Saturday, August 16, 2008

ATTENTION!

This blog has moved! Check out the continuing adventures at writingdirty.com! Read More...

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Date: The Awkward Red Head

Sometimes a chaste kiss is all you need.

At the movie your arm brushes against hers. In the dark her lingering perfume is a constant reminder of her proximity. You think about how your body is positioned and how hers is, what it all means. Is she moving closer? Are her legs positioned away? She she trying to give you a sign?

After the movie you make small talk. Funny movie! Serious movie. Scary, sweet, political. I remember this movie once... That happened to my cousin.

A bite to eat? Sure. Eyes become bolder over a table. No dark I hide behind. You can make look right into her eyes while you talk and when she looks back and your gazes linger your heart starts to pound. You can make jokes that are a little more pointed. You can flirt.

You loiter at your table after the check has came and went and the waitress is getting annoyed. Out in the street walking down a quite block, you pause. She looks at you, then down, plays with her hair. You move in and she meets you. A kiss. Center kiss, upper lip, bottom lip. Bolder, you move in. She smells like fruity body spray. She sighs onto you as she pulls away.

"We should go, it's getting late." one of you say.

You get to the train. She moves in now before you can. She is pulling away will half her body and pulling you in with the other half. The kiss is hungrier, sucking each lip. Open mouths for a second but then she is away.

"I should go."

"We don't have to. We could get a drink." but it is half hearted. You don't have the strength or really even the desire.

She is blushing she looks up through her bangs. She doesn't trust herself. She had rules she can't afford to break. You like making girls not trust themselves.

"You kiss really well." she mumbles, again her hand in her hair, twisting and playing.

You move in but she moves back.

"I got to go, thanks. I had fun." and then she is gone.

You smile because it is nice to just have that, just a chaste kiss in the middle of the sidewalk. You don't want any more and you probably couldn't handle anymore. She is just a good girl and it is lovely to make a good girl blush. She knows you're not going to be her boyfriend. She knows what one more kiss could do.

She is a lovely flower but you have roses on my mind. Oh the roses you have in mind. Read More...

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Almost Famous

Speaking of Ellie, she just posted a new episode of Bedroom Radio featuring a reading of an untitled story of mine about a first blowjob, from the girls point of view.

It is the hottest thing in the universe. Go listen. NOW. GO. Read More...

Deconstructing Jack

Musings on Masculinity: Jack are my answers to Ellie's questions about masculinity in her continuing series on the subject.

Ellie and I go way back and it was fun helping her with her project. Luckily our mutual crushes didn't get in the way of our exploration of the masculine psyche. Read More...

Monday, August 11, 2008

Keep it Like a Secret

I have a lot to say, but I'm going to keep things inside for a while. I'm greedy and I want the memories all to myself.

I will say, cherries are sweet and they make kisses so much better. Frozen grapes stir up all kinds of things. The world is a delicious place.

Kissing is amazing. Laughing is the best. Three writers in a bed is almost overwhelming. Actually it is overwhelming. Sometimes you can strap yourself in and be overwhelmed. Ride the waves of over-stimulation and come out on the other side panting and changed.

It is an interesting thing to be so smitten with two women at once. One for all the ways we are the same and one for all the ways we are different. Pale skin and darker skin. Youth and experience. One desire is lean, hungry, patient. It makes my eyes narrow and my smile a little sinister. I want to be rough with her, play out things, a wrestling match of wits and sex. The other has no room to wait, it is just want and it is want now. I want to show her things and teach her tricks and just fuck her until she can't take it any more. I want that so bad it makes me a little nervous.

Ellie and I have been chatting a lot lately. We have been talking about chemistry and the way some people evoke certain dynamics from the start. Some people you meet and you might want to date or be friends with, you can see where it goes. Other times the chemistry takes over and you need to top them hard or be topped by them or take care of them.

My emotions are certainly cyclical. For a while now I have been somewhat luke warm over people. It's interesting to be so passionately intrigued all of the sudden.

And now back to work. Jack needs to stop thinking about... well just stop thinking. Read More...

Friday, August 8, 2008

Mister McIntyre's Secret Part Seven

It's really hard to choose which character I like writing more. Right now Marcy is certainly on the top of the list, but who knows who will be on top by the next episode...


Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part Seven

It was a Wednesday when I finished my assignment. I put my diary on Mister McIntyre's desk with all my dirty secrets open for him. My teenage fumblings and my embarrassing attempts at dating. All of my dirty dreams and forbidden fantasies. All the times I had to go into the bathroom and rub myself while covering my mouth because Mister McIntyre had leaned over me while I typed a letter or chided me for taking too long at lunch.

On Friday I still hadn't heard a word about it from him. He still had my diary. I saw him take it home with him on Wednesday and Thursday, the pink and purple looking absurd under his arm as he walked out. I hadn't been able to sleep much either night as I tried to remember what was the most embarrassing thing I had written.

He'd either forgotten about me or he was letting me stew and think about it until it drove me mad. Both options were equally frustrating. Friday seemed to take for ever. Mister McIntyre came in late, he seemed a little angry. He was stomping around ordering me to fetch things. I was in such a tizzy I'd almost forgot about everything. Almost.

That's when he slapped it down on the desk. My diary, looking the same as when he had me give it to him. I didn't look up at him, I couldn't, I just took the thing and put it in my desk drawer. He was still there, though, still looming over me waiting for something.

I opened my mouth, but my throat was dry. "Yes... Mister Mc-"

"I think I'm going to need you on Sunday." he cut me off, but then paused.

"Sir?" what did that mean? I think I'm going to need you on Sunday? Need be to do what? Just... need me?

He looked down at me, but I couldn't look up. I looked up to his square chin. His neck. The thick knot of his tie. My throat felt like it was tightening.

"I'm working on something and I am going to need a typist. Someone to take dictation. Minutes, you know."

"Minutes? Like a meeting?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

There was silence and I added, "Sir?"

There was the slightest tiniest smile across those lips. "Minutes, like a meeting." he said, clarifying nothing.

"You are going to need to dress up a bit. I'm going to have Marcy go over to your place and drop off something suitable. Do your makeup, what ever magic she seems to do. You can keep the dress." he looked down at me. For the first time in our relationship he was doing something completely new. He was waiting for an answer. He was giving me the choice, because this was the next step. This wasn't work and this wasn't the office.

"I'll be there, sir."

And that was the end of the conversation. From frustration to utter confusion.

Saturday was the longest day in the history of days. Nothing on the radio and furious cleaning of my room. Marcy was coming back, coming to dress me, make me up, try and brush the mousiness out of me. I didn't know what Mister McIntyre told her. I didn't know anything about their world.

Take minutes? Type? Where? Was it all a joke on me?

On Sunday I realized I didn't know what time Marcy was coming over. Eloise was sitting on the couch knitting, her red hair in curlers and her giant glasses magnifying her eyes like a fly's.

It was a half past noon and I was about to bribe Eloise to go to the movie when there was a knock at the door.
She came in with that same power, as if she owned the place and had forgotten she bought something so distasteful. She looked at me like I was an oddity, like she was still trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.

She walked in carrying a few shopping bags in one hand and dragging a dry cleaning bag in the other.

"Don't just stand there, take this!" she exclaimed, holding out the bags to me. "What are you? An 8? Maybe 6ish of you skip lunch? More like an 8. I got this dress from my cousin. I've been been anywhere near that big since high school."

She looked down at Eloise who had stopped knitting and was looking at Marcy with slack jawed awe. Marcy didn't acknowledge her.

"You don't have much up top do you?" she said looking at my chest. "We can work with it. You're still 22 so they'll stand up tall and proud no matter what."

Eloise's eyes nearly fell out as be looked over at me.

I rushed over and took all the bags and scurried to my room hoping that Miss Peterson would follow. She did, at a decidedly slow pace. When we got to the room I put the bags on the bed and closed the door. Miss Peterson stood looked at me with and ponderous face, as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle. She was fingering her bottom lip as Sherlock Holmes would play with his pipe.

Marcy picked up her purse and giving me a rather stern gaze pulled out a small silver case. From it she took a small expensive looking pair of reading glasses and slipped them on. Walking up to me I backed up as I always seemed to do around her. I found myself sitting on the bed as she moved in closer.

"Well, your skin isn't bad." she roughly pinched my cheeks. "and your hair is... well... alright your hair is pretty bad, but we can do something."

She stood in front of me and pulled my hair back, looking at me from different angles. I didn't know what to do with my arms, I folded my hands in my lap. She was so close and there was that smell again. Expensive perfume.

"Ok, let's see if this fits." she said, suddenly on me and pulling at my clothes.

"Miss Peterson?"

She pulled me up, almost ripping my old green housedress. Then she was pulling my dress off.

"Miss Peterson!"

"YES Abigail? That IS my name. Would you like to add something to it? Is there something you want to let me know?"

Her voice was sarcastic and cruel. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what she was going to do.

She got my dress off. I sat there in my old bra and panties. I saw myself in the mirror and I looked miserable.

"I brought underthings too. A nice bra and panty set. Everything starts with foundation, Abigail. I brought a few sizes..." she cupped my breasts suddenly and I let out a squeal.

"Miss Peterson!"

She scoffed at my pleas.

"34B? Around that. We can give you a little padding." She reached behind me and unhooked my bra pulling it off. I lifted my hands, though I'm not sure if it was to help her or stop her and she slapped them away.

"Well. You look a bit different out of that ratty dress." her eyes made me blush. I lifted my arm to cover myself and she slapped them down. Then she reached up and cupped one of my breasts again, sort of measuring the small weight of it.

I whispered a hissing "Miss Peterson!"

Her eyes darkened. "That is my name Abigail. Do you have something to say to me? Do you want to say 'no'? Is that it? Then tell me no, Abigail!"

She was on me now, pushing me back, both hands on my chest, feeling me like a man would. She pulled at my nipples.

"I... please I..." I begged.

"I? There isn't an I in'no' Abigail. You're a typist, you should know that. N-O two little letters."

Then her hands were like snakes on me pushing me down and greedily roaming across my skin. My sides and my arms and down my stomach.

"Please!"

She laughed loudly. "Please! Please what? Please more? You seem like you are upset Abby. Tell me to stop, come on."

Then I froze. Her hands stopped and then slowly moved down. Down to pink cotton. Down to a place where only I had ever touched.

My mouth opened. I wanted to stop her. Didn't I? I just had to say it.

Her smooth hands slipped right into my panties. They were old and loose. Then I couldn't speak or look at her. Her hands knew my every secret. They knew what no one ever knew. She knew my every button and how to push them. I didn't even know how it happened so fast, but my body was racing. Her fingers were somehow wet. Could it be from me? Could I be that wet already?

Then her finger was inside of me and I was gripping her shoulder. Two of her delicate fingers already too much for me. Then back to that spot, that treacherous spot. So close. I imagined her stopping then, suddenly. It seems like what she would do that wicked woman. But she didn't and then everything was white lightning and my gasps.

As my body fell back to Earth her voice became honeyed. "Lovely. I don't think we will need that blush, will we dear. You will be bright red all day."

Then that wicked hand of her moved down, down to do something I couldn't imagine! Down behind me! She was about to touch my rear!

"Miss Peterson! N.... NO!"

And she was off me. Like that. Her face radiating with that dark smile.

"Good. You do know how to say it."

She stood up. Looking down at me.

"Things are going to happen around Mister McIntyre, Abigail. You have to know your limitations. I have to make sure you know what you can and can't handle and you know how to say no when you don't want something."

Her eyes were on mine as she brought her hand up and inhaling deeply, here eye closing as she groaned. Then her fingers went to her mouth and sucked the top of each finger. She looked back at me, a little shaken that I saw her lose her cool for a moment.

"Let's wash you up, Abigail. It's going to be a long day."

She handed me my dress and I slipped it on, then we left my room and went into the bathroom. From the corner of my eye I saw Eloise, her eyes almost bigger than her glasses, sitting there in shock. A ball of thread fallen to the floor and still rolling away. Read More...

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Jack, Janie and Mariella

Gentle readers, I am going to tell you a true story now. The story of when I had my first sex blogger date. In wonderful sex blog fashion, said date included three people.

Janie Blooms of The Late Bloomer Finally Blooms, who by the way is in full bloom and lovely in her geek chic glasses and buxom brashness. Then there was the ever so charming Mariella from In Media Res... who is exquisite. A coquettish little lolita.

*

We met at a bar, the three of us, after a little mix up. There were perfunctory conversations. We laughed at the awkwardness of it, even though that awkwardness didn't seem to exist. We were quite comfortable in fact.

I didn't know what to make of it all before I got there. Going in I wasn't sure what to expect. I'd spoken to each of them separately online. I loved both of their blogs. I already had crushes on both of them to tell the truth. I thought I would meet them, I would see what happened.

The thing is when you read about someone in the fashion you get to know very specific things about them. When you meet them in person all the little holes in the story get filled up very quickly. So to speak. I was expecting sexy people I was expecting flirting maybe. I wasn't expecting two completely brilliant extremely interesting women.

I wasn't expecting the chemistry.

In the dark bar we found a quiet corner. I wonder what wandering eyes did see, though. The three of us instantly slipped into private jokes and inside information. We were following each other's lead, though somehow I ended up the ring leader.

Mariella is a very particular kind of girl. That clumsy giggly kind of girl who's just figuring out that she is sexy. She's walking around with a body like a loaded gun. She is falling out of her dress. She can't stop fidgeting. She twirls her hair and bites her lips. She bends over you, not realizing or at least pretending not to realize that her breasts are in your face. She twists and turns and squirms, almost in your lap.

When you kiss her she gives it her all. She's overtaken by it and she has to pull herself away from it when it's over, though she sits there with her eyes closed trying to recover.

Her body is hot to the touch, her dress is tight. A hand on her side and she melts into your grip, pressing and wanting more. When your hand finds her naked leg she is biting her lip and she doesn't know what to do with all the want. Every bit of her is trying to pull your hand up her thigh. Every sweet breath and kiss and flirting look is making you inch closer to slipping your finger into the spot you know is wet and hungy and burning hot.

Janie is a whole different animal. Janie is more like me.

She looks at you fearlessly through her glasses. Measuring and evaluating. Daring you to move in. Giving you signals, but still making sure you have the balls to move in.

The challenge in her eyes set me off a little. We were locking glases over beer, over Mariella who was at first sitting in the middle and then by the end of the night sandwiched between us.

The flirting was ridiculous. It wasn't flirting as most people know it. We are, all three of us, obviously advanced. The entendre was four or five layers thick. Our eyes were locking and dodging and hungry and saying a million different things. Well, really only one thing. "I want to fuck"

There was literary conversation and anecdotes, stories about relationships and sex, but all of the pretty words only made us realize that we probably could have skipped it all and went to bed right then and there. But it was too late. It was a Tuesday. Maybe it was too amazing to move on. The flirting and the kissing and eventually the touching was a whole new kind of sex. My knee is still shaking 24 hours later.

It started when Mariella went to the lady's room. I moved in and sat next to Janie. She has a cocky sort of grin. So I kissed her. Just a little kiss. Testing the waters. She didn't budge much, but she kissed me back. We smiled. I think I passed the first test.

A bit later Janie went to the bathroom and I whispered in Mariella's ear that we had kissed. She said we had some catching up to do.

Mariella's kiss wasn't a test. A kiss and she liquified. She turned into molten lava. Tongues and hands and I started getting dizzy.

We told Janie when she got back like two kids who spilled something on the sofa. She smiled wickedly and told us we should kiss again, this time in front of her. So we did. The next time I kissed Janie she let go a little, opening her mouth falling into the kiss.

I can only imagine what the waitress saw. Two bespectacled geeky people staring into each others eyes from both sides of a squirming sex pot. All I know is she came over and offered us a free round.

It continued like this. Climbing like a thermometer in July. Kissing one of them, then the other. Kissing leading to touching. Then the shock of naked air as we pulled ourselves apart. My hand on Mariella's leg, his side, scratching her back, while Janie did the same from the other side. The best moment was fingers meeting someone else's fingers under her skirt. Our eyes meeting as we explored the achingly smooth skin of the younger girl between us. Oh the plans our eyes communicated.

And so I am now the king of the East Village. Stalling before getting on the train we took turns kissing, sometimes looking into the eyes of one while kissing the other right in front of the subway entrance. I was embarrassed, but Janie told me how rock star I was.

And now? Every day will be torture until we pick up where we left off.

Delicious excruciating candy coated fucking torture. Read More...

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Sugasm #143

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #144? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Anti-Porn Protest Gets Weird
“People get very excited about their causes and lack the sense to see if the information backs them up. ”

The Come Shot
“You don’t see their bodies going blotchily red and hear them howling like a banshee.”

Third Time’s a Charm
“If I lift my kilt on Bourbon Street I’m much more likely to get arrested than if Elizabeth takes off her top.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
In My Office

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday. Read More...

Monday, August 4, 2008

Mister McIntyre's Secret Part Six

Short, but necessary. Next up? Who can tell.

Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part Six

April 19th, 1964

There is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders. Her lips are dark red and glimmering.

He towers over her. He stands almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.

Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.

"Yes, sir?"

"Abigail I'm going to need some rope."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.

I looked down at Miss Peterson. She's a wicked girl and a wanton slut. I know why Mister McIntyre wants me to tie her down. I can only imagine she will squirm away when his hands are too rough. I pet her hands dip down and play with her sex when she wants more, knowing that Mister McIntyre is only giving her as much pleasure as she is supposed to get.

I glared down at her, but she is lost in his eyes. I pull her so that she is sitting up and I unzip her dress. The fabric is soft and expensive. The smell of her hair and her perfume is delicate, but heady. As I pull the dress off it exposes every inch of her. Her black underthings, her dark stockings and pretty garter belt. I unsnap the belts and put them aside. I gingerly pull her underwear down, her hand going to my shoulder for support as I pull them off. Then I pull the pillows from under the covers and put her head on them.

I tied her, I tied her tight for him. She'd better not get loose. I tied both of her wrists behind her back. Then tie a knot around her knee and slid the rope under the bed and tie the other end to her other knee, keeping her down and keeping her legs apart. The last knot made her wince and she shot a look at me. I smiled sweetly.

"Sorry Miss Peterson."

The near hypnotic way she looked at Mister McIntyre melted away for a moment as she glowered at me, but then his smack across her face brought her back. It was light, but still her cheek grew read for a sting of Mister McIntyre's hand.

Mister MacIntyre stood over the bed watching the tied up woman in the bed, her bottom in the air and her sex exposed so completely. He was clenching his fists and his jaw. He was planning what to do first, how to take her apart.

I was on my knees after the girl was tied. I opened the buckle of his belt and carefully stood up while I pulled it off of him. It slipped around him loop by loop until it hung in my hand, heavy black leather. I held it out to Mister McIntyre and his eyes never even settling on me he took it, folding it in half and snapping it once.

"I'll let you know if I need anything else Abigail."

And dutifully as always I went back to my desk, hoping Mister McIntyre knew I would do anything for him.

Anything.


I placed her diary on Mister McIntyre's desk next to his newspapers.

When I sat at down at my desk I sat up straight. My heart wasn't racing, though it was pounding hard in my chest. I felt alive and ready to see what was next. I'd gotten a glimpse into Mister McIntyre's life and it was freighting and sexual and everything that my dreams seemed to hint at.

I was ready for my next assignment. Read More...

Mister McIntyre's Secret - Part Five

Oh the plans I have, my pretties. Oh the plans I have.

Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part Five

She didn't say anything when she walked in. She just brushed me aside and sauntered in with that strut she had. She looked around as she pulled each finger of her glove and then took them off and slipped them into her purse.

"You don't look sick." she said looking me up and down as I closed and locked the door.

"I mean, you're pale and your hair is dull and lifeless, but I'm guessing you always look like that."

Why was she in my apartment? Obviously Mister McIntyre sent her. Why her?

"As I can tell from your silly little scrunched up face and crossed eyes you are obviously trying to fathom why I'm here."

Her gloves were finally off. She was walking around my living room, a look of amusement on her face.

Marcia Elizabeth Spencer-Peterson. Marcy to her friends. Of the Chicago Petersons and the Southampton Spencers. Twenty five, about the same hight as me but somehow so much more imposing.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" she said pulling a silver cigarette case out of her purse and pulling out an expensive looking gold filtered cigarette.

"Actually my roommate-"

I cut myself off as she lit the cigarette despite my protest.

"I'm going to cut to the chase, Abigail. Jake told me to stop by and make sure you were alright... but I have a few things I'd like to get straight with you."

She closed in on me, circling me like a vulture. I felt naked in my thin night gown. My nipples hardening, my head turned down, goosebumps and panic.

"Jake McIntyre's wide eyed secretary. Doting on him, making his calls and hiding his dirty little secrets... and now? Every fly in his web has had that first little movement that captured his attention. He's good looking, powerful, cocky with balls to back it up. There are lots of girls like you. I bet you don't know that. Hell, his wife is like you. So obedient, never asking questions though between you and me she knows everything. The funny thing is she's not even on his radar. So the question, little girl, is what you did to you so to make the big guy take note?"

Her eyes were like a man's or at least not like any women I'd ever met. She made me shake and want to go put on a robe. She talked with such smooth confidence.

"I... he found something."

"What?" she blew out a cloud of blue smoke and stood right in front of me.

"It's... none of-"

"Tell me." she hissed.

I didn't want to, but the words were on my lips.

"My diary."

The smile started in her eyes and spread to her crimson lips. A dirty smile, knowing and wanton.

"The mousy girl who writes down all sorts of shocking little secrets in her little book. I can imagine what happened, knowing Jake. He saw it and he told you to bring it to him. You fought it and beat yourself up and eventually you did."

My face was burning. My ears on fire and my heart pounding, but I wanted to show her. I want to shut her up for a minute.

"You're wrong. I didn't fight it. I gave it to him right then and there."

I thought she would be impressed or shocked, but she took a long drag of her cigarette and studied me. She flicked the ashes into my teacup. She dropped the cigarette in there and it hissed against the cold liquid.

"Abigail are you a virgin?"

For some reason my eyes focused on her knees which were just barely exposed at the edge of her black dress. Her legs were shapely and clad in dark stockings. Her shoes looked expensive. She was beautiful and it made me feel plain.

"I don't even know you." I mumbled. Who was I kidding. I wanted to tell her everything. I don't know why, maybe because I never say these things aloud.

She looked at me, expectantly. Leaning back against my table her chest thrust out, the low neckline of the dress exposing cleavage I could only dream of having. She was pure sex and she was asking the mousy girl with the diary about her lack of a sex life.

"Yes." I whispered.

She moved in, I moved back until my butt hit the couch. I sat down and she sat down on the arm of the couch next to me. Towing over me and looking down with that cheshire cat smile.

"Poor thing. Do you think of Jake being the one?"

The idea struck me as preposterous. I did things for him, I would do what ever he said, but having sex with him? He had a wife and a mistress. All of his mistresses. He loved sexy adventurous women. I was just his secretary.

"Mister McIntyre?" I squeaked, puzzled.

Her eyes opened wider and some understanding seemed to dawn on her.

"You are completely unaware, aren't you? You are just getting his coffee and keeping a schedule of his rendezvous and writing in your little diary all the dirty things you think about."

She stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me up. She dragged me into my bedroom and stood me in front of the mirror.

There was mousy me. Brown hair in a ponytail. Plain face, a few freckles. My body was average, my hips were too wide. My butt was a little big and my chest was a little small.

"You can't even look at yourself." she purred in her husky arrogant voice.

"You don't even know that men would fall over for you if you just dressed yourself up. Look at those lips. Big pouting bee stung lips. Those eyes, huge and innocent. Not to mention that bottom."

Her hand rested on my hip as she stood behind me.

"You think Jake wouldn't fuck you? He would. He will. You're just not ready yet. He's... not for beginners. Jake's a bad boy. He can trample a woman. I see the boys in your office, they fuck the nineteen year old cigarette girls and the coat check girls and the doe eyed junior secretaries. Jake likes women. He likes someone who can take roughness and isn't going to break."

She moved over to my bed. The way her hand slipped off my hip as she moved away made my chest hurt a little.

She put her high healed foot up on my bed. She pulled the black dress up her leg slowly, showing more perfect leg, then the black lace top of her stockings and the naked flesh under her garter. Her panties were small black lacy French things. I was hypnotized by her. I didn't way anything, I didn't think, I didn't even breath.

On her hip were four purplish bruises. Right where fingers would dig in if someone where to violently grab you from behind. Then she turned and flipped up her dress showing her bottom. A scattered little splash of purple.

This is what she wanted to show me. She looked back at me and our eyes locked. She showed me, now she was just showing off her body. Her eyes were different now, not so strong. She showed me that she might be in control in my apartment, but there is someone who owns her body. The same person who owns my heart.

"He hits you?" I whispered.

Her bratty smile came back as she stood up and let her dress fall. Her eyes darkened.

"No. He spanks me. He slaps me. He never hits me."

I wanted to ask more questions, I wanted to be shocked, but I knew this happened. Even in my dreams I saw it happening. The image of his huge hands on her flashing in my head. His strong fingers digging into the flesh of her hips.

"So what did you write, Abigail?"

Her question cleared my mind of the images. It stood me straight up and made my face flash red again.

"Maybe 'Mister McIntyre' already told me." she said, mocking the way I said his name.

"He wouldn't."

She laughed. "No, I suppose he wouldn't. He has a lot of rules in that head of his. Anyhow I don't want to know, if I don't read it then I can just think the worst. The dirtiest."

She straightened her dress and walked to the door of my bedroom.

"Well, Mister Jacob McIntyre asked me to stop by and wanted me to give you the message that he is sorry you are feeling under the weather and he hopes that his assignment yesterday wasn't too difficult and he hopes it wasn't that which led to your absence."

She walked back towards me and I backed up again as she advanced until my back was against the wall. She smelled like expensive perfume. It wasn't overpowering, but it was so thick and delicious that it made me dizzy.

"He said that when you come back tomorrow everything can go back to the way it was, but if you return with what he requested he may have additional responsibilities for you." she moved in more, our breasts touching a little, her words blowing sweat breath into my ear.

"Do you understand Abigail?"

"Yes." it was less than a whisper.

Her hand was on my hip again, petting me.

"Yes?"

Her hand moved up a little, tip of her thumb just under my breasts. She touched me like a man would. My body was confused, my head was spinning.

"I think because of my relationship with your employer and the fact that we hardly know each other you should probably answer me in a way that your boss's clients and friends are used to being addressed."

I swallowed hard. The last time someone touched me like this was on a blind date almost a year before. A pushy man in a bad suit. That just got me scared and disgusted. Her hand made me nervous and ashamed. And wet. So pretty, so soft, smelling so good, her words so strong. She was like piece of Mister McIntyre. An agent of his imposing sexual self.

"Miss Peterson."

With that she was off me. The cold air of my room making me feel naked in my thin nightgown. She watched me and smiled. I didn't know what that smile meant.

"Well, I suppose I will be seeing you Abigail... or not." and with that she turned around and walked out of my room. A second later I heard my front door close.

Then I was alone. Just my body which was hungry and aching, my heart which was racing, and my diary which laid on the bed waiting. Read More...

Friday, August 1, 2008

Mister McIntyre's Secret - Part Four

This is a little short because the next one will be a little long.

And a little dirty.


Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part Four

There was a line and it had been crossed.

I wasn't stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn't doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.

This was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear and it was slow and methodical.

He didn't call me into his offce for the rest of the day. He came back from lunch and as he opened his door I could see the little bit of pink on his desk.

He went to a meeting and had a drink with a client. When he came back he didn't even look at be as he walked inside. His face was as irreadable as ever. I was sitting like a death row inmate. The calm of inevadable doom had come over me.

At five he came out I the office holding his jacket, his briefcase and my diary. He placed the book on my desk and looked down at me.

"Interesting. I wonder what Jung would say." his eyes were on me and I was frozen.

"Finish it."

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I tired again and it was only a croak.

"I don't rem-"

"Make it up, then. Just finish it."

He put his hat on and slipped his arm into his jacket.

"You're a pretty girl, Abigail. It's too bad you don't have much luck with love." his smile was small, but enough to hurt.

"But you certainly do have a healthy imagination."

*

I didn't cry on the train. I opened the book and looked through the pages wondering what he'd read, wondering what he skipped. I wondered how much of me he knew. Fingering my silly words, my Catholic school script. His shadow now loomed over my first date and my first kiss. The awkward shyness that kept me home on Friday nights and the dirty thoughts that made my hands creep under my sheets at night or up my skirt...

A flash of dark ink caught my attention. It was on the next to last page I wrote in.

There I was in Mister McIntyre's office, my skirt pulled up and my hand pressed tightly in-between my pantyhose and body. Soaking wet from his eyes on me, rubbing myself fast, hoping not to get caught, maybe hoping to get caught. When it came it was so hard I nearly fell down.

And then in his dark bold print, the kind he uses to add an addendum to a contract, he wrote:

Interesting. I'll have to try and hurry back from lunch from now on.

He knew. I wasn't his mousy little secretary anymore. Well, I was but I was something else too. A dirty little pervert. I wanted to cry, I wanted to quit, I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave.

In my stomach this poison shame was bubbling up, but the whole time it was mixed with something else. All the time I was clenching my fists and barely aware of the ache. Arousal and shame so tied together I didn't know where one started and the other began. So bad in so many ways.

What would come that morning? Would he laugh at me or punish me or scratch some fraction of the itch that was always there when he was around? What would I see when I looked up at those piercing eyes?

At home I forgot to eat dinner. I threw myself on the bed and look out my pen and opened my diary, which suddenly felt new and electric and frightening. I put my pen down on the page where I'd left off. I waited, I tried to remember. I couldn't really write what happened in my dream, could I? Now that I knew he would read it. Now that I knew every dark fantasy would be exposed to him.

I had to try. I closed my eyes and pictured the hotel room. Marcy with her bratty little grin. Mister MacIntyre walking towards me, taking the rope. He was going to wipe that smile off her face. I'd watch and help. I'd be good and do what he told me to do, to the letter. Marcy wouldn't. That's why he was tying her down.

My hands were on my body as I remembered. The weight of the day had made me weak, but hungry. My breasts were sore under my bra, I got out of bed and pulled off my shirt and skirt and underthings. Naked, I laid back down, I went back to the diary where I hadn't added anything to the dream but a blue dot where my pen rested. I laid back down and rubbed the soreness from my neck, smoothed the little lines my brassiere left under my breasts.

My nipples were so sensitive I almost couldn't touch them. So much arousal and fear all day. My body was so primed, pulled so tight the lightest touch was almost painful. I imagined being on Mister McIntyre's big chair, naked. When my fingers trailed down to the soft hairs between my legs I was scared to touch. It was like a cold drink after a day in the desert.

Then the warm wet welcome, the familiarity of my body as well as the shame. It wouldn't take long. I was already climbing. I could finish the story when I was done, free of the burden of all this desire.

*

The sun hurt my eyes. My cheek stung. I awoke to find the edge of my diary resting on my face, the hard cardboard digging into my skin.

Morning? I looked at the clock and it read 8:20am. I rubbed my eyes knowing it was lying. 7:20am. I went to the livingroom, naked, and saw the same on the clock on the wall.

Panic. I didn't finish it. I was late for work. I would be even later if I try and write something. I would try and write something on the train, but what if I couldn't? I'd never been late in my entire life. How did this happen?

I picked up the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Some part of my brain had taken over. Damage control. I called the head of the secretarial pool.

"Hi Margie... It's Abigail. I'm not feeling well, I'm sorry for the late notice but I can't come in today."

Margie was nice as always. She laughed because it was the first time I'd ever called in sick. She said she was glad I was human like every one else.

The idea of a whole day alone in the apartment was horrifying. My roommate Eloise was a dental assistant and she would be out all day. Even more terrifying was the image of Mister McIntyre coming in to see some temp from the steno pool at my desk. Someone who wouldn't know how to take care of him the way I do. Plus he would know I failed. I really failed him for the first time.

With that I tumbled back into bed and cried.

The doorbell rang a little after eleven. When I sat up I knew it was him. I knew it without a doubt. I'd failed him, I'd called in sick when I wasn't, I was a dirty girl who fingered herself in his office. I wasn't even pretty enough to be his slut. I was just a mess. A servant who had outlived her usefulness and become pathetic.

I was still naked. I found a nightgown and slipped it on. I ran to the door and stood in front of it. The bell rang again and again.

My hand on the knob, turning, slowly, this was it. He would be in my apartment. He would fire me or fuck me or slap me. I don't know which I was more afraid of.

And then the strangest thing happened. I opened the door and saw a black dressed, black gloved, perfectly manicured Marcy Elizabeth Spencer-Peterson. Read More...

Fiction - Slow Summer Heat

I woke up this morning to this dream. I had to write it down fast. It's sad how I have a date and my head is full of a girl from years ago who fascinated me so.

Sex dreams about people from the past are interesting. I woke up to this memory of an orgasm I had where I got right to the edge and then stopped. I concentrated and felt every pulse like lightning. I'm no tantric what-have-you, but it is an interesting contrast to violent rolls in the hay.

Sigh, memories of her. She never could come without having her hair pulled or her nipple twisted. I kind of liked that. I certainly obliged. It's been a while since I've been enamored to that degree.


It was a hot sticky days full of barbecues and running around followed by one of those long summer nights where no one wants to go home and everyone just drink and drinks.

Jack brought Molly back to his apartment. It was a little after two and the both of them were exhausted. He watched her peel off her t-shirt and drop it on the floor, then unsnap her bra which left delicious little red marks around her back and under her arms. For some reason Jack liked these marks. He liked to touch them and even run his tongue over them. Molly would have none of that in the heat though. She was sweaty and smelled like smoke and dirt and beer. She pulled off her shorts and underwear and slunk off to the bathroom.

Jack turned the air conditioning in his little apartment on high. It was hot and moist, but it wouldn't take long to cool the place down.

It was one of those nights where he wanted to fuck badly, but the sun had sapped his strength and the beer had made him too unfocused to really do anything about the half hard erection in his pants, even with the curvy naked girl in his shower.

When Molly was done, Jack took a quick shower. His soapy hand toyed with his cock enjoying the meaty thickness of it when it was not hard but not quite soft either. It felt good to be clean again and cooled off by the luke warm water.

By the time he was done and pulled on a pair of boxers he found Molly in his bed, asleep. She was on her side with her arms around a pillow and her legs pulled up to almost her chest. She wore one of his white tank tops and a pair of pink lacy boy cut panties. Settling down on the bed his desire stirred, but sleep won out.

*

Something stirred and Jack's eyes opened slowly. The world was a blur of darkness and sheets. The smell of Molly's freshly washed hair and the soft hum of the air conditioner. The room had become almost cold and his skin was all goosebumps. He pulled the thin sheet over his body and looked at the clock with read 4:36am in blurry red.

Moving over to Molly, his hand landed on her hip and he felt the curve of her ass. It was so perfect it made him wince a little. Every time he touched it he felt the same pang in his chest of need.

His apartment didn't have much, but Jack did invest in a big queen sized bed. He loved it. He moved over to Molly and fit himself next to her, his knee snug behind hers, his naked chest against her back, her ass soft against his boxers. The warmth of her body felt good against him in the cool of the room, the sheet silken soft around them gave a little protection from the cold air. His hand rest on the edge of her stomach, fingers on the waistband of panties.

She made the tiniest of noises and shifted a little. She moved back against him, her hair brushing his face and her shoulder coming within an inch of his mouth. Her ass pressed back in a slow grind, something that always made him growl with need.

Jack wondered if she was awake or just instinctually reacting. Maybe she was dreaming.

She rolled her hips again, his hardening cock nestling itself between the cheeks of her ass. The want that was only a flicker before he went to bed had grown as he slept. He got harder as he pushed forward and slipped his arm around her, his lips brushing against her shoulder and his hand running up the smoothness of her belly and finally cupping her breast.

This was different then the way they usually had sex. They always seemed to be so violent, rough, pushing and shoving and fighting for control. Jack breathed in the soapy smell of her cool skin. He licked the slope of her neck and kiss just behind her ear. He smiled as he felt her hand gently grasp his hip, trying to pull him closer.

She was awake and she wanted it as bad as he did.

Molly was powerless when her neck was being kissed. She squirmed and moaned as he kissed just under her ear, then down to almost her shoulder. Little nips and sucks and licks that made her press that ass back against his cock over and over. All the while Jack felt the weight of her breasts, his fingers finding her nipples and circling them, easing them, getting them harder and harder.

Jack became obsessed with different parts of her at different times. Molly had one of those bodies. It wasn't perfect, but it was interesting. Wide hips and a big ass that she loved to have touched or spanked or just squeezed. He loved it too. Her breasts were large and heavy and unmercifully soft. He loved her breasts, but at that moment all he wanted was her ass. The feel of it against him. The way she reacted to having it touched.

They were still half asleep. Molly pushed her panties down the length of her smooth legs and Jack did the same. There was something so comfortable and almost romantically casual about the way they did it. They moved back to the same position and Jack's cock rested right between her ass cheeks. His hands trailed over her skin, up her arms scratching her back, over her hips, over her thighs.

The outer lips of her sex were plump and soft. It was facinating how it felt when it was smooth and dry. He brought his fingers up to his mouth and licked two of them, then brought them back to her. She closed her legs tighter and pushed out her ass.. With her legs together and her ass trust out the hairless lips of her pussy stuck out from behind beautifully. He felt her wetness suddenly, almost surprised by it.

Jack rubbed the length of his cock against those lips as he kissed her again. Molly seemed almost hysterical. She pushed his hands away and grabbed his cock roughly. She pulled it towards her and rubbed the tip against her wetness, making it slick. Then she pushed the head in and push her ass back at him.

Then they were wrapped up, sideways, the feel of her ass against his thighs and stomach felt amazing. Her breasts were in his hands and his cock was warm and wet inside of her. They rocked a little, barely fucking. She was making the sweetest little sounds. Jack held her hips and moved slowly. It wasn't really sex, it was something lazy and comfortable and so pleasurable it almost made him gasp. The tightness was agonizingly perfect. He'd hardly even been hard when this started and he was already feeling himself getting close to the edge.

"Even slower" she whispered.

She leaned forward and got something from the night stand. Jack heard the familiar buzz of her little pocket rocket. She opened her legs just enough to push it against her clit.

Jack could feel the vibrations somewhere. Vague pleasure. He wanted to hear her come, badly.

"I'm going to keep going, really slowly. Tell me when you are close. When you're about to come don't speed up, don't tense up, just relax and let it wash over you." he whispered to her.

"It's not going to take very long." she whispered back, taking his hand and putting it on her breasts. "Just hold it, don't play with my nipple it's too sensitive."

It was oddly comfortable, telling each other exactly what to do. Finding this soft and slow game.

She suddenly got incredibly wet. She just shifted a little and Jack felt it, felt himself slipping in faster, but he slowed down again.

Jack orgasm was this tingling energy that was starting in his hands and feel and he felt it building and building. It took concentration to stay calm.

"Pull my hair. Hard." she whispered, barely audible.

Jack had to move around a little to get his other hand to her head. He slipped his fingers into her silky still damp hair until his fingers touched her scalp. He closed his fist and pulled back, but he kept the slow pace of his trusts. Slow, but harder.

"Oh, fuck." she whispered, her hand now on his closing around her breasts tighter, forcing him to squeeze.

He felt her pussy contract on him, muscles tightening and fluttering. His orgasm was there, suddenly. He breathed deeply and relaxed his muscles and it came like little lightening bolds flooding his head. So different than usual. Soft and brilliant instead of hard and intense.

The buzzing of the vibrator stopped and they fell asleep just like that, with Jack still inside of her and his hand on her breast and his mouth nuzzled on her neck. Read More...

Thursday, July 31, 2008

NYC

Anyone else going to this?
CineKink's Tawdry Summer Tryst
August 5, 2008, 8pm
The Red Room @ KGB Complex
85 E. Fourth Street (@ Second)

Seems interesting. Just wondering if anyone else out there will be there so I can nervously gravitate towards you and make awkward conversation.

Mister McIntyre part 4 up tomorrow. Read More...

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Mister McIntyre's Secret - Part Three

Fuck, I love the imediacy of serialized fiction. I think I have to go back and fix the tense of the first two parts. I was half in present hand sort of flickering into past which was just annoying. Past just makes it easier. Abigail the character is crystalizing more and more. Damn I like writing in this setting. A suit is so much more powerful than leather.

Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part Three

April 19th, 1964

Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.

In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders.

He towers over her. He stand almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.

Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.

"Yes, sir?"

"Abigail I'm going to need some rope."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.


That's what I had written in my diary that morning on the train into work. That's what I had went to finish at lunch when Mister McIntyre came in. I left my sandwich on my desk and slipped my diary back into my drawer. Mister McIntyre called me in to take a letter. When we were finished he sat back in his hair and made a little steeple with his fingers the way he did and he rocked there and looked at me.

"I'd really prefer if business acquaintances didn't call the office."

I swallowed hard. Stupid heart revving up again. I wished he didn't look at me like that. That examining look that makes it so I can't move, but I can't stay still. Deer in headlights doesn't even start to explain it.

"You handled it well, though I'd prefer if you didn't use anyone name on the phone. You never who is walking by."

"I'm so sorry, sir. I will never happen again." I wanted to crawl away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get on my knees... on over his knees.

He cleared his throat. "You did fine, I'm just explaining the protocol for the future. You always exceed my expectations Abby." and with that he turned around and looked out his window, the sign that I was dismissed.

I turned, scampered out, but just before I closed the door his voice pulled me back.

"What was that you were writing?"

Fear, icy and numbing my fingers on the doorknob.

"Sir?"

"You were writing something as I came in, what was it?"

Lie. Make up anything. But I knew I couldn't. I can't lie to Mister McIntyre. I wouldn't. He'd probably see through it anyhow.

"Nothing, sir. Just my diary. I... write in-" he cut off my mumbling.

"Speak up, Abby."

"My diary, sir. I write in it at lunch sometimes."

He considered this.

"What were you writing today?"

The panic was in my throat and I couldn't speak. I felt like I was alone in an alley with a gang of thieves. No where to run.

"Just... a stupid thing. A dream. It was nothing-"

He cut me off again.

"Dreams can be very interesting, Abby. Haven't you heard of the work of Jung?"

I didn't know what to say. I just begged that this was the end of the conversation.

"Bring it in here. Leave it on my desk. I want to see what kind of dreams you are having."

"Sir?"

He didn't say anything. There was silence. There was more silence. I looked up and his eyes were on mine. I almost never look him in the eyes and the power of that icy blue made me let go of the door knob.

"Bring it into my office and leave it on my desk." he said, standing up and picking up his hat.

"I'll read it when I get back from lunch."

He walked towards me. His body suddenly close. He slipped past me, his chest brushing against me, the smell of him, the hugeness of him. Then he was gone. My legs were shaking so much I almost couldn't sit down. The blood was draining from my body. I was starting to hyperventilate.

I wanted to go home, but I knew I wouldn't. I couldn't. There was only one thing to do, it wasn't even a choice. I would put my little pink and purple striped diary on his desk. I would put it there and it would sit there on his big dark wood desk next to his fancy pens and his big black telephone and all of his newspapers and business things. My heart and my dirty thoughts just waiting.

And so I held my book to my chest and marched in feeling naked. I put it down and my eyes stung. I walked out and closed the door and sat back at my desk.

And then I waited. Read More...

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Mister McIntyre's Secret - Part Two

I have no idea where this is going. Man Men obsession and being really horny are making it hard to concentrate. I think I know where I want it to go, but getting there is going to take some work.

Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part Two

Deep breath.

It's 11:45 and that means that Mister McIntyre is... he is in his meeting. He is in his hotel room right now. He is doing things, things that make me bite my lip just thinking about. How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to act like nothing is going on. Right now at the Pierre Hotel he is fucking her. Right now he is doing it. Are they naked? Does he take off his socks? Does he make noise?

"Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?"

It's Paula and Regina. Nice girls, but I'm nervous that someone will call. Something might happen. I have to guard the secrets.

"Oh, no thanks, I brought my lunch."

They shrugged and giggled to each other. Whispering some little joke. Who cares what they think. Paula had a nose like a pig and her boss was that drunk Mister Grifford. Regina was nice enough, but she wasn't very bright.

The phone ring and I took a deep breath before I picked it up.

"Fitzgerald Investment Group, Mister McIntyre's office."

Silence on the line. A sigh. More silence.

"Douglas McIntyre's office, may I help you?" I said, a little louder.

"Hello. You're the secretary, right?"

I knew it was her. I never heard her voice, but I knew. My heart was racing again. One of his secrets come to life with a real voice. Talking to me.

"Y.. yes. This is Abigail. How can I help you?"

There was a low chuckle.

"He's not in, is he?" her voice was velvet. It made her jealous.

"N.. no. May I ask who's calling?"

A long pause.

"You know who's calling. I'm not going to be able to make my appointment and I don't have the hotel's number handy."

Marcy Peterson. Daughter of a client. The spoiled brat.

"I'll um, I'll find Mister McIntyre and let him know... Miss Peterson." my voice lowering to a whisper.

Another chuckle.

"My, but you are the good secretary." her honey sarcastic voice purred with the trappings of a rich Connecticut accent. "I suppose you schedule all of Mister McIntyre's affairs."

I just sort of let out a little meep. What can you say to that? Secrets are supposed to be secret. Notes in the calendar. Instructions from Mister McIntyre. They aren't supposed to call.

"I.. I'll let him know, Ma'am."

"How old are you... Abby isn't it?"

I should have just hung up. Would that be rude? People walked by my desk and I wondered what they thought. I was holding on to the phone with both hands. I tried to calm down. Put one hand on the desk. Tried to act like this was just another phone call.

"Twenty-two, ma'am."

"Well, just a little thing. From your voice I would have said twenty at most. Is it embarrassing? Knowing where your boss goes at lunch? He told me once you were very trustworthy and obedient to the last. It made you sound like a puppy."

My mouth opened but no words came out. He talked about me? What did he say? He actually sat there with his mistress and said "That Abigail is an obedient secretary."?

"I try my best." I squeaked.

She hung up. I numbly dialed the hotel.

"Mister Jefferson, room 732, please."

It rang several times. My heart can't take this. It never seems to slow down. It's no wonder I go home and fall asleep.

"Yes?" his slow deep voice.

"Um, it's um... your 11:30 appointment had to cancel, sir."

"She called the office?" he sounded concerned.

"Yes sir."

"That's..." he trailed off. "I'll be back in the office in 15 minutes."

Back to his office, straighten things up. Make sure everything it set for his meeting. Make sure he has his notes.

Standing in his office with the door closed the day finally got to me. He would be back any minute. Pulling up my skirt and reaching down my panties I am soaked through and through. How do I get this bad? How do I let myself get this worked up?

One hand on his desk and one hand in the tight constraints of my panties and pantyhose. Fast fast. He might come back. Fast his footsteps will be in the hallway any minute. Those gray blue eyes, that chiseled chin, those huge hands. I bet his hands are twice the size of mine. His fingers twice as thick.

Rubbing and rubbing, but I am quiet as a mouse. I would be quiet if he needed me to come into his office. I wouldn't say a word if he bent me over his desk. I'd be his. His anything. I'd never cancel.

My fist on his hard wood desk as I come and come.

Go to the bathroom. Don't look up at anyone. Wash my hands, fix my lipstick.

Breath Abigail. Breath.

I'm at my desk just as he gets in.

"Abby, I'm going to need some lunch. Turkey Club. Get yourself..." he stopped, examining me as he got to his door.

"You look a little flushed, everything alright?"

I squirm. His eyes on me. He is looking me over. What can he see?

"Oh, I'm alright." I laugh awkwardly.
Read More...

Monday, July 28, 2008

Mister McIntyre's Secret - Part One

So I'm obsessed with the show Mad Men. I work in advertising (in a round about way) and my father was an ad man. The world of the early 60's business man is so rich with power dynamics and sexism and sexuality and dominance. It is as much of a bondage fantasy world as those books about island of ponyboys and leather goddesses.

All I can think of about are the lines of a nice suit, the clink of ice and the amber of scotch, dark wood desks, smoky rooms, good girl secretaries trying to be so chaste but at the same time so eager to please.

This story is coming out of all that. I think I will serialize it so I can keep coming back and adding bits and pieces.

Comments will be happily accepted. As well as applications for the secretary position. You must be able to take dictation.


Mister McIntyre's Secret
Part One

Sitting at my desk before he gets to the office I cross my legs and they bounce nervously.

Every Monday it's the same. I don't know why. I get in early, sort the mail, clean things up, change my typewriter ribbon. When it hits 8:45 I start shaking a little. I have to concentrate on not biting my lower lip or I'll mess up my lipstick.

I keep a little check list under my typewriter on a little board so I can slide it out and look at it. Make sure his glasses are clean, make sure his desk is organized. Garbage can empty. Check the bulbs in his lamps. Dust his globe and book shelf. I get the special coffee he likes and keep it in a thermos. If he isn't in by 10 I go get some more so it will be hot and fresh for him. I have to guard the milk I keep in the refrigerator, Mister McIntyre doesn't like cream. The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times on his desk. He reads the New York Times on the train.

By 8:55 my heart is racing. I have to dab my forehead. My legs are bouncing so much I'm going to wear a hole in my stockings.

When he comes in, he is charging down the hall. I can hear him. No one else walks that fast in here. I see his silhouette outside the frosted glass door and then he's walking towards me. I don't know where to look. I straighten paper. I fix my pencils. If I look up at those blue eyes I'll explode even worse blush.

"Abby." he says in that deep voice. I see his chin, I see his lips.

"Good morning, sir." I hate my voice. I hate my voice. I sound like a little girl.

He is wearing his charcoal gray suit with a white shirt and a navy tie.

"11 o'clock with the Richardson people. Lunch at one with the Morgan Stanley people. Nothing else until the four o'clock review with Mister Donaldson, sir."

He is looking through the mail as I tell him this from memory. He throws away half the mail. I can smell his aftershave and lingering cigarette smoke. He has a little red nick on his chin from shaving. I want to lick it.

Why am I like this? I'm getting wet just from him standing over me. I've been here for four months and I'm still like this. It's actually getting worse. Do other girls think like this about there boss? I'm 22 and he's 38. He's married to the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Plus... well... Mister McIntyre has secrets. I would never tell. I can keep secrets. It's important that Mister McIntyre knows that. I'm his secretary and I would never divulge any of his secrets to anyone. Except my diary.

He is hovering closer. He takes a step nearer and looks around.

"Abby," he clears his throat. He was using his conspiratorial whisper. "See if you can move the Morgan thing to two and the Richardson thing to 10. Matt Richardson is staying at the Roosevelt, tell him I can swing by and we can do it in the restaurant there."

He leaned in even closer, his mouth inches from my ear. I was trying to breath. Just kiss me. Kiss my neck. I'll do anything you want Mister McIntyre. Please, sir. Please.

"Call up... the Pierre. Get me that room I get. You know. Tell them it is for Mister Jefferson, they will know what you mean. I'll be there from 11 to 12:30."

"Yes, sir."

Then he was gone. His door closed. I would wait 10 minutes and then bring him his coffee.

I only saw her once. The girl he takes to the Jefferson. He pays cash at the desk for the room. She's my age, dark hair. She has a stupid face. She looks mean, bitter and bratty. Maybe that's what he likes. I wonder what they do in there. I mean, I know what they do... I just wonder how it goes. Does he get there first or does she? Does he just pull up her dress? Is he rough or gentle?

My legs are closed so tight under my desk. My fists clenched. I have to stop thinking about this.

He's rough. I bet Mister McIntyre is rough. I bet he pushes her down on the bed or maybe against the wall. I bet he slaps her around if her bratty mouth goes off. I bet he rips her panties off, if she wears any that little slut.

Is it big? Oh god. I have to stop thinking about this. Is it thick and hard? Does she suck it? Does it hurt her when he...

"Abby? Is there a problem with the coffee?" he says through the intercom.

"One moment, sir."

I'm out of my seat like a shot. I'm dizzy as I get the milk from the break room. Find a mug for him. Get the thermos. Just a splash of milk. My eyes sting. I'm so stupid. I was daydreaming and I forgot.

I fan my eyes. Stop it. Don't cry. Put on a happy face and bring it in to him.

Composed. Deep breath. I open the door. I bring in the coffee. He doesn't look up at me, he just picks it up and sips it.

Stupid.

I make the calls. I have to fight to change the times but it all works out.

"Sir? Your schedule is all set for the day. Just the way you wanted it."

Silence. My heart racing again.

"Thank you, Abby."

I try not to smile. I feel like I am blushing again. Oh Mister McIntyre.
Read More...

The Weekend in Review

It's sort of sad when your ex-girlfriend cum fuck buddy (The Musician)tells you she can't come over for sex and snacks anymore.

In the end I know she will find a nice boy and settle down. Probably she is already on her way.

If she does have a lapse in judgement before then...

*

Friday night drink with a certain female sex blogger was canceled due to scheduling issues. Sad, but a five minute phone call was an oddly potent assurance of attraction. For me at least. Oh well, I can wait. Hunger is the best pickle, as they say.

*

Saturday was an interesting day. I went out with someone I have known for something like six or seven years, but never actually met. We cyber geeks have such acquaintances. Meeting her was oddly comfortable. Falling into a familiar banter, knowing each other's faces if only vaguely.

She is a long train ride away, but close enough to visit somewhat regularly.

We have had an interesting friendship. Usually just two media geeks chatting about this or that, but occasionally conversations become somewhat racy. Perhaps even downright naughty.

This meeting was proposed as a "date" seeing that she is somewhat awkward when it comes to the whole relationship thing and I wanted to just go on a date with her. Though after we met it fell into a wholly friendly thing. A geeky movie to make fun of and a little dinner. Of course as much as I had fun, I couldn't let the lingering sexual tension just lie. I pulled out the old Jack seduction.

"Hey, I think we should kiss."

Feel free to steal that gem, boys and girls.

She turned red and covered her face. "Really? Why?"

Adorable in her awkwardness. I really wanted to kiss her for most of the night. She has this bottom lip that protrudes deliciously, as if she is always pouting.

After a few minutes of debate she announced. "Ok. You can kiss me."

It was hot in that I knew her so well and that lip was very fun to kiss. Plus I am genuinely attracted to her. Plus the fact that it was so awkward kind of turned me on.

It was chaste, though. A few kisses. I restrained my roaming hands, which was difficult seeing that she is ruthlessly buxom. My train came and I was pushed out of the car. Later I was told I had to go because a few more minutes and her clothes would have started coming off. Always nice for a boy to hear that he can inspire inappropriate behavior.

What's funny is that she reads this. This is sort of my first direct recollection about something that happened that one of the participants will actually read. Somehow I don't think it will be the last.

Hi.

Oh I can feel the blushing from here. Priceless. Read More...

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Fiction - The Strand


This is just silly, but it makes me feel sappy and warm inside. No sex, per se, but plenty of erotica. Meta-erotica?



Let me describe the first time I met her.

I was in The Strand bookstore, the one on 12th street, one of the most amazing places in the world. The smell of old books is almost overpowering there. I was in the mystery section looking through war torn copies of Raymond Chandler novels. It was Sunday, just after seven pm.

Across the aisle, I saw her. She had just moved out of Science Fiction and down the aisle that contained Letters, Criticisms, and Literary Biographies. She was short and bookish and dressed like your average college girl, a knee length skirt of dull gray and a fitted black button up blouse with three buttons open to expose just enough to make me follow her with my eyes. Then there was the red hair. Short, ridiculously curly, chin length and it seems like there was an attempt to part it in the middle. She looked deliciously almost criminally adorable.

Though I put her image aside and moved on to the Short Stories & Anthologies section, there was something tugging at my brain about her. I was looking at a strange group of pristine copies of "The Best Short Stories of 1982" when out of my periphery entered that same blur of coppery red hair.

Now, there are simple equations when it comes to lust for me. Red hair will always spark my radar. The fact that we were in a bookstore automatically lowered all defenses I had. I stood quickly and followed her with my eyes, to see what section she would peruse next. Noting that she had a frame a bit thin for my taste, but a lovely bottom and a shy yet sensual gait, I saw that she walked across Books on Writing and Play Anthologies then turned right into Mythology. She walked down past Mythology, German Studies, South East Asia and South America, right to the Occult section.

Intriguing.

I followed her erudite path and paused next Film and Drama Techniques to catch a better view while pretending to examine a book that pretended to examine New York Realism.

Red hair plus the Occult section at The Strand plus freckles equals something that could be called physical and intellectual lust. After all she had freckles across her nose and just under her eyes. Pale Irish lass skin and quite a rack for such a thin girl. And then there were the glasses. Oh... the glasses.

Dark brown swirls of tortoise shell. Thick, but somehow delicate with a little flare at the edges that gave her a hint of that "50's librarian" that made we swallow hard and bump into a display of Proust. The world seemed to fade into as she stood there shining like a star in front of a huge volume on the history of freemasons.

It was at that point that I became hypnotized by her and dropped a book that explored Chiaroscuro techniques in Germany.

She looked over at the disturbance, gazing over her shoulder quickly, a rogue curl momentarily falling over her eyes. Her deep green eyes. I tried to transmute my look of awe into something akin to that sort of dashing bewilderment that guys in the movies seem to perfect, but I think I just looked like a drooling idiot, which has its own charm, I suppose. She replied with a sort of half-smile-while-gazing-through-handsome-glasses-and-rogue-strands-of-red-hair kind of look. You know the look.

I could have left it like that, her half smiling with all of her feminine wiles, me dumb with the chemistry of desire, but I straightened up, put the book back on the shelf, and readied myself for witty conversation.

"Hi." I said.

"Hi." she said.

She looked just shy of twenty two, though I was never good at gauging age.

Then to my horror, I found that I had lost any control over vocabulary and couldn't move my limbs or mouth.

She seemed to be waiting for me to say something and raised a single red eyebrow and smiled. Red eyebrows. Perfect red eyebrows. I'll give you a minute to think about that one.

I tried to shake of that bad start.

"Hi." I said, again.

It was then that I realized that I wasn't good at this.

She let out a little laugh, her hand instinctually coming up to cover her mouth as she did, then she turned around and walked away. I drifted away, angry at myself, but somewhat content by winning a smile and a giggle.

I walked across the Occult section, past Korean Studies, then mad a left and went past Judaicia. From there it was past Gardening then making a right, up through Photography and Antiques to a small section that was under New Arrivals.

This section was positioned in such a way that you had to kneel or sit on the floor to browse it. This section was labeled with a bold serif font that read: Erotica.

I had often found amazing things in this section. From my early discovery of all the joys of Anaïs Nin to De Sade to modern erotic short stories that both dazzled and provoked thought. I found a literary criticism of Fanny Hill and was so caught up in the blurb that I almost didn't notice the hem of a skirt that brushed against my arm.

It was her.

She kneeled down next to me and picked up some modern gay erotica anthology. I knew she knew that I was into her. I could see her fighting against a smile and a blush. They were both loosing wars. She then picked up a battered copy of Little Birds and we both glowed crimson. The nervousness I felt before was gone and my goofy smile shifted to a pleased one.

We both looked down at the book she held.

"That's an amazing book." I noted with feigned nonchalance.

She smiled and looked into my eyes.

"I know, I've read it many times." she replied with equally fake ease.

We were two shy people sitting in a crowded bookstore talking about erotica with strangers. There was something electric in it.

"Have you read Delta too? I asked.

"I have read everything Nin's ever written." she said with both pride and delectation. Then added, "I work here you know, so I get to read everything, but there are somethings I need to own."

Looking down I saw the name tag hanging on a metal chain around her neck. I must have been too hypnotized by her to notice. In green ink the little laminated card read "Abigail".

She looked down at her copy of Little Birds and then looked up at me.

"I'm Abigail." she said. Not Abby, I noted.

"So I just read... I'm Henry." I said.

She smiled widely.

"Like Henry Miller?"

"At times." I smiled with a hint of deviousness.

We both stood, almost simultaneously.

"Do you...?" I was unsure if going out to coffee was the right think at the moment. I started remembering that I wasn't good at this, again.

"Yes." she said not looking into my eyes and seemingly sinking into slight shyness. "I get off in a half an hour. Coffee across the street?"

*

I purchased three books, all of them from my favorite section, and sat at the coffee shop across the street and waited for Abigail. Whens she finally came out of the bookstore, wrapped in a pea coat and scarf my heart started beating funny and my hands started sweating. Bookish girls did things to me.

She saw me through the window, came in and sat down next to me on the little couch. This was one of those relaxing little places with couches and huge cups of overpriced coffee that let you sit around for hours nursing one latte and flirting with dream girls.

"Thanks for waiting." she said smiling. The young hip waiter with the hair in his eyes came over and Abigail ordered a triple espresso. It seemed like everything about her was perfect, even her coffee order.

"So what did you get?" she asked before grabbing the books from my lap. "Translation of Chanson de Bilitis, Best Erotica of blah blah blah and... Venus in Furs... very interesting indeed. Into S&M or just gender politics?" she asked, pouring raw sugar into her tiny cup of jet black coffee.

"I... suppose both. Studying at least." I said drinking my cappuccino nervously.

"I've seen you in the store a bunch of times," she noted, flipping through the erotica anthology. "An hour in literary criticism, an half hour in philosophy, but you always end up kneeling in the erotica section."

I coughed and blushed. "Well... they put it so low, you have to either bend over or kneel in there..." I started, but she finished my sentiments by smiling wickedly.

She opened the book and picked it up, then after looking around to see if anyone was close enough to hear she read in a whisper.

"He let go of her wrist finally and slipped his other hand from her... panties." she read, blushing already and leaning in conspiratorially to continue. "She pouted, but before she could protest he grabbed her arms, pulling her hand from his..." she paused before saying it, "cock and marched her over to the bed, pushing her down so that she was lying on the bed with her legs dangling off the edge at her knees. Then he reached down and hooked his fingers on the sides of her panties and pulled them off, smiling at the little surprised sound she let out as she raised her ass up to let him. She looked at him as he stood in front of her and she squeezed her breasts together, then she pulled the cups of her bra down so that her breasts were pushed up high and stuck out of her bra."

I swallowed hard. Never really hearing a woman read something like that in public like this. She looked a little read faced and put the book down, smiling.

"That seems... complicated. Grabbing and moving and hooking and sliding and all. Well, let's see if this German is the same..."

"I am back again, dripping, wet through, glowing with shame and fever. The negress has delivered my letter; I am judged, lost, in the power of a heartless, affronted woman." she sighed in mock drama. "Well, let her kill me. I am unable to do it myself, and yet I have no wish to go on living."

I laughed and she caught my eye. "Poor Severin, such a little sissy." she remarked, again looking into my eyes and smiling.

"I wish I had Delta of Venus here... passages from that blows all of this away." I said, hoping she might have a copy in her bag.

"What's you favorite? I know all the stories." she said sipping her coffee and flirting again with her eyes.

"Favorite? I don't know... they're all interesting... Lillith, the woman who is sexually cold and her husband says he gave her Spanish Fly and she goes out with her friend to the movies..." I started, but she finished the plot "And in the end after he soundly fucks her he tells her it was only a sugar pill, right?"

We laugh and her hand touches my knee.

"Is the store still open? We should get a copy and read them here..."

She shakes her head. "Nope, It's closed, but... I could get us into the basement if you want. There may be a copy down there. It's like the stacks of a library..." she said, looking over at the store across the street.

We paid and then she took my hand and we crossed the street giggling, nearly getting run over by a taxi. I went towards the front door, but she pulled at my hand directed me around the corner to a nondescript door away front the big windows of the bookstore. She smiled at me and pressed a little button on the side of the door. In a moment a static voice shouted "What?" she pressed another button and shouted back "It's Abby, let me in!"

In through the nondescript door and down a dark staircase and then we were down in the stacks. A huge basement full of rows and rows of dark wooden bookshelves. The scent of stale mildew was overpowering and it took my eyes a second to get accustomed to the dim light.

Abigail stood in front of a huge bookshelf smiling.

"These are the stacks. These are all unsorted books we bought in bulk from bookstores that closed, the families of people who died and private libraries that fold." she said, her voice almost swallowed by the deep quiet of the place.

"If they're unsorted then how are we going to find Delta?"

She looked away and smile a crooked smile.

"Oh, I guess I didn't think of that."

I walked towards her and she backed up against a bookshelf and looked up through those big lashes with her doe eyes. The first kiss was honey and wet penny madness. The rush of kissing someone new and interesting and sexy. She gave herself to me in the kiss, her body pressing against me and going almost limp in my arms.

She looked up at me with those brilliant green eyes and said "You said you have a copy at home though, right?"

And that's when I realized that the greatest invention on Earth was the taxicab.
Read More...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Fiction - The Barista

I'm sort of obsessed by this story. The beginning has been hanging around for a while now. I wrote the ending a while back. I had to sit down and force myself to figure out how to connect the two. With the help of a friend I got it. Let me know what you think.

The Barista

Jack was addicted. It was something he needed to admit to himself. It was something he needed help with. It was something that was part of him.

"Gimme a quad shot cappuccino, very dry, non-fat milk."

He stood at the counter digging deep into the pockets of his jeans trying to get another fifty cents. It was a costly habit, four shots of espresso with a little steamed milk was five bucks.

Behind him a line of well dressed people tried to summon the psychic power needed to destroy him. He was holding up the line, therefor holding up their caffeine intake. This was a dangerous thing.

"Don't worry, you come in every day like three times. I think I can overlook fifty cents." the girl with the thick glasses and the tight shirt behind the counter said with a smile.

Blond, bright green eyes, a nose ring. She was very cute, but a little to skinny and bubbly for Jack's taste. He smiled and handed her his deficient funds.

"Quad non fat cap, dry!" she barked over to the barista.

Now, there were many coffee houses in Jack's neighborhood. Among them roughly half were of the corporate chain variety, whose coffee and politics left bad tastes in his mouth. A few of the privately owned ones were run by hippy scenester types and tended to be heavy on ambiance and light on coffee brewing know how. Then there was The Coffee House. It was a little out of the way, but it was hard core. There were only a few tables and there was no internet access or jazz music. They served coffee here, hot and strong and good. This wasn't some diner brew, this was deep rich earthy Columbians and Sumatras and powerful orgasmic Blue Mountains along with their very own extremely potent espresso blend which Jack had been slowly replacing his body's water supply with. Though, there was another reason he came to this particular place.

As he walked away from the cashier and passed the small stack of burlap bags that held rich-smelling beautifully oily beans he saw the two towers of silvery coppery power that made the brew. Behind one of these steaming whistling machines was a woman.

Her hair was a short jet black bob, pulled back severely into a pony tail. She wore dark rimmed glasses and dark matte red lipstick. Her lips were huge, so big and pouting the they almost made the scowl she gave everyone sexual just because of their lusciousness. Her hands were large and strong. She worked those machines. She owned them.

As Jack watched she wiped one metal nozzle with a damp cloth while pounding a large metal handled portafilter against the counter. She moved fast, her fingers adept and economic in their movements. She tapped out the used grounds, wiped the filter and then brought it up to a huge grinder which whirled and roared and then filled her filter with exactly enough coffee. She pressed the fine as powder grounds into the metal filter with the bumper and then twisted the filter into the giant espresso machine.

She wore an argyle sweater of dark green and burgundy. It was a low v cut sweater that showed her whole-milk colored cleavage which was sprinkled with freckles like a dusting of cinnamon on a foamy drink.

She sloshed some milk into a large metal cup and then slipped the steam nozzle into the cold milk. The steam screamed as it hit the cold milk. Beads of moisture condensed on her cleavage. Jack was erect as he watched it.

The espresso came in spurts, thick rich crema dark against the white porcelain shot glass. She worked both machines now. Two shot from one, two shots from the other, then all of them into a huge bowl-like latte mug. She followed it with the steamed milk and topped it off with a large helping of foam.

"Skin quad cap." she shouted, thinking the owner of said drink was waiting at a table. She was shouting the drink order right into Jack's face.

"That's me." he said, trying desperately not to look at her cleavage and succeeding only because he was hypnotized by her eyes which where chocolate and honey brown, deep and rich like a dark roast.

She scowled at him as he took the drink. Jack knowing she had contempt for most patrons and squirming a little under her powerful gaze. He picked up his coffee and sat in a chair by the window. It was the same thing every day.

*

The art showing was not something Jack particularly wanted to go to, but friends being friends they pushed, and since somehow Proust alone on a Saturday night seemed a little to depressing even for him, Jack went. It was in a somewhat rough part of town in a brownstone in the middle of a long block.

Sometimes these art things were fun and sometimes not so much. The minute Jack entered the brownstone and walked to the open door he knew this was going to be the latter. First of all it was quiet. There was a lot of whispering, a lot of people leaning into each other while holding glasses of whine and whispering. Jack never exactly understood why some showings were boisterous and cheerful and some were reverent and hushed.

Like most recent art school graduate showings it was trying to do a lot of things at the same time and failing at almost all of them. There were mixed media pieces, little televisions showing this or that. A lawnmower sat in the middle of the white walled livingroom. It was painted with zebra stripes and had an arrow sticking out of it.

Jack searched the crowd, looking for his friends and found something he didn't expect. The barista.

She was dressed in a white button up blouse and a black skirt, looking far more sophisticated than her coffee serving alter ego, but she still wore the same scowl. Jack picked up a glass of red wine and downed it with a gulp and decided it was far too good of a coincidence to waste.

He walked over and stood next to her, looking at the same painting she was gazing at. It was an abstract maze of words and cartoon faces. Those large dark red lips were pouting, though Jack wasn't sure if it was with scorn or thought.

"You work in the The Coffee House, right?" he said, maintaining his concentration on her.

She looked at him in a way that made him feel small and disgusting.

"Oh." she said, half to herself, "You're that guy." then she looked back at the painting.

"That guy?" he asked with a chuckle.

"That guy who comes in every day and orders the same thing and stares at my tits."

There are a variety of reactions one could have to this sort of aggressive answer. Jack wasn't sure what most of them were but his was to basically stand there with his mouth open.

"So what are you doing here?" she said just as casually.

"I... my friends said this might be interesting." he mumbled. "And I don't do that."

"Do what?" she asked with a smirk.

"Stare at your tits."

"You've never looked at my tits when you got coffee at my shop?" she asked, eyebrows arched as she sort of leaned into the painting, causing him to get drawn into the two open buttons of her shirt.

"I..." he coughed. "I mean, people look at things, it's not like I was staring, but you are tall and I may have-"

"Shh!" scolded a bald guy with a beard.

Jack felt very out of his element.

"Why do you come in every day, are you stalking me?" she asked in a quiet voice which forced him to walk a little closer.

"No, I live a couple blocks away and it's a good place to study." Jack said trying to get some control of the conversation. She was snide and sarcastic and basically all the things he usually was in a conversation. This left him weaponless.

"You have quite the ego, don't you. Thinking I was there looking at you and stalking you. People drink coffee. Your tits aren't that nice-" his voice went a little louder and he was again chided.

"Hey, sorry." said a woman holding a tray of glasses. "Do you mind keeping it down in the art area?" pretension and self importance dripping from her thin lips.

The barista walked away from the painting and Jack followed.

They were standing in front of a coat rack covered in christmas lights. She took a red wine off a tray and sipped it, then making a face of disgust, put it back down.

"Do you like art?" he asked half heartedly.

"Not particularly."

"Are you a student?"

She rolled her eyes. "Perpetually."

"What do you study?"

"Art." Her voice was flat.

She turned on him. "Are you trying to pick me up?" she said as if she suddenly realized it and was incensed.

"I... no.. I mean." Jack was usually a lot better at this, but this girl seemed randomly aggressive.

She scoffed, a smile flickered, a challenging smile.

"Let me guess, you're a graduate student." Her tone was flat again and mocking.

"What's your name?" he tried to turn the conversation.

"Jane."

"Jack."

"Is that your real name?"

"No."

"Yeah, there are no real Jacks."

"Shh." said someone in the distance. Jane casually walked out of the apartment into the hallway. Jack followed.

"Did I piss you off or something? Do you not like how I order my drink everyday?"

She eyed him. The hallway was echoey and humid. She walked to the stairs.

"You're just that guy I see every day who looks at me but never has the balls to say hello. Another lame graduate student. What is it? Let me guess, philosophy?"

"No." he said with distain.

"Literature? Literary Theory?"

Jack didn't say anything.

"Oh god, you're one of those assholes who sits around mentally masturbating and deconstructing Joyce."

He didn't know why or how but suddenly he was kissing her. They were on the stairs and as she spoke someone looked out of the art showing and glared at them for making noise. Jack moved in as Jane whispered her hatred for his life's work and then the next thing he knew his lips were on those big soft red lips. And it shut her up.

"Well, we can't all go for hands-on applied science of art history."

She was stewing, she looked like she might hit him.

"Fuck this. This show is stupid, I shouldn't have come." She turned and walked up the stairs. Jack wasn't sure where she was going but he followed her.

On the second floor there was a narrow hall and two rows of doors. Jane got a set of keys out and opened the old door. 2B.

*

He kissed her against the wall. Her hands on his hips and her knee in his groin.

She bit his bottom lip as he pulled away and cut her eyes at him.

"I don't like you." she said as flatly as she could.

Jack smiled, licking his lips. "I don't mind."

She untangled herself from him and threw her keys on a coffee table. The apartment was tiny and a mess of books and indian rugs. She sat down on a beat up red couch and didn't look at him. Jack sat down next to her and kissed her neck. She turned and kissed him once, Jack kissed her deeply and she let herself slip into his kiss before pushing him away again.

"You should go, this wasn't a good idea."

He moved in again, his hand on her knee slipping up her skirt as he kissed her neck. She gasped and put her hands on his collar, pushing him away, but holding on to the fabric of his shirt.

"What do you think you're doing?" she said a little breathlessly again his ear, her warm soft lips brushing against it as she spoke.

"I'm trying to fuck you." he growled, as she clamped her legs shut on his hand.

It was hot there, between her thick thighs. It felt unusual with the softness of her skin and the roughness of the fishnets she was wearing. Jack felt with the tips of his fingers where the stockings ended in lace and were clipped to garters. The image made him groan. Fuck, he liked her style.

The fact that she hadn't punched him let him know that this was going to go all the way as long as Jack played it right.

Jack kissed her neck and dragged his bottom lip acoss her skin, then he sucked on her earlobe and bit at the flesh.

"I'm not going to fuck you." she growled into his cheek.

His hand moved further up her leg, he felt heat radiating from between her thighs.

"I know. I'm going to fuck you." His fingers touched the edge of her panty leg. He traced that elastic edge as he traced his bite marks on her neck with his tongue. As the very tip of his finger slipped under the fabric her breath caught and her grip on his shirt loosened.

"You feel awfully wet for someone who doesn't like this."

She was past listening, his words were just little thorns that made the itch his fingers were so close to scratching more deliciously unbearable.

He brushed his lips across her cheek, edging near her full lips. The vivid dark red of her lipstick matte, slightly smudged, perfect. He nearly caught her with a kiss, but she turned her head. His finger moved in, feeling smoothness where there should be coarse hair. Another predilection he had carried out by this girl. Another reason to want her. He rubbed there, never quite in the right place, cupping her sex and petting her but not quite slipping his finger in. It was almost too much and yet just enough to keep her on the edge.

He moved in again, his bottom lip almost catching hers. She moaned into his cheek and the sound made his cock throb painfully.

"Take your panties off for me." he whispered in her ear.

One finger slid between her wet lips. She was one of those girls who got soaking wet. Sopping wet. He watched the pleasure take over. He edged around her clit, tracing around it, feeling its firmness under the soft folds of her hood.

"Fuck you." she spat.

The dark laugh came from the very bottom of his stomach and spilled out. He laughed right against her neck as his finger slipped into unbearably tight wetness.

Jack knew that sigh, that moan. Some girls like to have their clit played with for hours, some girls like to have a tongue torturing them for days, but Jane wanted cock. She wanted a big thick cock to fuck her, that was the only thing that would get her off.

Jack pushed her away from him roughly. He flipped her over on the couch and pushed her head down so she was on her hand and knees with her ass in front of him. He pushed up her skirt and then pulled his zipper down and pulled out his cock.

She was groaning and hissing about it, but she wasn't going anywhere. Jack rubbed his cock against her pantie covered sex, he could feel the split of her lips through the soaking wet satin. She pushed her ass back at him.

"Take your panties off for me."

She scoffed first, but then pushed back against him and made a desperate little squeal of frustration. Her hands came up and back. Her thumbs hooked the sides of her panties. There was a beat, a pause and she pulled them down. Not all the way down but just to her knees. Then she pushed back, trying to impale herself on his hard cock.

Jack rubbed the head of his cock on the same spot now that it was naked. He looked down at obscenely pink lips against his hard reddening cock.

"Ask me to fuck you."

She turned her head and those eyes were full of hate and want and fire. Her hands flew back and she tried to pull her panties back up but he grabbed her hands and held them behind her back.

"Fuck you. You're the one who started this. I'm not asking you for anything." she hissed, her cheek pressed against the couch.

Jack rocked against her, the head of his cock just barely pushing into her wetness. She let out gasps with each little push.

"Pl... you fucking asshole. Just..." another whine, another gasp, another curse.

"Please what?" his voice was more and more gravelly. The little chuckles darker and darker.

"Just... please..." her voice was quieter, almost inaudible. Then a long sigh.

"Just fuck me."

It wasn't really what he wanted. He wanted her to beg, but he knew it was enough and he couldn't hold back any longer.

He spit on his hand and worked his cock up and down, then rubbed it between the wetness of her lips. When he pushed his cock in, finally, it was almost painfully pleasurable. He let out a loud groan.

"Put your hands on my ass." she said, not even looking back at him.

He did, squeezing both cheeks and starting to fuck her for real.

Sometimes it took time to work up a real rhythm. Sometimes you had to figure the other person out, get the angle right. Jane was wet and just right and Jack sank his fingers into the softness of her big ass and pounded into her. It was a normal fuck, this was hard and fast and the couch was moving.

"Oh holy fucking shit." she said, letting out a string of curses mixed with moans. Her hands were on the arm of the couch as she was rode harder.

Jack reached up and put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back into each thrust. His other hand snaked up into her hair.

"Fuck me harder." she said looking back with the same fire. "Come on. Is that all you got? Really fuck me."

He grabbed her hips hard and pounded into her. Hard fast slapping over and over. She let go of the arm of the chair and let out a little howl. He felt her legs tighten, her cunt clenching on him as a moan built into a wail.

She pulled away suddenly and pulled off her panties. Jack grabbed all the pillows on the couch and threw them across the room. They pulled at their shirts, needing more contact. She half ripped off her bra and he was on her, sucking her nipples, biting her neck and finally kissing her plump lips. Their faces were covered in lipstick. And then he was inside of her again, this time on top.

She was three times as wet now. She wrapped her legs around him as he fucked her. Her hands were around him and then her nails were digging into his back. He was thrusting slow and hard, but building.

Suddenly the world was spinning. Jack didn't know how but he was on the floor and the barista was on top of him, her neat black bob now half sticking to her face.

Her hands on his wrists she turned and twisted her hips trying to get the right angle and then when his cock finally slipped back into her she purred and looked down at him.

"Want to come bad, hm?"

Jack bucked his hips, but she was not a tiny girl. Plus there was the fact that he wanted to see where this was going.

"It's only fair." he said low and gravelly.

She moved her hips up and then down a little, sort of bouncing up and down on him. The pleasure was like a punch it was so potent. Jack tried to maintain control at least enough to watch her bit her own lip and moan.

Jane opened her shirt completely, button by button. She continued to flex her legs causing her to go up and down on him with a slow steady rhythm. She pulled off her shirt and the bra which was hanging off her waist. She locked her eyes with him as she cupped her breasts and let her fingers pull at her own nipples which were surprisingly dark for her pale skin and large with fat nipples that were hard points.

Jack put his hands on her hips and bucked his hips again. She wasn't stopping him now. Her eyes closed and she moved up and down a little faster, with Jack bucking up to meet her. She pulled roughly on one nipple which her other hand went down to her wet pussy. Jack could dully feel her rubbing her self as he slipped again and again into her. Suddenly she was gasping and her fucking lost its momentum. Jack took hold of her hips and kept fucking her from underneath her. She was lost as her fingers moved on her clit and nipple. Jack watched, feeling his orgasm building faster and faster.

She was going crazy on top of him, whimpering and rolling her hips. He tried desperately to keep fucking, keep the rhythm.

"Come. Come on. Fucking come inside of me." she was practically yelling.

And then the building for so long finally hit its end and Jack exploded. He wasn't sure what he said, but it was loud. She rode him through it and kept on riding him until he was limp and weak and then she fell on top of him, her hair clinging to his face and her lips on his as they panted.
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