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.



“It’s gon’ be ah-ight.”

The gon’ rhymes with own, ah-ight is so smooth it is almost one syllable. He says it slowly, the drawl thick as the words ooze into my ear like syrup. “It’s gon’ be ah-ight,” an assumption at best, perhaps self-delusion.

But fuck me if that reassurance doesn’t feel good to hear, listening in the dark. It is whispered ever so softly, and I find myself as I almost always do when that voice joins me here in my bed, with my hand on my breast, between my legs, eyes closed so the real world no longer exists.

I can almost believe him, for a few hours, that it will indeed be ah-ight. That the obstacles between us are simply detritus that will be swept away like confetti, sucked up by sheer will. I know, when I wake in the light of day, that the odds of it actually being ah-ight are slim to none.

But, in the dark, in my bed, he tells me its okay, that we have no choice. That the foolish thing isn’t moving forward, its stopping, or even pausing to consider. So, I don’t.

He says the words he knows turn me on, what he will do when he is here. Not what he would do, but what he will do. He does not believe in if, but when. What it will be, when he sees me, when he pulls me to him, when he tastes my pussy, when he puts my legs over his shoulders, when he fucks me.

He says that will be ah-ight. And so I listen, and let him tell me, my fingers moving, matching the cadence of his words. I was wet from the moment my phone rang, by the time he describes the acts he sees as inevitable, I am beyond want – I need to come, I need release, I have to have this. I can’t sleep, hell I can’t be until I do.

“I want you so bad baby,” there is anguish in his voice. “I’m gon’ fuck you, then stay there while we sleep, inside you. I’m gon’ wake up makin’ love to you.”

When he says my name its almost musical, so soft, while using hard, filthy words. How deep he’s gon’ fuck me, details of how he will eat me, how far up my pussy his fingers will go. He tells me what is happening there, in his bed, how hard his beautiful cock is and how it is just for me. He sends blurry dark video, mesmerizing.

I fuck myself without mercy, but I cannot tell him this, words don’t come. Just this, my fingers pushing into my cunt, so wet it drips down onto my new sheets, then out over my clit. I just listen to his voice, I tell him its for him, that it is him touching me, and there is nothing else there in the dark but his voice.

And then I come and I can feel him listening, I can feel him out there, feeling me. I share this, give this to him, it is his after all. I hold nothing back, I cry out, groan, growl, grip my phone so hard my hand is sore the next day.

The next day when there is light, and reality and issues and an entire world that tells me it is definitely not alright, not by any stretch of the imagination. All is not right with the world, the world will defeat us. What seems in the dark  like nothing more than a cloud of dark thoughts to be fanned away shows itself to be quite insurmountable in the daylight.

But then the night comes. Then he is there, in my ear. Then there is the relief, the confirmation that maybe things are not that bad. That we can do this.

That its gon’ be ah-ight.

And now for something completely differant


86758821He kissed her ankle. Slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Like velvet, soft, a wet trail from her toes to her thighs. But Adrienne was not known for her patience.

She ate instant rice, drove over the speed limit, opened all her gifts on Christmas Eve. When she met people, she decided within 30 seconds if she would be their friend.

She couldn’t stop herself from urging him. “Please,” she said as his hands traced a meandering path along her legs.

“No, baby, I want this to last,” was his reply, his raspy voice barely above a whisper.

“But, I want-”

“This isn’t about you.” Kiss. Lick, his beard combining with his tongue to drive her insane. “This is about me, I’ve tried to tell you this.”

And he had, Levi taken control since the first time they had sex. He held her down, fucking her so hard the air was forced out of her lungs. He bit her nipples, sucked her pussy as if it were his life’s blood, pulled her face to his by her hair.

But now, now he was not doing any of those things. And Adrienne was going insane. She wanted him, now, here, hard. She wanted to be fucked, really and truly fucked. Release.

“You know what I like?” Levi asked as he cupped her ass and turned her over. “The back of a woman’s knee. I have found it to be . . .”

She heard herself moan, wordless sounds coming from deep within her. Still, he did not heed her, he simply put his mouth to the back of her legs. It was the most sensual feeling, like being on an ocean of warmth.

“Don’t you like this my love?” She could not answer him, any more than with a “mm-hmm.” She realized he was again in control of her body, albeit in a completely different way. He had not taken her over by force this time.

Levi usually stormed Adrienne’s beaches, took her lust hostage, made demands of her. He had, moments ago, done just that: met her need with his own, fucking her hard and fast, cumming so hard she felt it fill her. But now he was playing with her, toying with her, drawing her out, making her slow down and relax. It occurred to her that he was, perhaps for the first time, making love to her.

But that was an abstract thought, floating on the edge of her mind. Front and center was his mouth, back down on her leg, kissing the arch of her foot before taking each toe, one by one, into his mouth. Adrienne’s mind, often the arch enemy of sexual enjoyment, gave up. She gave in, and simply felt, stopped wanting anything more than this – Levi, his mouth, his hands, his voice.

“Doesn’t this take you to your happy place?” he asked her.

“Baby, you are my happy place,” she answered, not even knowing if he could hear her, not caring. He was kissing his way back up her leg, a path along the inside of her thigh, oh my god.

Then after barely kissing her pussy, back down the other side, explaining that this was what he wanted, to do this to her, and when she was under him, it was always about what he wanted.

“God, I love this,” he told her. “Doing this to you, toying and playing with you, taking my time to enjoy you.”

His fingers opened her up, his tongue dancing ever so lightly across the folds of her, barely touching the surface of her pussy and he put a finger inside as if to memorize what she felt like. Then he was there, licking and sucking her, hard then soft, his fingers fucking her fucking her fuckingfuckingfucking . . . and she was gone.

Kissing him goodbye, she tasted herself on his mouth, lying in bed that night, she realized he went back to his life with her juices in his beard.

And that, again, he had dominated her, but a different conquest altogether. He had coaxed her and she slipped under, not a surrender so much as a yielding, a gentle thing, letting go.

Taken under.