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Sea Change—A Love Story

July 29, 2011 Leave a comment

Drawing by Djinn. Property of V-Two Enterprise.

Sea Change is a story I wrote for a story website contest. It didn’t win, in part because it doesn’t have enough explicit sex, which the readers of the website require. It is not a sex story. It is a love story, and that’s the way I like it. If any of my readers have read my story A Girl Alone you may notice I borrowed, in Sea Change, from my own work and the life of a real woman.

Sea Change

He knew me well and that I was a good sailor, but he knew I was doing something dangerous. It wasn’t illegal, and there was nothing he could do to stop me. “You’re heading out alone?” he asked with a frown of disapproval.

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

I backed the boat out of its slip, shifted the transmission to forward, and headed out on diesel power. I turned the boat at buoy G13 and piloted into the channel with the marina, the wind, and memories at my back. When I cleared the last channel buoy I set the autopilot to keep the boat pointed into the wind, while I raised the mainsail. Then I turned the boat south, let out the jib, and shut off the engine. My world became quiet, with only sounds of waves lapping the hull as I sailed south.

I was still a young man, barely eighteen, and my girlfriend had just finished her first year of nursing school and dumped me for a guy who was going to be a doctor. She was a year older than I, and girls mature faster than boys, so I could understand it on some level. But over a year and a half we had explored most of the things a guy and girl could do together, naked, and I was devastated. Mostly I was devastated, because we never got to having intercourse and were about to, and I was burning with jealousy. I couldn’t get the picture out of my head, the picture of her fucking a med student, for her first time, instead of me.

The clouds burned off, the day became hot, and I stripped of my shirt. I drank iced coffee, pissed off the side of the boat, and remembered that’s the way most men fell overboard and disappear forever. I thought of my father asking me, after I told him about my girlfriend, if I might hurt myself. He knew I had been hit hard, and he was being a responsible dad, checking on the off chance I was thinking of suicide. I told him, “I may be depressed, but I’m not crazy.” We laughed together, and it made me feel a little better.

I didn’t know exactly where I was headed, but there were many protected waters along the South Florida coast where one could pull in for the night, and I figured I’d head for one when I got tired of sailing. Being alone I started thinking of woman and decided I’d head for Ander’s Island Cove, an isolated spot with a sandy beach that attracted girls who liked to show themselves off topless. I thought of a friend who once chided me, “How far are you going to go to see a little tit?” But he was an ass man.

I anchored in the cove, changed into a bathing suit, and dove in. The water was salty, cool, and refreshing, and I swam to the beach and began walking the length of it, getting an eyeful to use later in fantasies. I got a couple of friendly nods, but no one invited me over, and I was too shy to make advances.

At the end of the beach I turned to head back, and a flash of color caught my eye. It was a woman, pushed back into dense undergrowth, sitting on the sand in the shade. Her head was in her hands, no one else was on this lonely section of beach, and it looked as if she was crying. I tentatively took a few steps toward her. I wanted her to notice me, but I didn’t want to scare her. I wanted to help her, if I could.

She wore a bathing suit, a two piece, not overly risqué, and she had a bag of stuff with her. She saw me and looked up. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet with tears. Her body was ripe and luscious. Too good for me, I thought.

“I don’t want to intrude…” I said.

She stared and looked me up and down, perhaps measuring me for the potential to be dangerous.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked. “Are you with someone?” No one comes here alone I thought and realized I had. Also, she looked young to be on her own in a place that you had to have a boat to get to, but so did I.

“My boyfriend, ex boyfriend, kicked me off his boat,” she said tearfully and waved toward the boats in the cove. I looked out. There were dozens of boats, all expensive. I wondered what kind of boyfriend she had had, and I was jealous that he had her even if not anymore.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, thinking of one answer I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into. “I could help you find a boat with some women on it to take you to back to the mainland,” I offered gallantly.

“Would you take me back?” she asked.

“I’m not going back, at least not for a few days and maybe longer.”

“You don’t have to?”

“Go back? No. I’m taking a break… from life. I’m having a hard time too.”

The girl looked up, questioningly, but I didn’t want to explain.

Timidly, she asked, “Can I go with you?”

I couldn’t help but look down at her body—I had been trying not to stare. Reflexively she moved her arm to cover her breasts. I looked back at her eyes and paused, unsure how to respond, though I already knew my answer.

“I’d like that,” I said with a grin, and then I thought I might have answered with too much enthusiasm, so I added, “But don’t worry, you won’t owe me anything.”

“I appreciate you saying that. You seem like a nice guy.”

“I’m pretty nice—modest too.”

She smiled.

“Is anyone going to miss you, on shore?” I asked. “You can use my cell phone on the boat and call them, if you want.”

“No,” she said. “No one will miss me.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering what her story was.

I offered her a hand and helped her up. Touching her was a thrill. “Can I carry your bag?” I asked, and she handed it to me. I looked down the beach. I didn’t want to have to deal with an angry ex boyfriend, while I was helping his girlfriend, whom he might not consider to be his ex, get away. I wondered if he was still around. “Which boat did you come on?”

“I don’t know. They all look the same.”

I nodded. “We’ll have to walk the length of the beach. My sailboat is at the other end. I don’t want to get into a confrontation with anyone.”

“That could be a problem,” she said.

“Why don’t you wait here and hide in the bushes. I’ll get my boat and anchor out there,” I pointed in front of us. “I’ll swim in and get you. Can you swim out to a boat?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We came in, in a little boat.”

“I’ll bring a life vest.”

“Good idea,” she said, and then she begged, “Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” I assured her. I thought but didn’t say, “Trust me”—as useless a phrase as the paper it’s never written on.

She nodded her assent and started making her way deeper into the bushes as I jogged toward the other end of the beach.

It took me awhile, but I piloted my boat over, anchored, and swam in with a life vest and a waterproof cooler that would float and into which I could put her bag of possessions. I helped her put the vest on and buckled it around her.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. She caught my drift and looked downward. I had an erection, not a full one but definitely plump.

“From putting on a life vest?” she asked incredulously.

I shrugged, took her hand, and pulled her into the water. “I said you won’t owe me anything, and I meant it. But I do accept gifts.”

She laughed. “No promises on that. What’s your name?” she asked.

“Matt, what’s yours?”

“Chastity,” she giggled, gulped a mouth full of water, and began coughing.

“Really?” I asked, wondering if she was pulling my leg.

“Not really. It’s Eva,” she said between coughs.

“Ahhh, Eve, the temptress.”

Eva,” she corrected me.

“Yeah, I know, but close enough.”

We stopped talking and slowly swam out to the boat.

I got on board first, carrying the cooler with Eva’s stuff in it. Then I helped Eva climb the swim ladder. I couldn’t help but look down into her top. I’m sure she noticed—women are good at detecting that—but she didn’t say anything.

“It’s cooling off,” I said. “We should get dried off and get dressed.

“Do you have a towel I can use?” she asked.

I went into the cabin, brought out a clean towel, and handed it to her. She dried her body. I longed to dry it for her.

“Do you have enough water for me to rinse the salt out of my hair?” she asked.

“I have plenty of water, hot water even. Would you like to take a shower?”

“This is a fancy boat.”

“A regular yacht,” I said. “My uncle lives up north, and I live on his boat and take care of it.”

“Lucky you. Is your uncle rich?”

“He’s pretty well off. He owns his own company. It’s some kind of software business… So, do you want to take a shower?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said looking down again.

“Especially if you invite me in with you,” I said hopefully.

“You can come in with me.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Just like that?”

“Sure, why not?” Eva said and started stripping off her bathing suit.

We went into the cabin and undressed. I guided Eva toward the shower, turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and we both got in. It was crowded, and we wound up hugging, my penis standing between us.

Eva poured shampoo in her hand and soaped me, cradling my scrotum and testicles and paying special attention to my erection that she slid in her soapy fist. “If you think you’re going to come, tell me, and I’ll stop. I’d rather have you come inside me.”

“You’re really something,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Don’t stop—I don’t come that easily.”

“That’s a good thing in a man,” Eva replied.

I filled my hands with shampoo and started on Eva’s back. Then I washed her backside, her legs, and up between her legs. She smiled, giggling and squirming the whole time. When I washed her breasts and pulled her nipples through my soapy fingers she squealed. My penis pulsed dangerously, and I removed Eva’s hands from me.

We rinsed off, got out, and dried each other. Then we went into the V-birth and curled up in each other’s arms. I figured it was time for a confession. “I had a girlfriend, for about a year, but she dumped me.”

“I’m sorry,” Eva said.

“Really?” I asked as my penis rubbed against her.

“Not really,” Eva said, and we laughed.

“We did lots of stuff together, but I’m still a virgin,” I admitted shyly.

“I don’t mind—I was a virgin once too,” Eva said, and we laughed again.

I put my hand between Eva’s legs, held her, and squeezed gently and repeatedly as a caress. She made the loveliest girl sound high in her throat, and then she sighed. I could feel her wetness leaking out, and I put my finger in and explored her, while she held my penis. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, and her fingers stopped moving over me.

We kissed and touched each other, and after an interlude it seemed the most natural thing in the word for me to come on top of her and guide my penis into her slippery wetness. I moved it in and out, experimentally—it was my first vagina—it held me tightly.

We enjoyed making love for a long time, sharing Eva’s orgasms, spaced by intermissions, until it was my turn to come. And I did come, with ferocious energy, and my young man’s lifetime of practice masturbating culminated in the most gratifying release of childhood and attainment of manliness.

I lay on Eva, exhausted and exultant. “Am I hurting you?” I whispered.

“No, you feel good,” she said and hugged me. “Stay as long as you like.”

***

I fell asleep on Eva, and when I woke I was next to her, touching side-to-side, her arm over my back. I turned and kissed her, and she woke and smiled. We dressed and cooked the fresh shrimp I had in the fridge, and we prepared slices of French bread and butter, and strawberries. We took the food outside and ate in the cockpit. “I haven’t eaten this well in ages,” Eva said.

“The first night out the food’s always the best.”

“Mm hmmm,” she replied, her mouth full of strawberry.

After dinner we lay together on deck, wrapped ourselves in a blanket, snuggled, and stared at the stars.

“I ran away from home when I was sixteen,” Eva said quietly.

I turned toward her, put my arm over Eva, and put my lips next to her cheek as I listened.

“I left with a small backpack full of stuff, mostly clothes. I was terrified—afraid during the day and afraid to go to sleep at night.”

“For five or six months I didn’t stay with anyone. I slept in old cars, under bushes, wherever I could find someplace that seemed safe.

“The first night I was picked up by a trucker. I lied and said I had an aunt in the direction he was heading, and he let me off when we got where I said I was going. He was understanding and nice and didn’t hit me up for sex. And I didn’t have experience with sex, just kissy-feely stuff with a couple of boys and a girlfriend.

“When he left me off the only things on my mind were staying away from home and what happened that made me leave. I didn’t know where I was going to go or how I was going to get there. I thought about a couple of friends, but it I knew their parents would just being me back to my mother. Whatever I saw was scary and bleak.

“I was hungry as hell, and the truck stop where I was let off had an all night diner. I went through their garbage and found something to eat and slept on the ground next to the building.

“The next morning was like a lot of mornings—I needed food. One of the gals that worked in the kitchen found me going through the garbage and brought me some cereal and toast. She didn’t offer anything else, but that was wonderful. I got to thinking about where I was going to stay, but I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t want to go to the police, because they’d just send me home, so I wandered around, looking, for what I didn’t know, just looking.

“I spent a week like that, maybe longer, always going back to the truck stop. Every morning the gal would bring me breakfast. One morning it was a different person, an older guy the woman had called. He was a counselor from Children’s Services. He was nice, and he told me he would help me, but he said I would have to go to the facility.

“I was afraid, and I told him No.”

“He said I could leave anytime I wanted. Then the gal came out and chatted with him, and she told me he was okay and helped a bunch of kids get things straight, so I went.

“I had my first shower in I don’t know how long, a real meal, and I sleep in a real bed. There were two other girls there, and we sort of bonded. I still see one of them, once in awhile. The other one died of an OD after she went back home.

“The system was fucked up—I was put in a foster home that was abusive. How those people got to be a foster family is beyond me. Mom, dad, daughter, and son treated me like shit, like I was there to be their slave. The son was eight or nine, but he acted like the others. His sister was my age but was a pig. I’ve thought about going back and seeing if they are still with the program. I sure hope not.

“I couldn’t register for school without a transcript, and I didn’t want my old school to know where I was, because I was afraid they would tell my mom. I probably would have needed her signature, too, but Children’s Services helped me with all that. I don’t know if my mom ever found out where I was, but if she did she didn’t give a damn. I never heard from her again.”

I lifted my head and tried to look into Eva’s eyes, but she wouldn’t look at me. She just looked at the star filled sky.

“I got friendly with a girl in school, and for awhile I moved in with her and her mom,” Eva continued. “They were great, but the girl and I were very different. We lived in the same room, and she was a slob. Not that I’m perfect, but when she took off her clothes she couldn’t be bothered putting them in the hamper and stuff like that. But the bigger problem was me. I was used to being by myself. Eventually I moved on.

“I lived wherever I could. I begged for money and slept on the ground in parks, in an abandoned car for a month, places like that. One day, while I was begging, I met a woman who took an interest in me. She took me home, fed me, cleaned me up, and had sex with me. I was totally willing—I enjoyed it. We had a great afternoon, and then her husband came home, and we had a threesome. I enjoyed that too. I might have stayed with them, but they weren’t interested in having that much of a daughter, so I left.”

“Can you tell me what made you run away from your mother?” I asked.

“My mother was an addict. If she was at breakfast at all, she had a beer in her hand. She supported us by getting welfare and working a little. She mopped floors in a school, stocked shelves in a grocery, and was a maid in a motel until they found out she was fucking guests.

“Mom loved to fuck. I inherited that from her. She quit the little work she got, because it interfered with her night life. I don’t think she was a prostitute—she’d fuck anyone for free, but sometimes the men she brought home would leave something for her.

“At first it was beer, but later it turned into hard liquor and drugs. I saw what my mother’s addiction did to her. I remember it so well that there is no way I will ever be an addict to anything, with one exception. I’m an addict to sex, just like her. I was never a prostitute—I never explicitly offered sex for money—but like my mother I survived by trading what I had for what I needed.”

“Were you living with the guy who brought you on the boat?” I asked.

“Yeah, for a month, but he got tired of me. He wanted to trade me to his friend, for his friend’s girlfriend, but I wouldn’t do that, so he kicked me off his boat with all my stuff.”

“All your stuff is in one bag?”

“Yeah, and I always keep it with me in case I have to leave someplace fast.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a mother and father and aunts and uncles and grandparents, and a brother and sister, and they all love me.”

“You’re lucky,” Eva said.

“What about your father?” I asked.

“My birth certificate says Father Unknown.”

“That’s so sad.”

Eva shrugged. “I’m used being by myself.”

“I have plenty of love. I’d like to share it with you,” I said.

Eva smiled, turned, and hugged me. Under the blanket she slipped off her shorts and panties, and I got hard, anticipating making love again. She helped me undress, lay on her back, and moved me between her spread legs. She took my penis and guided it into her, and she sucked in her breath as I sank in deep.

Before we headed toward climax we lay in each other’s arms, not rushing, enjoying each other’s presence and listening to the sounds of the water lapping the sides of the boat and to night sounds from shore.

“The last night with my mom she was drunk on her ass, begging her drug dealer for drugs, but she had no money. So she offered me in payment, thinking so little of her daughter… I became just a token. He was too drunk or stoned to want to do anything, and I ran away before he could have me.”

I pulled my penis out and then came back into Eva, trying to express—with kisses on her lips, her face, in her ears, and up and down her neck; my hands caressing and cupping her breasts, my fingers gently holding her nipples; and my penis that had only just learned the exquisite feeling of being inside a woman—how much I cared for and wanted to give Eva love and perhaps be the first person she ever trusted enough to risk loving in return.

That Eva had trusted me enough to reveal her past, her secrets, her pain, transported each of us and us as one into worlds of feeling where thoughts slipped away, and we made love with moans and tears and flows of woman’s slipperiness that coated me and Eva’s thighs and dripped between her buttocks… And then we came as one with anguish on our faces and gasps for breath and life, to produce life, at least symbolically, and our cries in the night were heard by roosting birds and bats and other creatures on their own quests for food, mating, and the perpetuation of their species. We made love as neither of us had ever done, and after we climaxed and rested we went into the cabin and slept in each other’s arms. Nothing between us was ever the same again.

***

We traveled from Miami down to the Florida Keys, anchoring and making love whenever one of us felt the desire, which was often. Sometimes we headed out into the ocean where we could be away from other boats, and we would take off our clothes and cavort naked, touching and making love at will. Sometimes we didn’t make love; we just fucked in the cockpit with the boat was underway. At times we pulled into marinas to load up on water and supplies, but we never stayed overnight, for our need to make love was compelling, and we didn’t want to be inhibited by people being around us.

I taught Eva to sail, and she could spell me at the wheel as I napped, and in midsummer we crossed the rough waters of the Gulf Stream and went to Bimini and back.

It was getting toward the end of summer, and I was running out of the money I had saved working at the marina where my uncle kept his boat. “I’m going to have to go to work again,” I told Eva.

“Am I’m going to have to leave?” she asked.

“No, No, Not at all. I don’t want you to.”

“Really?”

“Really. Would you stay on the boat and live with me?”

“We do have a lot of fun together.”

“We do,” I said, putting my hand on her thigh between her legs.

Eva closed her legs on my hand. “I don’t know why you like me, except for sex,” she said. “I’m a bad girl—a slut, and a cum bucket, and a whore.”

“No you’re not. You just had a tough life.”

“One time I met this girl, and we got friendly, and she invited me to a party. There were three other girls at the party, but they all had boyfriends. The girl who invited me was in one of the couples, and I didn’t know anyone else. Before we went, she told me that it might turn into a sex party, and she asked if I was willing. ‘Sure,’ I said, thinking I would be with one guy or girl. I didn’t realize I would be the only unattached female with eight unattached guys.

“I realized I was going to be a gang-bangee, and I was reluctant, at first, to have to give attention to all the unattached guys. But I was only reluctant for about thirty seconds. Then I sucked every cock and was fucked by most of them. The guys liked that I wanted their cum in my mouth, not all over me. So you see what I’m like?”

“Do you have to be bad like that?” I asked.

“Yes, but not if you loved me. If you really loved me I would never be bad. I’d be only for you.”

“I do love you,” I said.

Eva stared at me, and then she started to cry. She whimpered, “I love you too,” and she hugged me and started crying harder. “I never said that to anyone before,” Eva said. “If you hurt me now I’ll die.”

“I won’t hurt you, Trust me.”

Eva nodded—she believed me, and with tears streaming down her face she said, “I do.”

***

I began working full time in the marina, and Eva enrolled in nursing school. She worked so hard that the hospital offered to pay her tuition if she agreed to work for the hospital for two years after she graduated. She accepted, and we lived together on the boat.

Eva spent a lot of time in the hospital, volunteering in the emergency room, and she was a fierce protector of every young woman who came in with a story of abuse. She fought Children’s Services, the hospital administration, and even the police. Once she almost got arrested for taking a young woman and hiding her so Children’s Services couldn’t take her back to the foster home from which she ran away. Eva fought so well, always on the side of righteousness, that instead of firing and arresting Eva the hospital, Children’s services, and a representative from the police force formed a group to develop new guidelines to protect young women. Eva, as young as she was, was a key member.

Every night Eva comes home exhausted, and I have dinner waiting for her. I give her a dose of love, we share sex, and we sleep touching.

Making the Grade

April 4, 2011 6 comments

Making the Grade. Illustration by Andrea and Ale.

Once I got stopped for speeding and showed my boobs to a cop to get out of a ticket. He didn’t ask. I just unbuttoned my shirt as he was looking at my license. He seemed torn between arresting me and letting me strip, but he didn’t say anything, so I kept on going and unclipped my bra and took it off my breasts. He glanced around to see if anyone could see, and then he helped himself to a feel. He felt both breasts. It made me wet. It wasn’t his touch—he was rough, but the whole situation that turned me on. It was risky, but after I got out of the speeding ticket I went home and masturbated thinking about him violating me.

He ordered me out of the car… made me assume the position while he frisked me… lifted my skirt and pulled down my panties to make sure I wasn’t concealing anything… fucked me with a metal rod he took off his belt then fucked me with his cock, right there, in broad daylight, bent over the hood of my car.

That’s not what happened, but that’s what I fantasized about while I worked myself over with my vibrator. I wonder what would have happened if he did do that and what would have happened if someone drove by while he was doing it. What if he had his way with me then stuck my head in my car window and cuffed me to the steering wheel, leaving me for passing motorists to enjoy, however they wished, and then came back at nightfall to release me with a slap on the wrist for the speeding. Or should that be a slap on the ass? If I were him I’d give me a major spanking.

I really did show my breasts to a cop, and he really did feel me up and let me get out of a speeding ticket, but this week I did something much worse. It’s something that goes on all the time, at my college, in a big university. I know other girls who did it, but I swore I never would.

It’s the end of summer school after my sophomore year, which is the hardest year, because the college busts the most people out, so it can weed out the duds before they let you start concentrating on your major.

I’m a good student, but my mind just isn’t capable of complicated math. It’s not that I don’t try, but I just can’t do it, and I was going to get another F on my second try at elementary calculus. I wouldn’t have been able to continue on, and my career, my whole life, would have been ruined. My father would have killed me.

You know what I’m talking about, but what other choice did I have? I was going to offer sex to my professor for a passing grade. It’s not like I was going to give anything away that I couldn’t keep—I mean my pussy wasn’t going to wear out or anything. I was just going to share what I had for what I needed.

The problem was, I don’t like the asshole. He’s an arrogant middle-aged horndog who’s always eyeing the girls and making suggestive remarks that make us uncomfortable. I also don’t like the way he smells, and I was deathly afraid he wouldn’t agree to use a condom. I was also afraid of what he would do to me if I went someplace alone with him and put myself in his hands. Despite my misgivings, I made an appointment to meet him after my final.

I wasn’t going to be subtle, so I dressed in a see-through nightgown. That was all I wore, except for sandals and a thigh-high jacket, so I could walk across campus without being raped. Before I left my dorm room I pulled my nightgown up, twisted the cloth into a roll, and tucked it into itself at the waist. That way the nightgown wouldn’t fall below the hem of my jacket, and no one would know that I was essentially naked, underneath.

My professor was aware that I was a failing student, and he leaned back with his feet on his desk and his hands clasped behind his neck, like he was king of the world and I was some kind of slug. He kept his guest chair across the room, so students can’t sit, and I was forced to stand in front of him while he looked me over, especially at my bare legs, wondering what I had on under my jacket.

I’ve got to do this, I thought for the thousandth time, and I said the magic words. “What do I have to do to get a passing grade?”

He knew what I was talking about, but he wasn’t going to say it first. “What are you willing to do?” he asked.

I kept my legs tightly closed, and I opened my jacket and lowered my nightgown before he had a chance to catch more than a glimpse of the strip of hair I kept above my slit. I took off my jacket and dropped it on the floor. My breasts were teasingly visible, and my nipples tingled, advertising my arousal. I hung my head in embarrassment and shame.

He licked his lips. “Put your jacket on, and we’ll go over to my house,” he said.

“Please,” I begged. Then, in a small voice I said, “I can’t do that. It’s too dangerous.” I shrugged apologetically. “But I really, really need to pass,” I implored.

He kept insisting, and I started crying. I hated myself.

Finally, he got up and came toward me. I shrank from him, but he walked past me and locked the door. “Take it off, and bend over the desk,” he said.

I kneeled and got a condom out of my jacket and held it up, pleadingly.

He sighed and shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he said disgustedly. He took off his trousers and shorts, cleared his desk, lay on it, and he fished my breasts out of my nightgown, so he could see and maul them. He lay down with his legs spread. “Suck me off!” he ordered. “And you’d better do a good job or you’ll be getting the F you deserve. And that’s for sure! And don’t take my cock out until I come in your mouth and let you go,” he added.

I bent over him and took his penis in my hand. It got firm, and then it got hard. I licked it. It didn’t taste that bad, so I put it in my mouth, surrounded it with my cheeks and tongue, and began sucking him.

He let me play with him until he couldn’t take it any more, and then he held my head and fucked my mouth, making me gag. It don’t think it took that long, though it seemed like forever, and he tightened up and gushed cum into my mouth. Some of it escaped out the corners of my lips and dribbled down my chin. His spurts died down, but he kept fucking my mouth until he got soft. Then he let me go.

I spit his come into my hand and shook what I could into his waste basket. I wiped the rest on my nightgown.

He laughed. Then he said, “A minus for the blow job, C for the course.”

With self-loathing I whimpered, “It’s more than I deserve.”

He kept his word and gave me a C. Now, every time I see him he touches his crotch. He tells me he’s sorry he let me off without a good fucking.

Candi Coating

March 31, 2011 4 comments

Candi Coating - Illustration by Andrea and Ale

Brandi saw her aunt on the street, ran past with a breathless “Hi,” ran up the walk to her cousin’s house, and entered without a knock. She took the stairs quickly, burst into her cousin’s room, and found Candi lying on her back, in bed, her face flushed, her dress pulled up her legs, and her nipples impudently poking peaks in the soft cloth of her top.

“What are you doing?” Brandi asked, knowing full well what Candi had been doing.

“Nothing,” Candi gasped, having difficulty coming back from the brink of an orgasm and not in any condition to formulate a convincing lie. She was achingly aroused and terribly frustrated, and she wished her cousin hadn’t come in when she did. Fuck, I need to come so bad, Candi thought, and she cast about, without hope, for an excuse to get her cousin out of the room so Candi could lift her dress all the way again and rub her clit to the explosive climax she had been about to have. Not only was she dying to come, but she had had a hard week in school and was looking forward to whiling away the afternoon with her legs spread, masturbating repeatedly.

“Guess who’s coming to visit?” Brandi blurted, ignoring her cousin’s obvious need for privacy.

Candi resigned herself to frustration and wondered if delayed gratification might add to her arousal and the satisfaction of an even greater climax after her cousin left. “Who?” Candi asked.

“Alessandro, our cousin from Argentina, the guy I once told you about.” Brandi couldn’t stop thinking about her trip to South America with her mom and dad, when she was fifteen, and particularly about Alessandro, her Dad’s relative’s stepson.

“Cousin?”

“Yeah, well, sort of. He’s a God—at lease he would be if he wasn’t such a Bad Boy. I wanted to fuck him more than anything. If only he could have been my first instead of stupid Clint Fengler.”

“You’re such a slut. Clint’s a pig.”

“Yeah, I know, but… He’s coming over now.”

“Clint?” Candi asked with horror.

“No, Alessandro, you idiot.”

“Here? Now? What do you mean?”

“He’s in town, and he called me up.” The only reason he called is because he wants to fuck me,” Brandi thought. “I gave him your address. I knew your Mom would be out, and I figured…” Brandi shrugged.

“I’ll get in trouble,” Candi said immediately. “I’m not allowed to have boys over when my parents aren’t home.”

“They’ll never know,” Brandi said.

Candi calculated the odds of being discovered, the thrill of having a Bad Boy in her bedroom, and the consequences if it was discovered he’d been there. The throbbing need between her legs tended to push her in the direction of saying yes, but what would I let him do? Candi wondered. She wasn’t going to let some strange boy fuck her. She knew that for sure. That’s what Brandi does, Candi thought. She wondered if she had the courage to show herself naked to the boy and then even let him rub her where she wanted to be rubbed most. She clenched her legs tightly and had a mini-orgasm at the thought.

The doorbell rang, but before Candi could protest Brandi ran downstairs and brought back the most delicious hunk of young manhood that Candi ever imagined. In no time at all and with barely a hello he had his shoes and shirt off and was sliding his trousers down his legs.

Candi’s eyes opened wide at the sight of his stiff cock pointing at her, bobbing and waving back and forth as he moved.

“Oh No,” Candi protested. It was happening too fast and was frightening. She wanted to slow down and get control of the situation, but Brandi was behind her and Brandi’s arms reached around and opening the front of Candi’s dress. “Wait!” Candi screeched, but before she knew it she was sandwiched between Brandi and the naked Alessandro. And then Brandi had Candi’s breasts in her hands and was pulling Candi’s nipples and running fingers all over them.

“Ohhhh,” Candi screamed in delight, raising her mouth, which Alessandro took as permission to kiss. He put his tongue deep inside her. Then he positioned himself in front of Candi, while Brandi locked her arms around her girl cousin, imprisoning her against the new boy.

Candi felt Alessandro’s hard penis searching for her prize, coming closer with each probe, and then he found her wet opening and pushed in—not all the way in—just enough not to be dislodged.

It wasn’t that Candi was unwilling—she had even moved to help Alessandro find her wetness, but she felt that feminine modesty demanded at least a show or resistance to being taken so quickly and without so much as tacit permission. Candi tried to rise up, tried to dismount the overwhelming demands of the stallion partly in her, but he followed her up, staying just inside until she could rise no more and had to come down, burying the stiff hot rod all the way into herself.

“Ahhhh,” Candi screamed. The rubbing, pulling, and twisting of her nipples; the tongue swishing wetness all around the insides of her mouth; the hands of a young man she didn’t know holding her buttocks, spreading her cheeks, and stretching her anus as he pulled her tightly to him; and the arousal she felt even before either of her cousins laid a hand on her: it was all too much, and Candi couldn’t help but commence madly fucking the pole inside her.

Before long, Alessandro took pity on the poor girl—he didn’t want her to have to do all the work, and he carried her, still on his cock, and laid her on her on her bed and took over. He drove Candi, and she screamed herself into an orgasm, and Alessandro, holding her pinned with his muscular hands on her shoulders and his rod buried deep inside her, let her writhe.

Candi gasped for breath as she had her first climax, but Alessandro did not let up. He picked up the pace and fucked her fast and furiously, driving her into another and another orgasm, until she was panting, drenched with sweat, and more than overly satisfied.

Alessandro fell on Candi and rested, and then he pulled out. He hadn’t yet come, and his cock glistened with wetness and was stiffer than ever as he turned toward Brandi.

Brandi licked her lips and began unbuttoning her dress.

Best of Both Worlds–a story

March 29, 2011 5 comments

Best of Both Worlds. Illustration by Andrea and Ale.

Best of Both Worlds

by Matthew Dyne

“Surprise!” Ginny yelled.

Sally startled awake from her nap in the sunshine, outside the pool house of her multimillion dollar mansion. She looked up, but her gaze drifted downward. I must be having a wet-dream, she thought.

“I brought two friends,” Ginny said. “I thought you might need cheering up.”

The cheering up referred to Sally’s husband dying. It wasn’t a tragedy—the man had been in his nineties, but he had been good to Sally, taking her in and becoming a bit of the father she never had and then, for the last two years of his life, her husband.

Sally didn’t regret trading two years of faithfulness for his fortune, and she didn’t do it out of greed. She could have cheated—he never would have known. He even expected that she would need to satisfy a young woman’s cravings he could no longer take care of. But he didn’t want her in bed with others. He would have been terribly jealous, and Sally knew that. So she was honorable and kept her part of the unspoken agreement inherent in their nuptial vows by taking care of her own needs, as best she could.

But Sally was a highly sexual young woman, and not having sex with anyone, except herself, made her terribly horny. Now that he was gone Sally’s desires no longer needed to be repressed, and they burst forth in full force.

Besides being highly sexual Sally was a bi-girl, but she had preferences of which Ginny was aware. That’s why when Ginny met her two friends, whom she hadn’t seen since high school, and when they came out to Ginny, confessing their secret and even asking Ginny to go to bed with them, Ginny realized they were perfect.

“I’d like you to meet Jill,” Ginny said, pulling on Jill’s penis, which caused her to rise on tiptoes and squeal. “And Jo,” Ginny said, pulling on Jo’s penis and getting a squeal from her, too. “Jo and Jill, meet my friend Sally.”

“Hi Sally,” the girls sang out.

Ginny pulled the girls along by their penises—she so enjoyed their feel—so hard and responsive. She was reluctant to let go.

Jo removed Ginny’s hand from her and Jill’s penises, for Jo wanted Sally, who was clearly fascinated, to see the two penises in their full glory.

“I’m sorry for staring,” Sally finally said, embarrassed by the two hard penises now close to and pointing at her. “I’ve heard about… but… I never…”

“It’s okay,” Jill said. “A friend of Ginny’s is a friend of ours, and we are, somewhat, unusual.”

“Somewhat?” Jo teased. Her penis bobbed as she turned toward Jill.

“I thought you wouldn’t mind throwing a party, just a little one, for the four of us,” Ginny said.

Jo and Jill looked at Sally and smiled demurely.

Sally couldn’t take her eyes from the stiff pokers—so masculine, yet, on the two beautiful young women, so inexplicably feminine, too.

“Sally hasn’t had sex in two years,” Ginny said.

Jo’s and Jill’s expressions turned to ones of concern. “Oh my,” Jo said.

Oh, you poor dear,” Jill gasped.

Sally blushed. She looked down again, and without thinking she blurted out, “You’re so big.”

“Thank you,” Jill and Jo said together.

“Mostly, Sally likes girls.” Ginny said.

“Yes,” Sally interrupted, “but I’m weak for a hard cock inside me. There’s nothing like the real thing, is there?” She looked longingly at the man sized tools jutting from just above the legs of the two most feminine creatures standing before her.

The three other girls agreed that there was nothing like the real thing, but Jill and Jo didn’t mean the same thing Sally meant. “That’s why we’re here” Jo said excitedly. Then, she said sadly, “We’ve never had the real thing. We’ve only had each other. We don’t own a vagina between us, and we’ve never tried one.”

“We’re virgins,” Jill said and giggled. “We asked Ginny to let us try hers, but she insisted you needed us more, and, well, if you wouldn’t mind, we were hoping…”

“Mind?” Sally exclaimed. She scooted over on hands and knees and rained kisses all over the two erect penises before her, and then she took each penis in her mouth and gave it a good sucking, which elicited gasps and made the girlish rods stand even more vertically.

“That feels great,” Jo said, “not that we’re inexperienced in that department.”

Amidst much gossip and laughter the four girls took off their clothing. They were all curves and waves, hills and dales—breasts, buttocks, hips, and thighs. There wasn’t a manly feature among them except for those two beautifully sculpted pokers standing at attention, waiting to perform their duty and take their pleasure.

“Sally and Jo first,” Ginny directed.

Sally assumed the doggie position and spread her legs. “Hurry,” she begged, thrusting her pelvis unambiguously, signaling that her needs had long been unsatisfied.

“I’ve never done this,” Jo said. “So, if I’m a little clumsy…”

“Just do what comes naturally,” Sally encouraged. “Vaginas are sensitive, but they don’t mind a bit of punishment.”

Sally was as wet as a rainforest, and Jo had no trouble finding her way in. “Ohhhh,” she screamed. “That feels soooo good.”

Sally gave Jo a couple of love squeezes, the kind that only a woman can give, and Jo took off like a mare pretending to be a stallion. She fucked Sally quickly. She fucked slowly. Sometimes she barely pushed in. Sometimes she probed deeply. She pumped hard, and she caressed, too, experimenting to find all the ways she could to give and get pleasure from Sally, her new girl-toy.

After awhile Jo took her penis out and asked Sally to turn over. Jo wanted to experience the missionary position, too. Sally turned over, and Jo was quick to put her penis back in. She tried different strokes and angles and listened to Sally’s sounds, paying attention to Sally’s feelings, and with kisses, nibbles, and words expressing love and contentment she teased, tickled, and thanked Sally for sharing her vagina that was freely flowing. A rivulet trickled between her buttocks.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Jo repeated in a rhythm set to the tempo of her fucking Sally.

Sally was in heaven—a nirvana of no consciousness—a realm of joy and abandon she wanted to stay in forever. She tried to hug Jo. She tried to touch Jo’s breasts and stroke her skin, but Sally couldn’t concentrate on anything but the flush of her arousal and her approaching orgasm. All was feeling—distilled, concentrated, throbbing and burning between her legs, high up in her, high behind, within, and around her clitoris that was so swollen it was about to burst…

And then it did burst, and Sally screamed her way into the best orgasm of her young life, her best orgasm ever, and Jo stopped pumping, her penis inserted as far as it could get into Sally. And then Jo rose up, rose up high, lifting Sally, lifting then lowering then lifting her again using the penis that was deep inside her, so that all the pressure of Sally’s weight concentrated behind her throbbing clit.

Sally never imagined an orgasm the likes of that which ripped through her—more than not a continuation of her previous climax. She shook from head to toe. Contractions vibrated through her body. And Jo, sensitive as ever, waited, her penis still lifting but not moving, while Sally’s orgasm ran its course.

***

Jo lowered Sally and lay on her softness and rested, her penis, still bone hard, still inside.

Sally moaned, and Jo, her face buried in Sally’s neck, kissed her new friend repeatedly.

Time passed. Sally recovered. “You come now,” she whispered to Jo, and she felt Jo shake her head Yes.

Jo rose again, and slowly and steadily, and then more quickly, demandingly, she built to a fever pitch, and thrusting deeply, moaning and gasping, sweat glistening to sheen her skin, she burst into an orgasm of her own. A flood of girl-juice pumped out of her and joined the liquids Sally had so generously supplied.

Then the girls, still joined, rolled over, and Sally rested on Jo as the girls touched each other and whispered their appreciation—Sally for the first love making she’d enjoyed in two years and the best ever, and Jo for the first vagina she had ever had the pleasure of entering.

***

“My turn,” Jill said.

“You be on the bottom,” Ginny said. “I’ll put you in me and show you some of the things I like.”

That sounds like fun,” Jill said, and she lay down.

Ginny straddled Jill and sank Jill’s extra hard penis deep inside. “Ahhhh,” Ginny gasped.

“Ohhhh,” Jill moaned.

“Ride ‘em cowgirl,” Ginny yelled and proceeded to fuck Jill wildly, milking the girl cum right out of her. Jill thrashed and screamed in ecstasy, while Ginny hung on for dear life, not for a second letting Jill’s engorged rod slip out.

When Jill was done the girls turned over and Jill, not to be outdone, pounded Ginny into a fine orgasm of her own, but she didn’t stop. Jill kept fucking Ginny hard and fast, and the girls travelled their second and third orgasms together, coming as if they were one hot girl in the throes of her own bliss. Ginny marveled at the ability of Jill and her girl penis to match Jill’s own insatiable appetite yet never get soft.

***

Jill and Jo were still hard as the four girls drank iced wine in a hot tub. “Multiple orgasms are as easy for us as for you,” Jill explained. “And we don’t get soft until we want to. I love my penis.”

“I love it too,” Ginny said. “Together we’ve got the best of both worlds.”

Sally and Jo agreed and decided to sleep together. Ginny and Jill decided to sleep together too.

A hot tub, my own wine cellar, a girl with a penis that’s always hard, sleeping in my bed… Life is perfect, Sally thought.

Jill and Jo thought, Vaginas are awesome.

Ginny thought, I love it when friends get together.

Girls Sleeping–Perchance to Dream

March 1, 2011 6 comments

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep—
To sleep—perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil…


To Sleep Perchance to Dream

By Matthew Dyne

I come upon her, sleeping be,
Immersed in dreams of revelry
Her limbs are still, her eyelids twitch
She might be beggar, queen, or witch

I look high—look low—all around
Her raiment’s nowhere to be found
I did not seek to find her thus
My blessings, are they fate or luck?

Her breasts they rise as breaths she breathes
Her form’s as pretty as you please
Of all her gifts I would partake
Yet she’s too precious, for to wake

A Package

by Matthew Dyne

The postman knocked upon my door to say,
“I have a package, 8 stone plus it weighs.”
“But,” I said, “I did not order any.”
“Insured, fragile, worth a pretty penny.”

I frowned but helped him take it off his lorry
Wondering all the while, What’s the story?
I dragged it in to see what gifts I’d reaped
And found within a small girl fast asleep

Surely you can see me in a quandary
I double checked the package, it was for me
I did not to my common sense defer
Instead, shrug, I decided I would keep her

She would not wake but seemed to be at ease
Her cuddly form unclothed it sure did tease
I put her in my bedroom for safekeeping
In case she woke while I was deeply sleeping

I startled in the night and found her near
Her warmth upon me, breath against my ear
In time she did encourage me into her
And, made love as if I always knew her

When morning came she curled up in a chair
And slept again as if she’d ever be there
I washed and cared for her in every way
And through the years she did not age a day

Many girls I’d watched while deep in slumber

Alone…

In pairs…

In groups of many numbers

And though I’d watched them when perhaps I shouldn’t
I never touched a girl who said I couldn’t

The years have come and gone and I do fear
When I’m gone what happens to my dear?
I know a man he’s young, strong, and sweet hearted
And my love and I must soon be parted

I placed her in a new box, I was grim
And sadly I prepared to sneak her to him
But just before I was to see her never
She woke and whispered, “I love you forever.”

How to Have the Best Sex You Could Ever Have — not for the faint of heart

February 22, 2011 8 comments

Massage -- sex not allowed

Men want to have sex to feel loved. Women want to feel loved to have sex.

There is a formula for having the best sex, amazing sex, sex in which the conscious mind disappears and only the purest form of feeling is left. If you follow the instructions the method always works. It is used by sex therapists to help men or women with inhibitions, such as the inability to have an orgasm with a partner.

I say if you follow the instructions the method always works, but I should say if you can follow the instructions, for the method isn’t easy. It takes partners who are committed to opening themselves to the point of vulnerability. If you are willing to give up your self, your privacy, your hidden thoughts, you may be able to attain heaven on earth.

I met Evie, short for Evelyn, through her husband who is an engineer, as I am. I and they weren’t real close, but we’d get together for dinner every once in a while, and I was happy to go, mostly because Evie was so God awful cute. I had to be careful not to let my feelings show.

I hadn’t seen them for over a year when I met Evie in the local Whole Foods. It was summer, and she was underdressed, at least that’s the way it seemed to me, but it was probably just that I found her body so sexy.

We made small talk, and I asked how her husband was doing, and she told me they had divorced and that the final papers had just come through. She didn’t seem too happy about it. I smiled and jokingly asked, “Can I be the first to ask you out?” Then I added, “Just kidding.” I did want to ask her out, but I didn’t know how she felt about relationships at this point, and I didn’t want to alienate her. She smiled, but she did not directly respond to my jest.

We separated and did our shopping, and we met again at the checkout. I must confess, I kept half an eye on her and timed my exit to correspond with hers. Now that she was on her own I wanted to get to know her better, but I didn’t want to seem too obvious. She was lonely, I found out later, and she asked me if I wanted to go across the street to the Starbucks for a cappuccino. Of course I said yes.

We got our coffees and sat outside in the shade. “I don’t want to be inappropriate, but I’ve always been attracted to you,” I said and shrugged, being self deprecating as if I was admitting a sin.

“I’m not ready for that, yet,” she said. I took her to mean sex. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she added, trying to soften the blow.

“No offense taken—we’re not kids,” I said. After a moment I said, “Still, I’d like to know you better, some time, if you’d like that.”

She nodded, and we moved on to less dangerous subjects, but the conversation came back around to sex, eventually, if obliquely.

“Was the divorce hard on you?” I asked.

“Yeah, pretty much,” she said. “Money, the house… we had a lot of stuff in common, and Joe wanted it all. He said he paid for it. His salary was a lot bigger than mine. You know, the usual stuff.”

“No, I don’t really know, not first hand. If I was married I’d be loyal as a dog.”

“Joe wasn’t.”

“Loyal? Oh?” I wanted her to know more, but she didn’t volunteer anything. “Did he cheat?”

“Yeah,” Evie said.

“I’m sorry,” I offered sincerely.

She shrugged as if it was water over the dam. Then she said, “It wouldn’t have been as bad if he’d have paid attention to me, too.”

I took her to mean that Joe hadn’t had sex with Evie for a long time. “Maybe it would have been worse,” I offered. “I mean, if he paid attention to you and cheated.”

Evie shrugged again. “Maybe,” she said.

I lowered my eyes, glanced at her body, and then raised my eyes again. “He’s a foolish man,” I said.

Evie gave me an angry look because of my inappropriate appraisal, as brief as it was. “It shouldn’t be about that,” she said. “That’s all Joe wanted… until he didn’t even want that, anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be about that, though you’ve got to admit…” I briefly glanced down again.

She gave me a disgusted look. I sighed, sorry that I had taken the wrong approach, again, and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. But then I figured, as long as she broached the subject of sex I might as well dive in. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “I know a woman who’s a sex therapist,” I said. “Want to hear her approach to it shouldn’t be about that?

“Sure,” Evie said.

“Imagine two people who know each other pretty well. Not like us,” I qualified. “They’re having trouble with their sex lives. Maybe their interest has waned, or maybe one or the other of them has trouble having an orgasm.”

She nodded to tell me to go on.

“The classic therapy for this is to make a nice environment, light candles, pour a little wine, things like that, and go to bed together and talk. You have to be brave and open up to each other, tell each other what bothers you and what you want, sexually and otherwise. You have to be honest, even if it turns out your desires are not compatible. You are allowed to hug and kiss, but you’re not allowed to touch each other any more than that.

“The next time you go to bed together, maybe you take you shirts off, but you still aren’t allowed to touch intimately.

“The next time, maybe you don’t take off any more clothing, but you can touch bare skin but not breasts or anything overtly sexual. You still talk and open up to each other more and more, tell each other your fears and begin to talk about things like how often you each want to have sex, what kind of sexual experiences you want, the broad outlines the kinds of fantasies you like, and things like that. The idea is to build arousal, and arousal is not what goes on in your bodies. It’s what goes on in your minds. Being aroused but not being able to touch each other builds arousal further.”

“I can imagine,” Evie said.

“Then the next time, maybe you take your shirts and her bra off, and you trade massages, but you are still not allowed to touch breasts or buttocks or anything like that.

Then, the next session, maybe you undress down to your underwear, and you begin to touch intimate areas. But no matter how aroused you get you are absolutely not allowed to have intercourse. That’s the big No-No. It’s prohibited.”

“What if you can’t help yourselves?” Evie asked.

“I asked that, and the woman I know said that if you really, really can’t stop then go ahead, but you’ve got to try not to, or you might fail in your ultimate goal, which is to know each other, build arousal to a crescendo, and then and only then reward yourselves with sex.

“Eventually you decide that you are ready to go all the way, and you plan a special time and go ahead. It seems to me it’s got to be amazing.”

“It’s the getting to know each other that does it, not just the building arousal,” Evie said.

“True. I’ve never opened up to anyone to that extent,” I said. “It’s supposed to be scary, but I think I’d like it.”

It was obvious to Evie that I was imagining, maybe even suggesting, that she and I get to know each other in this intimate way. She said, “You may not like what you find.”

I nodded in agreement, but it seemed that she was considering the idea. I was thrilled. “We don’t know each other very well,” I said. “I expect I would find out things about you that I don’t care for and vice versa. But what I know I like. You’re hardworking and honest, and you seem to be open.”

I like you too,” she said. “ I always have.”

“Do you like me that way?” I asked.

“I never let myself consider it. I’m very repressed.”

“Do you like sex?” I asked.

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

“Some people don’t, I understand, or at least not much. Ideally, if you had your choice, how often would you have sex?”

“How often would you?”

“Mmm, yeah. This might not be so easy. Okay, I’ll go first. If I had my choice I’d have sex… at least once a day, two or three times a day on weekends. I shrugged apologetically.”

Evie didn’t say anything. I prompted her. “What about you?”

“Well… maybe once a week, or a couple of times a month,” she said. “Depends. I need someone to put me in the mood.”

I nodded again. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for being honest. I guess that means we shouldn’t get married, not that you’re in the market.”

“No, I’m not. Why, are you?”

I chuckled. “I want to have a committed relationship, but marriage scares me. It’s too hard to get out of.”

“You got that right,” she said and laughed. “Is the committed relationship you want monogamous? Or would you need to cheat to get your ten times a week.”

“Monogamous,” I answered without hesitation and sincerely. “It’s a sacrifice I might have to accept, not that I’m talking about you and me,” I added.

“No, of course not,” she said wryly.

We both smiled.

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” Evie said.

I nodded.

“But if you’re sincere about being honest with me…”

I waited.

“I like talking with you. You could come over to my house, late this afternoon or this evening, and we can talk some more. I’d like that.”

“Talk in bed?” I asked.

“No. At least not at first. And no touching.”

I was disappointed, and it showed.

“You can give me a friendly hug, but if you pressure me you’ll have to leave.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I’m not like that. Sure, let’s get together and talk, but not today.”

She looked disappointed. “Why, do you have a date or something?”

“I don’t know… maybe we should just wait awhile.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed.

“But, on the other hand…” I said playfully.

We both laughed.

It was Saturday, and we agreed to get together at her house, but in the spirit of the technique we decided to wait one day and meet Sunday afternoon.

***

We sat on her couch, drinks in hand, Evie with Chardonnay and me with a wine glass of Joe’s vintage port. Ironic, I thought, drinking the port Joe used to hoard and maybe drinking in his wife too. Ex wife, I reminded myself.

“Can I put my arm around you?” I asked.

Evie nodded yes.

I put my arm around Evie’s shoulders, and when she put her drink down she put her arm behind my waist. It felt good, especially because we had tacitly agreed we were going to find out how much we might care for each other, and sex being off the table took the pressure off. We became more like friends than potential lovers, at least in the short term, and it freed us to show we cared without being afraid touching might be too suggestive.

We talked about concerns—hers about getting into another relationship that would turn sour—mine about maybe never being able to get into a relationship at all. We talked about how we felt about each other. I told her I found her physically attractive and that I thought that in many ways she would make an ideal partner, but I confessed I was worried that I might find her intellectually superior to me and that my fundamental nature was to want a woman over whom I could be master. I admitted that I understood this was not politically correct, but I wanted to be honest.

Evie accepted my admission and admitted she was concerned that men just wanted her for her looks, not her intelligence—she’s got a medical degree and is a researcher.

We discussed many other things—family, friends, finances—but I’ll just give the highlights.

***

We had to skip the next weekend, but the weekend after that we went to bed. We drank wine and port again, and we lay together and took turns reading Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain to each other. It’s a great story, even better than the movie.

We put the book down and hugged. I rubbed her back, while we kissed, and she pressed her breasts against my chest, but we kept my penis, which was plump but not erect, from touching her. It felt wonderful having a friend to hug, and not having to have sex was more a relief than a frustration.

***

The next weekend we took our shirts off and went to bed. She ran her fingers over my chest, and I touched her bare skin but avoided her breasts that were teasingly inviting within her bra.

She took a deep breath, and then she said,“I was raped.”

I stopped touching her with my fingers, but I continued to hold her. “It was in college—a date rape in a guy’s room at a fraternity,” she said. “Maybe I could have gotten away. But I didn’t know how to say No. I was too ashamed to make a fuss, and I was scared that other guys might come into the room. So I let him do it. I hate myself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I can understand how that can happen. Please try not to hate yourself. You were young and inexperienced… with men.”

Evie hugged me and buried her face against my neck. “I never told anyone that before. Not even Joe,” she said. I felt her tears.

“I’m honored. Thank you for confiding in me,” I responded. I took a deep breath. “When I was twelve…” I said. “I hadn’t reached puberty, but I had a friend who was a big kid who matured early. We used to go to the basement of our apartment building and look at ‘dirty’ magazines. He coerced me into giving him oral sex. I succumbed to peer pressure. It happened two or three times, before I wouldn’t go with him anymore.”

“How does that make you feel now?” she asked.

“I don’t know… like I let myself down. I was weak. A little of me died.”

“Me too,” she said.

***

The next weekend we took our shirts off, and Evie took off her bra. I tried not to stare, but her nipples were prominent, a blatant advertisement, and I had lust written all over my face. “Don’t look so smug,” she said.

“I’m not smug. I’m happy,” I replied with a huge grin.

“No touching,” she warned me.

“Oh, come on,” I begged and licked my lips. “Just a little taste?”

“Taste?” she said with horror. “You know what will happen if I let you touch my breasts, let alone taste them?”

“I wouldn’t let it happen.”

“Oh sure. Sorry, it’s not time for that, yet.”

“Yeah, right,” I said with disgust. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?”

“Yours,” she said with certainty and covered her breasts with her hands.

We got into bed together, and she let me look. After awhile I could breathe normally, and though my arousal was very high, after we began talking and time passed the shock of pure sexual stimulation abated, and I began to appreciate the intimacy of lying together with our arms around each other without having to fuck. Pardon my crudeness.

“When we go all the way, how do you want to do it?” I asked. “Would you like me to be on top? Would you like to be on top? Would you like oral sex first? I’m not experienced with that—I tried it once, and I wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t feel like I knew what I was doing. You’d have to teach me.”

“I’ve never had a man do that to me.”

“Really? Have you had a woman do it to you?”

“No, not a woman either. I guess I’m kind of inhibited about stuff like that. Do you want me to give you oral sex?”

“Not necessarily. Why? How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t really like it, though I’ve done it, at times, to please Joe.”

“That’s okay. It’s not a requirement.”

“I just want you to be nice to me—to be gentle and kind and considerate. That’s what turns me on. I don’t want to do anything kinky. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you said you liked to be the master in a way that’s not politically correct. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to play those kinds of games.”

“Oh, maybe I wasn’t being clear. I think I was talking about what kind of woman I fantasized about. But that’s a boy’s dream—having a woman he can order about and have sex with whenever he wants.”

“You weren’t talking about fantasy. You said that’s what you want in a relationship.”

“I have those kinds of fantasies, but I know they aren’t realistic.”

“There are women like that. Maybe you should look for one.”

“I’d rather be with you,” I said.

Evie gave me a look of disbelief.

“It’s complicated,” I said. I thought for a moment. “In my fantasies, I want to control women and make them do what I want. Sometimes I punish them. I decided this might comes from sexual frustration I had as a youth, or maybe it’s nature rather than nurture. I don’t know. But that’s all fantasy. In real life I want to be nice to women. I like to make women feel good. I never abused a woman in real life, and I never wanted to. But my fantasies do translate to real life in an interesting way.”

“Do tell,” Evie said.

“What I like to do best is to have a woman be passive, not in the sense that she doesn’t respond to me, but in the sense that I get turned on by doing things to her. I don’t need her to touch me, not that that’s objectionable. It just doesn’t get me going the same way as me touching her. There would be nothing I’d like better than to have you lie passively while I undress you, while I turn you over, and while I rub your back with warm oil to make you feel good. Giving you pleasure is what I like and what will get me most hard. In a sense it’s a desire to control you, but it’s nice control.”

Evie’s face lit up. Her eyes opened wide. “That works for me,” she said.

***

We progressed to taking off all our clothes and trading massages, and we continued to confide in each other as intimately as we touched. On some level we fell in love, but that aside, there was no denying that our arousal and desire to culminate our experiment had reached a feverish pitch. Our massages went into sexual areas. I worked on her legs all the way to her vulva, and I would rub oil into her breasts. The only thing I didn’t dare do was linger on her vulva or enter within it, and she only brushed my penis in passing, but I knew she was plenty wet—I could smell her—and my erection was obvious.

I found it interesting that though arousal was high, frustration, both before and after we parted, was not. It was as if the reward of intimacy compensated for the lack of orgasms and ejaculation.

***

We decided it was time to go all the way, and we arranged a vacation together. We flew from Boston to San Francisco, touching side-to-side on the plane, excited in anticipation of what we were going to do. We picked up our rental car and drove to the Russian River area where we had reserved a hotel room on the river. It was off season, and the place was mostly empty, which suited us.

We had an early dinner and went to our room. It had a big bathroom with a huge tub, easily big enough for two, and we filled it with water and got in. We faced each other, one of us at each end of the tub, with one of my legs between hers and one of her legs between mine. She played with my erection with her foot, and then she washed my foot and put it between her thighs and clenched it tightly.

We washed each other with wash cloths, and we relaxed in the water, not saying much but knowing that soon we would go to bed together, and we would join, I inside her and she tightly around me.

We dried each other, and holding hands we walked to our bed and got in. We wrapped each other in our arms and snuggled. Then, as we had practiced many times, I turned her, face down, and with no need to rush I rubbed warm oil into her skin from her fingertips to the tips of her toes. I paid special attention to her neck and shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the dip at her waist, her hips, her buttocks, and her thighs, first behind and then between them up to her vulva.

Evie spread her legs to allow me access, and my fingers entered a little ways into her vagina. And then I took my fingers out and I pushed my hand deep beneath her and caressed her, repeatedly, from abdomen, over her mons, over her clitoral shaft and clitoris, and back to her vaginal opening. Her moans, soft and feminine, encouraged me.

After awhile Evie whispered, “You can turn me over now.” She sounded as if she was pleading.

I turned Evie over, poured more oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together, and spread oil over her breasts. I touched them the way she taught me, being gentle, at first, when touching her overly sensitive nipples, and being firmer, later, as her breasts got used to being manhandled.

She spread her legs, and I kneeled between them, nudging them wider with my knees, because she told me she liked to have her legs spread wide. I placed my penis, rampant with permission to enter, at the opening to her vagina, ready to receive me, and I pushed on in. She took all of me.

It was hard to believe, after months of getting to know each other and denying ourselves orgasms until we really knew each other, how good it felt. The physical pleasure alone was exquisite to a degree I had never experienced, but our emotional coupling was greater. If I was a man who came easily I would have come right then, but now I must confess.

I had trouble making love, at times. I did not come easily, and sometimes, when with a partner, I could not come at all. I never had trouble when pleasuring myself, so my issue was psychological. If I did not have rapport, my ejaculations might be inhibited, as therapists term this condition. That is what led me to know the sex therapist who instructed me in the techniques of building intimacy, while denying orgasms, to create arousal. Until now I hadn’t had an opportunity to practice her lessons, but now, under ideal circumstances, my condition worked to my advantage.

Never have I been able to come quickly, and I find it easy to delay orgasm indefinitely. Evie knew this, neither of us felt rushed, and we shared pleasure, until, as we had planned, she was ready to turn over.

The myth of simultaneous multiple orgasms is just that—a myth. Sure, it can happen, but most of the time sex isn’t like that. We had decided that taking turns would work best for each of us, and now, Evie on top, in control, pleasuring herself on the hard penis within her, slowly but surely worked herself to the orgasm she wanted, needed, and surely earned. She came with moans, a brief crying out, and spasms of contractions followed by more moans, until she collapsed on my chest. I hugged her as she enjoyed her orgasm and follow on spasms of pleasure, until they abated.

When she was ready she told me so, and we turned over, I still hard within her. I had her close her legs, and I put mine outside hers and squeezed, a position we had also discussed and arranged in advance. This squeezed my penis delightfully, and I took my pleasure and had a powerful orgasm inside her.

Though we both had orgasms that were as satisfying as any we could ever imagine, I can’t emphasize enough that the pleasure we shared was more, much more than physical. We had attained rare intimacy, and that and mostly that is what rewarded us with the best sex anyone could ever had.

Men want to have sex to feel loved. Women want to feel loved to have sex.

 

There is a formula for having the best sex, amazing sex, sex in which the conscious mind disappears and only the purest form of feeling is left. If you follow the instructions the method always works. It is used by sex therapists to help men or women with inhibitions, such as the inability to have an orgasm with a partner.

 

I say if you follow the instructions the method always works, but I should say if you can follow the instructions, for the method isn’t easy. It takes partners who are committed to opening themselves to the point of vulnerability. If you are willing to give up your self, your privacy, your hidden thoughts, you may be able to attain heaven on earth.

 

I met Evie, short for Evelyn, through her husband who is an engineer, as I am. I and they weren’t real close, but we’d get together for dinner every once in a while, and I was happy to go, mostly because Evie was so God awful cute. I had to be careful not to let my feelings show.

 

I hadn’t seen them for over a year when I met Evie in the local Whole Foods. It was summer, and she was underdressed, at least that’s the way it seemed to me, but it was probably just that I found her body so sexy.

 

We made small talk, and I asked how her husband was doing, and she told me they had divorced and that the final papers had just come through. She didn’t seem too happy about it. I smiled and jokingly asked, “Can I be the first to ask you out?” Then I added, “Just kidding.” I did want to ask her out, but I didn’t know how she felt about relationships at this point, and I didn’t want to alienate her. She smiled, but she did not directly respond to my jest.

 

We separated and did our shopping, and we met again at the checkout. I must confess, I kept half an eye on her and timed my exit to correspond with hers. Now that she was on her own I wanted to get to know her better, but I didn’t want to seem too obvious. She was lonely, I found out later, and she asked me if I wanted to go across the street to the Starbucks for a cappuccino. Of course I said yes.

 

We got our coffees and sat outside in the shade. “I don’t want to be inappropriate, but I’ve always been attracted to you,” I said and shrugged, being self deprecating as if I was admitting a sin.

 

“I’m not ready for that, yet,” she said. I took her to mean sex. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she added, trying to soften the blow.

 

“No offense taken—we’re not kids,” I said. After a moment I said, “Still, I’d like to know you better, some time, if you’d like that.”

 

She nodded, and we moved on to less dangerous subjects, but the conversation came back around to sex, eventually, if obliquely.

 

“Was the divorce hard on you?” I asked.

 

“Yeah, pretty much,” she said. “Money, the house… we had a lot of stuff in common, and Joe wanted it all. He said he paid for it. His salary was a lot bigger than mine. You know, the usual stuff.”

“No, I don’t really know, not first hand. If I was married I’d be loyal as a dog.”

 

“Joe wasn’t.”

 

“Loyal? Oh.” I wanted her to know more, but she didn’t volunteer anything. “Did he cheat?”

 

“Yeah,” Evie said.

 

“I’m sorry,” I offered sincerely.

 

She shrugged as if it was water over the dam. Then she said, “It wouldn’t have been as bad if he’d have paid attention to me, too.”

 

I took her to mean that Joe hadn’t had sex with Evie for a long time. “Maybe it would have been worse,” I offered. “I mean if he paid attention to you and cheated.”

 

Evie shrugged again. “Maybe,” she said.

 

I lowered my eyes, glanced at her body, and then raised my eyes again. “He’s a foolish man,” I said.

 

Evie gave me an angry look because of my inappropriate appraisal, as brief as it was. “It shouldn’t be about that,” she said. “That’s all Joe wanted… until he didn’t even want that, anymore.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be about that, though you’ve got to admit…” I briefly glanced down again.

 

She gave me a disgusted look. I sighed, sorry that I had taken the wrong approach, again, and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. But then I figured, as long as she broached the subject of sex I might as well dive in. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “I know a woman who’s a sex therapist,” I said. “Want to hear her approach to it shouldn’t be about that?

 

“Sure,” Evie said.

 

“Imagine two people who know each other pretty well, not like us,” I qualified, “are having trouble with their sex lives. Maybe their interest has waned, or maybe one or the other of them has trouble having an orgasm.”

 

She nodded to tell me to go on.

 

“The classic therapy for this is to make a nice environment, like light candles, pour a little wine, and go to bed together and talk. You have to be brave and open up to each other, tell each other what bothers you and what you want, sexually and otherwise. You have to be honest, even if it turns out your desires are not compatible. You are allowed to hug and kiss, if you’re moved to, but you’re not allowed to touch each other any more than that.

 

“The next time you go to bed together, maybe you take you shirts off, but you still aren’t allowed to touch intimately.

 

“The next time maybe you don’t take off any more clothing, but you can touch bare skin, but not breasts or anything overtly sexual. You still talk and open up to each other more and more, tell each other your fears and begin to talk about things like how often you each want to have sex, what kind of sexual experiences you want, the broad outlines the kinds of fantasies you like, and things like that. The idea is to build arousal, and arousal is not what goes on in your bodies. It’s what goes on in your minds. Being aroused but not being able to touch each other builds arousal further.”

“I can imagine,” Evie said.

 

“Then, the next time, maybe you take your shirts and her bra off, and you trade back massages, but you are still not allowed to touch breasts or buttocks or anything like that.

 

Then, the next session, maybe you undress down to your underwear, and you begin to touch intimate areas. But no matter how aroused you get you are absolutely not allowed to have intercourse. That’s the big No-No. It’s prohibited.”

 

“What if you can’t help yourselves?” Evie asked.

 

“I asked the woman I know that, and she said that if you really, really can’t stop then go ahead, but you’ve got to try not to, or you might fail in your ultimate goal, which is to know each other, build arousal to a peak, and then reward yourselves with sex.

 

“Eventually you decide that you are ready to go all the way, and you plan a special time and go ahead. It seems to me it’s got to be amazing.”

 

“It’s the getting to know each other that does it, not just the building arousal,” Evie said.

 

“True. I’ve never opened up to anyone to that extent,” I said. “It’s supposed to be scary, but I think I’d like it.”

 

It was obvious to Evie that I was imagining, maybe even suggesting, that she and I get to know each other in this intimate way: she said, “You may not like what you find.”

 

I nodded in agreement, but it seemed that she was considering the idea, and I was thrilled. “We don’t know each other very well,” I said. “I expect I would find out things about you that I don’t care for and vice versa. But what I know I like. You’re hardworking and honest, and you seem to be open.”

 

I like you too,” she said. “And I always have.”

 

“Do you like me that way?” I asked.

 

“I never let myself consider it. I’m very repressed.”

 

“Do you like sex?” I asked.

 

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

 

“Some people don’t, I understand, or at least not much. Ideally, if you had your choice, how often would you have sex?”

 

“How often would you?”

 

“Mmm, yeah, I see this might not be so easy. Okay, I’ll go first. If I had my choice I’d have sex… at least once a day, two or three times a day on weekends. I shrugged apologetically.”

 

Evie didn’t say anything. I prompted her. “What about you?”

 

“Well… maybe once a week, or a couple of times a month,” she said. “Depends. I need someone to put me in the mood.”

 

I nodded again. “Okay,” I said. “That’s fair. Thanks for being honest. I guess that means we shouldn’t get married, not that you’re in the market.”

 

“No, I’m not. Why, are you?”

 

I chuckled. “I want to have a committed relationship, but marriage scares me. It’s too hard to get out of.”

 

“You got that right,” she said and laughed. “Is the committed relationship you want monogamous? Or would you need to cheat to get your ten times a week.”

 

“Monogamous,” I answered without hesitation and sincerely. “It’s a sacrifice I might have to accept, not that I’m talking about you and me,” I added.

 

“No, of course not,” she said wryly.

 

We both smiled.

 

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” Evie said.

 

I nodded.

 

“But if you’re sincere about being honest with me…”

 

I waited.

 

“I like talking with you. You could come over to my house, late in the afternoon or this evening, and we can talk some more. I’d like that.”

 

“In bed?” I asked.

 

“No. At least not at first. And no touching.”

 

I was disappointed, and it showed.

 

“You can give me a friendly hug, but if you pressure me you’ll have to leave.”

 

“I won’t,” I said. “I’m not like that. Sure, let’s get together and talk, but not today.”

 

She looked disappointed. “Why, do you have a date or something?” she asked sarcastically.

 

“I don’t know… maybe we should just wait awhile.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed.

 

“But, on the other hand…” I said playfully.

 

We both laughed.

 

It was Saturday, and we agreed to get together at her house, but in the spirit of the technique we decided to wait one day and meet Sunday afternoon.

 

***

 

We sat on her couch, drinks in hand, Evie with Chardonnay and me with a wine glass of Joe’s vintage port. Ironic, I thought, drinking the port Joe used to hoard, and maybe drinking in his wife too. Ex wife, I reminded myself.

 

“Can I put my arm around you?” I asked.

 

Evie nodded yes.

I put my arm around Evie’s shoulders, and when she put her drink down she put her arm behind my waist. It felt good, especially because we had tacitly agreed we were going to find out how much we might care for each other, and sex being off the table took the pressure off. We became more like friends than potential lovers, at least in the short term, and it freed us to show we cared without being afraid touching might be too suggestive.

 

We talked about concerns—hers about getting into another relationship that would turn sour—mine about maybe never being able to get into a relationship at all. We talked about how we felt about each other. I told her I found her physically attractive and that I thought that in many ways she would make an ideal partner, but I confessed I was worried that I might find her intellectually superior to me and that my fundamental nature was to want a woman over whom I could be master. I admitted that I understood this was not politically correct, but I wanted to be honest.

 

Evie accepted my admission and admitted she was concerned that men just wanted her for her looks, not her intelligence—she’s got a medical degree and is a researcher.

 

We discussed many other things—family, friends, finances—but I’ll just give the highlights.

 

***

 

We had to skip the next weekend, but the weekend after that we went to bed. We drank wine and port again, and we lay together and took turns reading Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain to each other. It’s a great story, even better than the movie.

 

We put the book down and hugged. I rubbed her back, while we kissed, and she pressed her breasts against my chest, but we kept my penis, which was plump but not erect, from touching her. It felt wonderful having a friend to hug, and not having to have sex was more a relief than a frustration.

 

***

 

The next weekend we took our shirts off and went to bed. She fingered the hairs on my chest, and I touched her bare skin but avoided her breasts that were teasingly inviting within her bra.

 

“I was raped,” she told me.

 

I stopped touching her with my fingers, but I continued to hold her. “It was in college—a date rape in a guy’s room at a fraternity,” she said. “Maybe I could have gotten away. But I didn’t know how to say No. I was too ashamed to make a fuss. I was scared that maybe other guys would come into the room. So I let him do it. I hate myself.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I can understand how that can happen. Please try not to hate yourself. You were young and inexperienced… with men.”

 

Evie hugged me and buried her face against my neck. “I never told anyone that before,” she said. I felt her tears.

 

“Thank you for confiding in me. I’m honored,” I responded. I took a deep breath. “When I was twelve…” I said. “I hadn’t reached puberty, but I had a friend who was a big kid who matured early. We used to go to the basement of our apartment building and look at ‘dirty’ magazines. He coerced me into giving him oral sex. I succumbed to peer pressure. It happened two or three times, before I wouldn’t go with him anymore.”

 

“How does that make you feel now?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know… like I let myself down. I was weak. A little of me died.”

 

“Me too,” she said.

 

***

 

The next weekend we took our shirts off, and Evie took off her bra. I tried not to stare, but her nipples were prominent, a blatant advertisement, and I had lust written all over my face. “Don’t look so smug,” she said.

 

“I’m not smug. I’m happy,” I replied with a huge grin.

 

“No touching,” she warned me.

 

“Oh, come on,” I begged. “Just a little taste?” I licked my lips.

 

“Taste?” she said with horror. “You know what will happen if I let you touch my breasts, let alone taste them?”

 

“I wouldn’t let it.”

 

“Oh sure. Sorry, it’s not time for that yet.”

 

“Yeah, right,” I said with disgust. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?”

 

“Yours,” she said with certainty and covered her breasts with her hands.

 

We got into bed together, and she let me look. After awhile I could breathe normally, and though my arousal was very high, after we began talking and time passed the shock of pure sexual stimulation abated, and I began to appreciate the intimacy of lying together with our arms around each other without having to fuck. Pardon my crudeness.

 

“When we go all the way, how do you want to do it?” I asked. “Would you like me to be on top? Would you like to be on top? Would you like oral sex first? I’m not experienced with that—I tried it once, and I wasn’t comfortable. I didn’t feel like I knew what I was doing. You’d have to teach me.”

 

“I’ve never had a man do that to me.”

 

“Really? Have you had a woman do it to you?”

 

“No, not a woman either. I guess I’m kind of inhibited about stuff like that. Do you want me to give you oral sex?”

 

“Not necessarily. Why? How do you feel about that?”

 

“I don’t really like it, though I’ve done it, at times, just to please Joe.”

 

“That’s okay. It’s not a requirement.”

 

“I just want you to be nice to me—to be gentle and kind and considerate. That’s what turns me on. I don’t want to do anything kinky. I hope that’s okay.”

 

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“Well, you said you liked to be the master in a way that’s not politically correct. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to play that kind of game.”

 

“Oh, maybe I wasn’t being clear. I think I was talking about what kind of woman I fantasized about, in a permanent relationship. But that’s a boy’s dream—having a woman he can order about and have sex with whenever he wants.”

 

“You weren’t talking about fantasy. You said that’s what you want.”

 

“I have those kinds of fantasies, but I know they aren’t realistic.”

“There are women like that. Maybe you should look for one.”

 

“I’d rather be with you,” I said.

 

Evie gave me a look of disbelief.

 

“It’s complicated,” I said. I thought for a moment. “In my fantasies, I want to control women and make them do what I want. Sometimes I punish them. I decided this might comes from sexual frustration I had as a youth, or maybe it’s nature rather than nurture. I don’t know. But this is all in fantasy. In reality I want to be nice to women. I like to make women feel good. I never abused a woman in real life, and I never wanted to. But my fantasies do translate to real life in an interesting way.”

 

“Do tell,” Evie said.

 

“What I like to do best is to have a woman be passive, not in the sense that she doesn’t respond to me, but in the sense that I get turned on by doing things to her. I don’t need her to touch me, not that that’s objectionable. It just doesn’t get me going the same way as me touching her. There would be nothing I’d like better than to have you lie passively while I undress you, while I turn you on you over, and while I rub your back with warm oil to make you feel good. Giving you pleasure is what I like and what will get me most hard. In a sense it’s a desire to control you, but it’s nice control.”

 

Evie’s face lit up, and her eyes opened wide. “That works for me,” she said.

 

***

 

We progressed to taking off all our clothes and trading massages, and we continued to confide in each other as intimately as we touched. On some level we fell in love, but that aside, there was no denying that our arousal and desire to culminate our experiment had reached a feverish heat. Our massages went into sexual areas. I worked on her legs all the way to her vulva, and I would rub oil into her breasts. The only thing I didn’t dare do was linger on her vulva or enter within it, and she only brushed my penis in passing, but I knew she was plenty wet—I could smell her—and my erection was obvious.

 

I found it interesting that though arousal was high, frustration, both before and after we parted, was not. It was as if the reward of intimacy compensated for the loss of orgasm and ejaculation.

 

***

 

We decided it was time to go all the way, and we arranged to a vacation together. We flew from Boston to San Francisco, touching side-to-side on the plane, excited in anticipation of what we were going to do. We picked up our rental car and drove to the Russian River area where we had reserved a hotel room on the river. It was off season, and the place was mostly empty, which suited us.

 

We had an early dinner and went to our room. It had a big bathroom with a huge tub, easily big enough for two, and we filled it with water and got in. We faced each other, one of us at each end of the tub, with one of my legs between hers and one of her legs between mine. She played with my erection with her foot, and then she washed my foot and put it between her thighs and clenched it tightly.

 

We washed each other with wash cloths, and we relaxed in the water, not saying much but knowing that soon we would go to bed together, and we would be joined, I inside her and she tightly grasping me.

 

We dried each other, and holding hands we walked to our bed and got in. We wrapped each other in our arms and snuggled. Then, as we had practiced many times, I turned her, face down, and with no need to rush I rubbed warm oil into her skin from her fingertips to the tips of her toes. I paid special attention to her neck and shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the dip at her waist, her hips, her buttocks, and her thighs, first behind and then between, up to her vulva.

 

Evie spread to allow me access, and my fingers entered a little ways, into her vagina. And then I took my fingers out and I pushed my hand deep beneath her and caressed her, from abdomen, over her mons, over her clitoral shaft and clitoris, and back to her vaginal opening. Her moans, soft and feminine, encouraged me.

 

After awhile Evie whispered, “You can turn me over now.” It sounded like pleading.

 

I turned Evie over, poured more oil onto my palm, rubbed my hands together, and spread oil over her breasts. I touched them the way she taught me, being gentle at first, when touching her overly sensitive nipples, and being firmer, later, as they got used to being manhandled.

 

She spread her legs, and I kneeled between them, nudging them wider with my knees, because she told me she liked to have her legs spread wide. I placed my penis, now rampant with permission to enter, to the opening to her vagina, now ready to receive me, and I pushed in. She took me all.

 

It was hard to believe, after months of getting to know each other and denying ourselves orgasms until we did know each other, how good it felt. The physical pleasure alone was exquisite to a degree I had never experienced, but our emotional coupling was greater. If I was a man who came easily I would have come right then, in an instant, but now I must confess.

 

I had trouble making love, at times. I did not come easily, and sometimes, when with a partner, I could not come at all. I never had trouble when pleasuring myself, so my issue was psychological. If I did not have rapport, my ejaculations might be inhibited, as therapists term this condition. That is what led me to know the sex therapist who instructed me in the techniques of building intimacy, while denying orgasms, to create arousal. Until now I hadn’t had an opportunity to practice her lessons, but now, under ideal circumstances, my condition worked to my advantage.

 

Never have I been able to come quickly, and I find it easy to delay orgasm indefinitely. Evie knew this, neither of us felt rushed, and we shared pleasure, until, as we had planned, she was ready to turn over.

 

The myth of simultaneous multiple orgasms is that—a myth. Sure, it can happen, but most of the time sex isn’t like that. We had decided that taking turns would work best for each of us, and now, Evie on top, in control, pleasuring herself on the hard penis within her, slowly but surely worked herself to the orgasm she wanted, needed, and surely earned. She came with moans, a brief crying out, and spasms of contractions followed by more moans, until she collapsed on my chest. I hugged her as she enjoyed her orgasm and follow on spasms of pleasure, until they abated.

 

When she was ready she told me so, and we turned over, I still hard within her. I had her close her legs, and I put mine outside hers, a position we had also discussed and arranged in advance. This squeezed my penis delightfully, and I took my pleasure and had a powerful orgasm inside her.

 

Though we both had orgasms that were as satisfying as any we could ever imagine, I can’t emphasize enough that the pleasure we shared was more, much more than physical. We had attained rare intimacy, and that and mostly that is what rewarded us with the best sex either of us ever had.

Vet — A story with a self defense lesson for women

February 9, 2011 Leave a comment

Illustration by Ted Hammond


 

In hand to hand combat there is one and only one effective method for a smaller person who is untrained to incapacitate a larger person, and it isn’t kicking him in the balls.

 

Vet

a story by by Matthew Dyne

 
I was a seriously fucked up dude, but I’m not so bad off now. I found a shrink who went through some of the same shit I did, and understood. Aging also helped wear down the rough edges. Most of all, it was her.

I don’t think of myself as dangerous. It takes a lot to rile me. But, if I vaporize, you’d best not have been fuel for the fire. Hurt me badly and I’ll kill you; threaten a friend and you’ll wish I had.

I own and live in the last house on a dead-end street up against a thousand acres of forest. My father built my house with his own hands. I own another house across the street and down a little ways. My uncle built it.

I had rented my uncle’s house to a woman I badly wanted to get to know, but she made sure to tell me that she had a boyfriend. Shit, I said to myself. She’s not even trying, and I can barely keep my best friend respectful—Down boy, down. What really broke my heart was that, besides being good-looking, she seemed to be a nice person too. She baked me a cake the day after she moved in, and she stayed and ate dinner with me before she went home. She signed the lease using ‘Amelia.’ She told me to call her Amy.

As Amy settled in, she asked me to fix a few things, which I was happy to do. I got to be around her and to know her better. She seemed straightforward and sincere, and I couldn’t help but be stimulated by her appearance in the different outfits she wore. My binoculars kept wanting to wander toward her windows, but I forced myself not to invade her privacy. The only time I did spy on her was one hot day when she was planting in my uncle’s garden. She couldn’t be seen from the street—not that we get much traffic—but I had a clear view of her. She wore short shorts and a peasant shirt that was meant to tease with what was underneath it. It teased me all right—the only thing underneath it was her. I could see through its gauzy material, and I could see into it when she bent over. Her nipples were very pale. Watching her made me harder than I’d been in a long time, and filled me with longing.

Two weeks later, Amy’s boyfriend showed up. He looked to be about six-two, two-eighty. Right off I didn’t like him, but it wasn’t his size. It was my jealousy. After their being apart for so long, I knew what they’d be doing. I couldn’t stop thinking of him fucking her. I had to admit I’d taken a proprietary fancy to my neighbor. As I was going to bed that night, I looked over and saw their lights out. I envisioned a cock that matched his girth fucking her to multiple orgasms. I couldn’t sleep. I thought about jerking off to calm and distract myself, but jealousy dampened my enthusiasm for it. I did it anyway. It wasn’t satisfying, and it didn’t help.

Two days later, their honeymoon, so to speak, was over. It was morning. I heard them arguing and then screaming at each other. I couldn’t make out their words, but I didn’t need to. I felt good about his troubles but bad for Amy. Then I heard a scream that sounded like pain. After that, it was quiet. It was a bad combination. I saw him storm out of the house, get in his car, and drive away.

I didn’t see or hear any activity from my uncle’s house. This wasn’t unusual, but the fight and that final scream concerned me. I got my binoculars, but still couldn’t see her.

I walked over to her place and knocked. There was no answer. I opened the door a crack and called her name.

“Go away,” she said. It sounded as if she was in the bedroom; her nose was stuffed up as if she’d been crying.

“Are you okay?”

There was a long pause before she said, “No. I’m not okay. But I don’t want to see anyone. Go away.”

“Okay. If you need anything, I’ll be home. Call and I’ll come right over.”

She didn’t answer. I wanted to respect her wishes, but I wasn’t comfortable with how she sounded. “Okay?” I said more forcefully.

“Okay,” she said angrily.

“Did he hit you?”

“Yes,” she said, now starting to cry openly. “Go away.”

“If he comes back I won’t let him in. Okay?”

I waited for an answer. Amy came out. Her face was bright red on both sides, and the flesh around one eye was turning purple. I came in, took her hand, and led her to the couch. I filled a doubled-up plastic bag with ice, wrapped it in a dish towel, and told her to keep the compress on her eye—ten minutes on and a couple of minutes off, for the next three or four hours, and she’d be glad she did. She didn’t want to, but I insisted, and she gave in.

“Has he done it before?” I asked.

“Once,” she said disgustedly.

I wondered with whom she was disgusted. For her sake, I hoped it was herself.

“It’s over,” she said. “For good. That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t accept it.”

I shook my head in sympathy. I was glad, for her, that she had made the decision to drop the prick who was abusing her, but I knew these situations didn’t usually end gracefully. It was ungraceful already. To my credit, I thought of myself only fleetingly. It wasn’t the time for that.

“He’ll come back,” she said.

That worried me. We were becoming friends, but she hadn’t risen to the status of Friend—I wasn’t ready to die for her. I didn’t want to get caught between them. Neither could I let him beat her.

I also thought that she should learn to take care of herself—by calling the cops, running away, buying a gun, or any of a number of other options. Clearly, taking care of herself wasn’t something she’d come to grips with yet.

The reason I’d get involved, if I had to, was that I wasn’t going to allow violence to go on unchecked in my house. That would be a violation of me.

I had another reason too: she was sexy and pretty and kind. I was going to beat the living shit out of him if he so much as laid a finger on her, for the pleasure I’d get out of protecting her. I wanted her to love me. I wanted her to fuck me too. I wasn’t sure which I wanted more.

“Will he be back soon?” I asked her.

“Could be any time. Could be now, could be in a month.”

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

She laughed at me. “How are you going to stop him?”

That, I wouldn’t answer. She didn’t have a right to know. Not yet. Probably never.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I’d like you to sleep in my house tonight. You can sleep downstairs. I sleep upstairs. I’ll take my tractor out of the garage, and you can put your car in there. If he comes back, he’ll think you’re gone.”

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t before—at my face, but not into my eyes. Her expression had relaxed, and she wasn’t focusing. I got the sense she knew how to read people in some way I didn’t understand. It made me uncomfortable.

“That’s generous of you,” she said. “I don’t want to impose, and I’m sorry to have put you in this position.”

“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m so scared. I don’t have anywhere to go. It’s hard for me to say ‘No.’”

“You won’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t want you to come on to me.”

“I just told you—you won’t owe me anything.”

“Okay then, but you’re putting yourself at risk, and I’m not sure why. And I can’t live with you forever.”

She hadn’t taken it the wrong way—she’d actually figured me out better than I had myself. Her words “live with you forever” rose in my cock despite the fact that she had preceded them with “I can’t.”

“Would you like to learn how to protect yourself?”

“Can I?”

“I think so.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I’ll teach you.”

“What do you know about it?”

There it was again. Another questions about stuff I didn’t want to go into.

“Look at me,” I said.

This time she looked directly in my eyes and didn’t flinch.

“I won’t come on to you, and you won’t ask me about that. But I know about it—all too well. I can teach you if you’re motivated.” Then I was the one to flinch. I’d said very little but had revealed more than I wanted to—or maybe I did want to, but my defenses were deep and long standing and not breached without trepidation.

***

Amy moved in with me. She tried to confine her belongings to the room I gave her, but her womanly presence was undeniable, especially in the bathroom. She still paid rent, but sometimes she cooked for me, and she kept the house in order. Don’t get me wrong: I like having a neat house too, but it’s easier for me to work at it if someone like her takes the lead. Sometimes I’d come upon a load of her clothing in the dryer, and I’d have to take it out and put it into her basket. I got a special thrill from handling her underwear, but the thrill wasn’t just about her sexiness. It was about intimacy too.

We started with self-defense. “In some ways this is going to be simpler than you thought,” I told her, “because there’s only one way for a smaller person, who’s inexperienced, to effectively attack a larger person. Do you have any idea what that is?”

“Kick him in the balls?”

“There are a couple of problems with that. To knee him in the balls you have to be way too close. If you miss, he can grab you. In defense, distance is everything. You’ve got to attack him but stay out of reach. If you try to kick him in the balls from a distance, all he has to do is close his legs or block you with his hand, and he’ll have a good chance of grabbing your ankle. Then he’ll reel you in and you’re dead.

“You can’t punch him, either. You don’t have enough power to hurt him, and again, you’d have to be too close. The same goes for stomping his instep. If he’s already grabbed you, you can try that, but you won’t be able to do enough damage to incapacitate him. Even if you broke his foot, he’d still have you, and he’d be angry.

“A small person against a big person must go for the knee. You get to keep your distance, and even if you don’t get a good shot on him, you’ll probably make him limp, and then you can outrun him. I’m going to teach you how to kneecap a man. You’re going to practice it five hundred times a day. First, we’ll have you practice on a dummy. Then I’ll pad my legs, and you can learn on me.”

“Five hundred?”

“A practice kick takes less than two seconds. There are thirty-six hundred seconds in an hour. Five hundred isn’t as many as it seems.”

I tried not to be obvious, but Amy wasn’t oblivious to the way I looked at her. I knew it was clear how attracted to her I was. She was considerate and tried not to do things that might stimulate me, and she tried not to intrude on my space. At night, she always waited for me to finish in the bathroom before she showered and got ready for bed. I was usually upstairs by the time she came out, but the few times I wasn’t, I saw her in her robe with her hair all wet. She looked wild and untamable.

She worked hard on her kicks, but she didn’t think she was getting anywhere until I let her kick me. We set up in the basement and fought. I came at her as if she were vulnerable. I taunted her, I pretended to dominate her, and I pretended not to expect a fight. She pretended to be afraid, she was good at faking it, and then she attacked. She had very good balance, and she adjusted quickly to the addition of my forward momentum to the equation of forces. Each time her heel penetrated into the foam of my protective gear, her grunts of effort gave me satisfaction. She became very excited. Eventually, I had to be the one to call it quits.

***

She was still excited after her shower. I could hear it in her voice when she called out, “Can I come up?”

She’d never been upstairs—I knew because I’d laid down a sprinkling of dust I always stepped over—and I’d certainly never invited her. “I’ll come down,” I said.

“No. I want to come up, or forget it.”

Forget what? I wondered, though my imagination provided plenty of possibilities. I didn’t want her in my domain, but I could hear in her voice that she was still excited. If she’s that kind of excited, and wants to go to bed with me… Don’t be stupid, I told myself.

She didn’t wait. She climbed the stairs. I had my boxers on and met her halfway. Her hair was wet, the way I loved to see it. She had a towel around her. I couldn’t stop glancing at her breasts swelling above its edge.

“I’ve been trusting you,” she said. “I want you to trust me.”

I wanted to say ‘Yes,’ but my head was shaking ‘No.’

“You’re helping me,” she said. “I want to help you. Please. Let me.”

“What do you want?”

“Let me upstairs. And tell me why you are the way you are.”

“I can’t do that,” I said, averting my eyes. “You agreed not to ask.”

She started to turn around, but I touched her arm. “Wait… This isn’t easy for me… Give me a minute, and I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll wait here until you give me an answer.” She turned and sat on the steps and rested her head on her hands as if she would wait forever. It was hard to think while looking at the towel riding up her legs. She knew what she was doing.

I went up and lay on my bed. Let her wait, I thought. This is hard—she can suffer with me. I kept seeing her legs in my mind. They were hard to ignore. I wondered where the towel might have risen to by now. After a while I made a decision. I hoped it would satisfy her. I went back to the stairway. She stood and faced me once more. “You can come up, but I’m not ready to talk about it. If you come up, you might understand why.”

She shook her head in agreement, and I allowed her into to my room. She stopped at the doorway. I could tell she was uncomfortable. She seemed not to want to enter, but she got up her courage and took a few steps in and looked around. Instruments of death were everywhere: pistols, rifles, shotguns, knives, ammunition, reloading equipment, gun-cleaning supplies, a compound bow, tools of obscure usage, military and outdoor clothing, survivalist catalogs. Some of it was my grandfather’s, some of it was my father’s, and some my uncle’s. Most of it was mine. I wasn’t proud of it, and I wasn’t ashamed of it, either; it was just who I was when I wasn’t that other person she thought she knew.

Her gaze turned to my bed. It was the only thing that was soft and inviting.

“Can we go downstairs now?” I asked.

“No. I’ll stay.” So saying, she faced me and took off my underwear, being careful to pull them over my penis, which, with her standing so close to me and being nearly naked, had risen beyond my control. Then she dropped her towel to the floor, took my hand, and pulled me into my bed with her. She wrapped me in a hug and firmly wedged my leg all the way up between hers, and hers between mine. “I like you,” she said. “There are things about you that I like very much. Take all the time you need, but if you want me, if you’re motivated, and if you’re willing to tell me who you are, then you can have me.”

“Have you?”

“You can have me now—this once. But if you want to have me again, you’ll have to give.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I won’t get pregnant. Is there anything you can hurt me with?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m trusting you. With my life. Do you understand?”

“I understand… I was… in the war.”

Amy spread her legs and pulled me on top of her. My eyes filled with tears. She stroked my back and rubbed my cheek with hers as my erection came to full hardness. I dipped my penis into her vagina. Then I took it out and slid it up and down between her labia. I did it again, spreading her wetness over us both. I kissed her mouth and spread her saliva over our lips. I kissed her breasts. Her fingers caressed my ears as I tasted her lovely pink nipples. And then, with a deep sigh of release from the prison of my obsessions, at least for the moment, I pushed on into her. Then I pushed all the way in. And then all the way in and a little more.

Her hands caressed me as I rested in her embrace until I could rest no more, and I began to stroke to her moans of delight. Each time I entered, she pushed gently on my buttocks. I give you me, she said wordlessly. I risk, but I allow. I could be hurt, but I trust. What I promise, I fulfill. I am loyal. Over and over and over again she delivered her message as I reveled in the pleasure she had initiated and now shared with me.

Then she sprinted into animalistic thrashing and a series of undulating moans that grew and grew until they culminated in the violent spasms of her orgasm. For a moment she threw me off pace, but I regrouped and rose to her needs and to my own, and I met her halfway, or so I hoped. My orgasm was violent too. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her, though I’m sure, right then, she was beyond caring. I was hardly in control. Her offer of her self was too generous, too poignant, and too promising. My future was no longer only in my hands; by giving, she had taken it into hers too.

We spent the night together in my bed. It was a long time before we fell asleep, but before we did, I gave up the second of my secrets. “It wasn’t just war,” I said. “It was combat.”

***

I hoped we were rid of him, but I knew better. He came back six weeks later. It was evening, after Amy got home from work. We heard him banging on the door of my uncle’s house and yelling for Amy to come out. I told her to stay inside, and I went to meet him.

“You’re banging on my house. Amy doesn’t live there any more. Get off my property.”

He looked up the road. So did I. Amy was coming toward us.

He towered over me. A sadistic grin covered his face. “You’re fucking my girlfriend. You must want to die young.”

I thought of my friends who had died young, succumbing to the same mindless brutality as his. He was starting to piss me off. He pushed me. I let him.

“I don’t think you ought to do that,” Amy warned.

He laughed. “What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

He pushed me again. I took two steps back, but other than that, I didn’t react. If it came to violence, I wanted him to hit me first. I wanted him to give up his civil rights, because I knew that if we had to call the cops we’d be calling an ambulance too.

It all happened very fast—it always does. He came at me. I turned to the side, placing one foot behind me for balance. I’d been here countless times before, and even more often than that in sweat-soaked nightmares. I could see he was untrained. I was relaxed and ready. He was one step away from being dead meat. And then, in that instant between rest and explosion, I saw that I wouldn’t need to touch him. Amy was moving forward. I stepped out of her way. She turned sideways, and with twenty thousand practice kicks behind her, she drove her foot like a pile driver into his knee, following through just as I had taught her. It was a sideways blow, but it wouldn’t matter. I heard a satisfying crack, followed by a scream and a thud as he fell to the ground, holding his knee and writhing in pain. He turned white. After about thirty seconds, he passed out.

I looked at Amy and saw that she didn’t share my glee. Her mouth was open, and her eyes were horrified as she stared at her ex-boyfriend lying unconscious on the ground. She was trembling. I knew the reaction. I took her home, laid her down, and covered her with a blanket before I called the police and gave them a brief rundown on what had happened. I held her and tried my best to comfort her. The cops came. One of them was a woman. She interviewed Amy, and a policeman interviewed me. I was glad I could honestly say I never touched him. I didn’t think he’d ever walk right again, and who knew what charges the cops might have leveled against me.

***

It was a long time before Amy came to my bed again, though I tried my best to deserve her. Compared to what happened to me, her brush with violence was minimal, but it gave us something to share that went deep. That helped me open up a bit more.

On her birthday, I gave her a party. I invited two vet buddies, and she invited two women co-workers. They made unlikely couples, but there was enough harmless flirting for everyone to have a good time, and no one expected more. After they left, I gave Amy her present. I had embroidered a campaign ribbon for her. It didn’t look like one—I didn’t want it to, but that’s what I told her it represented. I explained it was what soldiers wore on their uniforms to show where they had fought. It was the only time I ever embroidered, but I’d sewn plenty of ripped clothing. I took my time, and I picked thread to match her eyes. It came out pretty.

After her shower, she called me to her room. She’d lived with me long enough that it was warm and feminine. She stripped me naked and laid me on her bed, and then she took out clothing she thought I’d like best: a knit dress that clung to every curve; a bra that hid everything, but barely; a string bikini that came to just above the trim of her hair; and stockings and a garter belt that showed beneath the knit dress, but who cared? We weren’t going out in public.

She dropped her towel and watched me as she dressed. I gently stroked my hard-on, but not enough that I’d waste anything I had for her. After she dressed, she dried and brushed her hair and tied it in a bun. She put on makeup and a dab of perfume and topped all of it off by pinning on her campaign ribbon. She gave me her camera and had me take a picture of her.

Then she took it all off—in reverse—one slow step at a time.

I was so hard I felt as if I would burst my skin. “I see you’ve got another present for me,” she said.

“Ohhhh,” I groaned. “Please. Let me give it to you.”

“I don’t know. One present a day seems quite enough.”

I flashed on a whore I met on R and R, back when I was a kid. She pretended to love me, she got me excited, and then she asked for money. I walked out. But with Amy, it was different. It wasn’t about money, and I wasn’t walking out. I knew what she wanted; I knew I was going to give it to her.

I put my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I couldn’t do what I had to do and look at her naked, standing in front of me, waiting, but I tried not to see too much of what I didn’t want to remember. “I killed men… with my bare hands… more than once. I had to.”

She came and put me inside her without delay. She knew I needed it quickly: not to forget, but to honor those I killed but never hated. I could just as easily have been them. They could just as easily have been me.