wrapping around my neck, pulling me in for a kiss, or between my legs for the briefest of moments, barely making contact, as light as his fingers on the guitar he was walking past, softly, but by no means without thought.

The best orgasm of my life began in earnest when he picked up a bass guitar. While he had been playing with guitars and keyboards and drums, when he picked up the bass, it was serious business. No fucking around, this instrument was going to do what he wanted, he would touch it just so, and it would love him in return, give him music.

His eyes closed, this man, and his fingers begin to dance, striking the strings, moving across the frets, so softly and quickly you wouldn’t think any sound could be produced. I couldn’t take my eyes from his hands, knowing those fingers had been in my panties moments before, in the car. Knowing they would be again, soon.

The thought began the journey, to that orgasm. I felt myself twitch, I knew I was getting wet, watching his fingers on that bass. After he put the instrument away, we walked around the store some more, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it, his fingers on the guitar, I felt the air up my skirt, hitting the moisture on my panties.

In the car, he slides his hand up my skirt again, his fingers slipping into my panties for the briefest moment, somehow touching yet not touching my pussy. Then pulling my skirt back down, only to start the process again in 30 seconds. No talking about it, no looking at me, just reaching over now and again to touch me, feeling me getting more and more turned on.

I did not realize the best orgasm of my life was going to happen, but I did realize this man was in no hurry. He knew we were going to fuck, he knew I was going to come, he wanted this just as he wanted those notes from the bass.Yet, when we walked into the music store, the bass section was the last place he went. He played some six strings, he tinkled some ivories, he looked and listened and touched.

He wanted this, he wanted the best orgasm of my life, but seemed genuinely unconcerned about it. It was the journey, the discovery. All men get a hardon when a woman comes, he got hard actually making it happen, the act of it, watching my face as he pinched my nipple, listening to my breath as he kissed my neck. He was tuning me, playing a few exploratory notes, listening to the sound of it.

In bed, he does what he has wanted to do for weeks, months. After feeling the folds and slick smoothness of my pussy, he brings his fingers to his  mouth, then mine, showing me how sexy it is, my wetness. Then he puts his hand over mine, trails it down between my legs. His fingers intertwine with mine, my juices coat us. He slides a long finger into me, two, his thumb is feeling my fingers as I touch my clit, every so softly.

I didn’t think about coming, I simply let myself go, slowly slowly, ever so slowly. I open my eyes, he is looking at my face, then down at our hands, both between my legs, which as spread as wide as they can go, as if I am putting myself on display and he is looking, seeing what his touch does to me, what I am doing to myself.

He begins fucking me, his fingers reaching into me, feeling the inside of my pussy, as I finger my clit, his hand lightly over top of my own. He doesn’t even seem to care if I am on my way, if the best orgasm of my life is imminent, or any orgasm will happen at all. We have all night, and he will have this, he will play my pussy, he will hear what he wants.

At first, I don’t think I can do this – make myself come while he is fingering me, looking at me, listening to me. So I just enjoy it, let myself float away, his hands playing me as smoothly as he played the bass, his mouth occasionally finding my breast, or my mouth.

Then I feel it, I realize it is building, behind my tummy, up my legs. There is no thought, just this sensation gathering in me, a storm building, as he fingers me, his rhythm as smooth as a bass line, my own fingers playing with my clit. I feel like I need to hurry up, come for him, he wants it so badly. I speed up, my fingertips rubbing harder and faster.

But he stops, stops my hand as well as his own. “Not yet,” he says. I am astonished, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Men want women to come, for the squeeze of the orgasm as well as the ego boost of knowing they can make a woman come. He doesn’t seem to realize this is how it works, that men make a woman come as fast as possible, then come themselves. It is what I know, my reality.

I open my eyes, asking wordlessly. He begins to move again, strong and soft, letting my fingers do what I want. He reaches high up into me, feels me squeeze his fingers as I slide my own over my clit, slowly, juices dripping down over his hand and mine own.

This happens two, three times. He and I bring me to the brink of orgasm, then he backs off. “Not yet.” But I am not frustrated, I luxuriate in the sensation, the freedom of not having to come, of no pressure. It is apparent this man will take his time, he will play every note, he will touch every spot, to play the song, to hear it, the best orgasm of my life.

Then, he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop. His fingers fuck me, he is feeling what I am doing, he can tell I am building, reaching, climbing, and he takes me there, telling me to come for him, let it go, come.

The best orgasm of my life stretches me very thin and high, a single note that becomes a crescendo, waves and waves of my pussy coming on his fingers, my body jerking. I hear myself shout, wordlessly, I cannot stop. I come and come and come, I cannot see the end of it, I can’t breathe, there is nothing my hand and his.

He plays, he writes the song.