The Beast Within II


Hello, dear readers!
Apologies for the extended absence.  A paucity of quality submissions led me to withdraw from blogging for a time.  This website, I should remind you, will only be as good as the offerings you send in!  So write me; even a quick little note is welcome!

The long wait, I dare say, was worth it.  Christina writes:

I dreamed that Reginald was sliding warm hands slowly up my inner thighs.  His firm grip moved slowly, inexorably towards my center.  His steady patience was seductive, simultaneously soothing and exciting.  Feeling safe and desired, still half asleep, I stretched then spread my legs, allowing him access.  Still he did not hurry.  As the warmth of his long, strong fingers neared my sex, my excitement built up pressure.  I could feel myself getting wetter.  I moaned sleepily, tilting my pelvis in anticipation.

Full awareness arrived as his hands found my pussy and pressed down with their heat.  Raising my hips, I felt no resistance, no weight of hands.  It was enough to confuse me and I swam lazily into wakefulness.  The blankets were a tangled mess, thrown aside sometime in the night.  I muzzily recalled that sharing a bed with Reggie had been very like sleeping with a roaring furnace.  After our… exercise… of the night before, we had both been overheated.  Cuddling had been out of the question.

Reggie, however, was nowhere to be seen.  Those fingers?  Sunlight, streaming in through the windows, creeping slowly over my naked legs.
God, it must be nearly noon!

All I can say in my defense is that my first thought, after full awareness returned, was for my son.  Here I am, lazing in bed in the home of a near total stranger (strange doesn’t even begin to describe him!) after a night of downright freaky animal sex, while my teenage son might be god knows where!  Ash is a sweetheart, but his heart wasn’t in his schooling, and lately I’d been worried he was spending too much time with the wrong crowd.  I had a sneaking suspicion his recent sullenness and withdrawal had something to do with his absent father, but despite how close I’ve always been with my son, drawing him out on the subject was proving nearly impossible.

I jumped out of bed, scrabbling for my scattered clothing.  While I searched, I berated myself.  I was constantly demanding to know where Ashley had been, who he’d been hanging out with, forever insisting he give me more information so I can keep tabs on him.  But look at me!  Vanishing one afternoon without so much as a note or a quick text to let him know I’d be home late.  Or not at all.
I was such a hypocrite!

What day was it?  Saturday?  Okay, at least he wouldn’t be able to cut class and blame me for not getting him out of bed.  Ash regularly stayed out late on Friday nights and slept til noon if left alone.  If I was lucky, he’d still be sleeping when I got home, and simply assume I’d been in bed when he got back last night.

Stuffing the last bit of my lingerie into my purse, I stepped into the en suite and quickly arranged myself.  On my way out the door I nearly collided with Reggie.  His arms were laden with a massive tray of breakfast things.  He took me in with a look, and there was nothing I could say in my defense.  It was obvious I was in a rush to be gone.  Stoic as always, he simply set the tray aside and folded his arms, cocking one eyebrow.  It was like he cocked a bow instead.  His look pierced me just like an arrow, accusing.

I didn’t have the time to explain.  I’ve always believed actions speak louder than words, so I smiled brightly and threw my arms around his neck.  The kiss I gave him was deep and genuinely passionate.  He held me stiffly, at first, then relaxed as it became apparent my ardor wasn’t feigned.  Truly, it wasn’t!  All I had to do was think of last night, and oh my god…
Any dog could follow the scent of that trail.
“I’ll be in touch,” I whispered breathlessly, and left before he could change my mind.
“Good,” he said.  The rumbling thunder of his voice tickled my clit deliciously as I fled.

Reg had picked me up last night, so my car was still at home.  He lived on a rambling old place tucked away behind a heavily forested stretch of parkland.  The nature reserve went on for miles, but it was liberally laced with well-maintained trails.  The time of year was right for a walk in the woods.  The leaves had just begun changing color, and those that had already fallen crunched underfoot as I wound my way home.  I knew these trails well; I grew up in the area and I can take credit for forging some of these paths with my papa, back when I was just a wee mud-spattered little forest sprite with twigs tangled in my hair.

My own home looked out onto the same parkland, more or less.  The forest had been cut back slowly, over the years, to make way for progress, so there was now my neighbor’s yard and a street to cross to get home.  Our town was still small, but it was growing steadily.  The oldsters would sit on the porch of the Post Office Cafe and complain of the traffic, but even they knew we were blessed with serenity here.  They just liked to grumble, and why not blame the tourists and their cars for all the town’s problems?  In a town this small, you can’t go picking fights with your neighbors, or soon enough everyone is involved.

I could see that my nosy neighbor, Rosemary, was home.  She was standing in her kitchen staring out the window.  For a moment I worried that she had been waiting for me to appear out of the trees beyond her backyard fence, but then she turned and vanished deeper into the house.  I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and hastily hopped her fence and crossed the yard.  Her little dog, Puddin’, yawned hugely as I passed the sunny spot where he was napping.  His only acknowledgement as I passed was to huff a disappointed sigh when I didn’t stop to scratch behind his ears.

Finally, home.  I let myself in the front door, quietly, and made my way to the kitchen where I put on a pot of coffee.  While I waited for the percolator to gurgle out some much needed caffeine (I hadn’t slept much last night, after all), I thought about what I might say should my son question my absence.  Nothing came to mind, unfortunately.
I sighed.  It might be time to sit down and have a heart to heart with him.  At sixteen he was fast becoming a man.  More and more I saw his father in him, in his choices and behavior, in the way he valued my input less and less.  I needed him to know that I loved him, that I was doing my best for him… and that I wouldn’t blame him if he decided he needed the guidance and influence of a man in his life.  Just… don’t let it be your father!  Anyone but him, please!
My god, how could I ask him that?
I was having trouble remembering why I hurried home.  It would have been so easy to stay with Reg and forget my own problems for the day.  Ash was a teenager.  He probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone, except to be glad not to have me harping at him about chores and homework.  Was I trying too hard with him?  Was he old enough now to be making his own decisions?  Learning from his own mistakes?  As parents we try so hard to guide our children away from all the foolish trouble we created for ourselves when we were their age, but inevitably… they repeat most of those mistakes anyway.  And all we can do is shake our heads and say, “I told you so,” and hope they pay more attention to our warnings next time.  Is it human nature to ignore well-meaning advice and guidance?  Or is it just human nature that the hard lessons are the ones that stick the most?

The distinct sound of pleasure broke me from my reverie.  The coffee was done percolating, and in the quiet I strained my ears.
Yes, there it was again.  A muffled gasping.  Breathless whispers.
I was making just those same sounds myself not twelve hours ago.
Did Ashley have a girl over?
So he did know I was gone!
Who was she?  He’d never really talked about girls before.  One more thing a single mother has trouble with, raising a son.  I guess his father would have sat down with him over video games and they could’ve grunted out some monosyllabic dialogue:
“Got a girl.”
Long silence punctuated by the sound of gunfire and growling zombies, or perhaps the rev of engines.  Some manly game.
“She cute?”
“Heh!”  He’s grinning.
Another long pause.  They chug cola and stuff nacho cheese Doritos into their mouths.
“Be safe.”
And that would be that.  I could only hope his father would have the sense to remind him to use a condom…
But there I go, being a hypocrite again.  What did I really know about Reginald?  Was last night safe, at all?  It sure didn’t feel that way.  But wasn’t that the whole point?  Wasn’t that the thrill?  We hadn’t used a condom, and he had come inside me more than once.  I doubt they make condoms big enough, anyway…

I couldn’t restrain my curiosity any longer.  Who was she?  How did they meet?  How long have they been dating?  Is she pretty?  Is she polite?  Who are her parents?  What do they do for a living?  Who are her friends?  What are they like?
These things are important!  I couldn’t just pretend like it wasn’t happening!
Cautiously, I made my way out of the kitchen to the front foyer.  There, I stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened.  Faintly, the sound of a creaking bedframe and the passionate couple’s mingled cries of pleasure drifted down to me.
I realized I was still holding my coffee mug and put it down on the bannister.  Slowly, stealthily, I made my way up the stairs.

The sounds grew louder as I reached the hall at the top of the stairs and made my way towards Ashley’s bedroom.  It was at the back of the hall on the left, and looked out over the backyard.  They wouldn’t have known, had they been looking out the window, that I had come home.  Clearly they had been too distracted to hear me open the front door, or to notice the coffee rattling and burping away.
I paused outside the bedroom door.  It was slightly ajar.  I knew, because of the size of his room (it was the largest in the house) and the position of the door, that I should be able to peer through the crack between doorjamb and door and see a wide swath of bedroom, including his bed in the far corner.  Furiously, I debated with myself.  Did I really want to spy on my son having sex?  What would I say if I was caught?
My resolve wavered.  I nearly turned around to go back downstairs.
But then she gasped and cried out, “Oh, Gordon!” and I froze.  Gordon was his middle name.  He hated his middle name!  Curiosity raged through me like a fire and before I could even consider if what I was doing was wrong my eye was pressed against the crack of the door.

He was red faced and grimacing, flat on his back beneath her.  She sat astride him, her back to me, a lithe, milk white girl with the long, coltish legs of youth.  Despite her young age, she had quite a little booty on her, and she was bouncing it vigorously up and down.  The wet slapping of their bodies was punctuated by her whimpering, mewling gasps as she breathlessly begged him to cum inside her.  She raised her slim pale arms over her head and buried her hands deep in her long, luxurious mass of raven hair.  When she arched her back those long black locks brushed the swell of her buttocks, and I took in her large, firm breasts and exotic profile.  Truly, my son had done well for himself, if one were judging purely on looks.  This little vixen was custom built for desire, an energetic, passionate, and sultry little thing.
She squealed then, curled forward, and her hair fell over my son’s face.  It’s just as well.  I had noticed the way his hands gripped the bed covers, rather than her thighs or waist.  I had seen that look of furious concentration on his face.  He wasn’t entirely comfortable with having sex yet, and that was a relief to me.  It meant he hadn’t been sneaking away to have sex very often.  This might even be his first time!  He deserved some privacy for his first time.  I didn’t want to see the look on his face as he spent himself inside her…
Inside her?
Good god, no!
His back arched and he thrust upwards with a groan as I barged into the room.
“Ashley Gordon!” I screeched, “What are you thinking?!”
The girl shrieked hysterically as I dragged her off my son, but the damage was done.  His ejaculate dripped from the compact folds of her bare little cunt (Waxed smooth!  At that age!), and he was too late to cover himself as a final spurt landed on his belly.  He scrambled for the blankets, and I thought he would hide beneath them like he used to when he was small and I was angry with him.
Instead, to his credit and my utter surprise, he stepped from the bed as if I wasn’t there at all and threw the blanket around the girl, who was crouched defensively where I had dumped her on the floor.  He was not quick enough to hide the livid purple bruises that were already rising where I had gripped her upper arms.  Then he stood and pointed wordlessly at the door.  His still-hard cock mimicked the gesture.  With both hands pressed to my mouth to stifle sobs or screams, I know not which, I ran from the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, my elbow clipped my coffee mug and it crashed against the front door, shattering and spraying coffee across the foyer.  In a panic I tore a shawl from the foyer closet and began to blot it up, frantic with embarassment and anger and fear for my son and for this unknown girl.  Didn’t they realize?  Didn’t they understand?  I had been about the same age as her when I had become pregnant with Ashley!  Tony had been a stupid, thoughtless teenage boy when he had knocked me up!  Just like his stupid, thoughtless teenage son!  God, where had I gone wrong?  If she was pregnant, their lives were over, and so help me, I wouldn’t be bailing him out of this one!  He knew what was at stake!  All his life he’d had me as an example, he knew what I had gone through to raise him!  Did he think it would be easier for him, that he would be able to face the hard choices his own father had run away from?

Tears were streaming freely down my face when the pale girl stepped carefully around me and opened the front door.  Ashley maneuvered himself between me and her and carefully cleared his throat.  It wasn’t until he knelt down next to me and gently took the sopping shawl from my hands that I looked up at them.

Her self-posession and dignity were impressive.  Intimidating, even.  She looked down at me and I felt I was looking only at the vessel; the contents were far away.  But she stayed there, quietly watching, as Ashley turned my face to meet his eyes and said:
“Mom, I’m sorry.  This isn’t how I pictured you meeting her.  But it’s done now, so you might as well be introduced.”

I turned my stunned stare back to the girl, who smiled tentatively and extended her hand.  Her smile was bouyant, despite everything.  What I had taken to be restraint now seemed shyness, embarassment, and it restored a measure of my self-control.  I was once more the adult here.  I stood and brushed myself off, then took her hand firmly.  It was warm and dry.  She tried to meet my eyes but faltered and glanced down as my nostrils flared involuntarily – she and Ashley reeked of sex.  The tops of her cheeks turned a very pretty pink.  How long had they been going at it?

Ashley was oblivious to this interplay.

“Mom,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Intimacy.  Macy, this is my mom, Christina.”


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Short But Sweet 2

Hello, lovely readers!
For your enjoyment tonight I have a random selection of short letters from a variety of senders.  I do hope you enjoy, and remember:  You can always write me at or:



Dear Eon,
There have been many times meeting a total stranger that I’ve been overwhelmed by the desire to kiss him passionately, just to see how he would react, just to taste someone new, just to leap past all the polite chitchat and get to the meat and bones of the man before he is buried in layers of useless trivia.  Is it odd that I stare him in the eyes when this feeling overcomes me?  I gaze into his eyes with unabashed forwardness and intensity, trying to make him feel what I am fantasizing.  Sometimes I think I succeed, only to find he is intimidated by me.  Other times, I think I have failed to convey my desire, only to find him focused entirely on me for the rest of the evening.  I have a theory that all of my relationships end quickly because I love nothing so much as that initial rush of connection, that tentative back and forth dance, that dare-to-do-it first leap when I step out of my comfort zone and make plain my intentions.  That moment of reciprocation is the sweetest moment I can imagine.  The triumphant flood of arousal, the certain knowledge that tonight I will have my way with this man… mmm… nothing can compare.
Sensual kisses!

Thanks for sharing, Gia!


Hey Eon,
I was just wondering.  Have you ever had trouble with – well, you know – following through?  Not getting it up, I mean, but like keeping it hard?  Cuz I seem to be uh, falling down on the job, lately, and I’m a bit embarassed about getting help for it, and I don’t know who to talk to anyway.  Do I need Viagra or something?  I’m 35, I would have thought I had a while before this kind of thing started happening to me.  My partner has been really great about it but somehow it’s just more embarassing than ever when she tries to make like it doesn’t matter.  Cuz it does matter, you know?  To me it does.  I want to stay hard, I want to outlast her, I want to make her scream and beg me to finish because she just can’t handle my incredible studliness.  I guess that’s every man’s dream, huh?  Well, what do you think I should do?
Love your blog.  Keep them stories cumming!
Haha, that was terrible!

Hi Jones,
Thanks for your letter.

There’s really nothing to be ashamed of.  Erectile dysfunction can be caused by a huge number of things, and it affects far more men than you’d think.
Here’s a personal story from my own history:
When I was in highschool, I was completely, head over heels in love with a girl from my homeroom.  Let’s call her Jean.  I’ve mentioned her before, in Liam’s First Time.  Jean was pure sexuality, to me.  Her every movement was arousing.  Her body was amazing.  Her eyes were arrestingly blue.  She was independent and capable.  She was softspoken, and I just wanted to lean in close and whisper with her.  In short, I was mesmerized, and for five years (all through highschool, and for a while after) we were incredibly close.  Early on I sort of gave up ever having a chance with her, and settled for becoming a really intimate friend.  As I mentioned previously, we would share a bed, cuddling nearly nude, we were very physically affectionate, but despite nursing some deep feelings for her, the timing was never right and I could never bring myself to cross that line with her.
After highschool, everything changed.  A lot of our crowd moved away, and Jean and I spent less time together as she was frequently away.  When she was in town, our time together had the tone of an extended goodbye.  There was this unspoken acknowledgement between us that if we didn’t explore the possibilities between us soon, we never would.
This led to our first kiss, standing on a bridge over a stream in a nature park, middle of the night, autumn leaves tumbling down around us.
Our first kiss led to more interesting play, when we shared a bed later that night.  She went down on me for the first time, and I put my face between her thighs and licked her creatively until, gasping, she said, “When I’m a middle-aged spinster, I will pay you thousands of dollars to do that like you just did it.  Oh my god that was good!”
Before we could do much more to explore each other, Jean moved away to the big city.  It wasn’t so far that we would never see each other, but it was enough (with finances being what they were at the time) that holidays were really the only time we would see each other.  Besides which, she wasn’t one to withhold her affections.  She had a number of boyfriends in short order, and soon it seemed like she’d all but forgotten me.
Even so, one November a year or two later, I called her up.  I was in the city, and needed a place to crash for the night before heading back home the next morning.  She gave me directions, and once again I found myself sharing a bed with her.
This was it.  This was the moment.  I had brought condoms, and she had some too.  She had left them out on the nightstand as a signal that she would be interested in going all the way if I was.
Of course I was.  I might never be with this girl in a steady relationship, but she was stunning and spectacular fun to be around and I had never felt so in tune with anyone.  For well over five years she had been my deepest fantasy, and I just knew we could complete each other in ways that neither of us had ever experienced before.
So comes the big moment: the condom is on, she is stretched out before me, naked and glorious in her tiny, angelic beauty.  I have spent over an hour kissing and licking her, exploring her body with my hands and fingers.  She has reached the heights of pleasure and now she’s begging me to join her there.  I have never been so hard.  The head of my cock throbs as I position myself and push it inside her.
Problem!  My shaft bends, painfully, and her pussy parts only so far.  The head of my cock simply won’t fit.  She grimaces in pain.  I stammer out an apology, but she quickly shushes me.  It’s her fault, she says.  She was born with a medical condition.  Her vagina is incredibly tiny.  In fact, the opening was once so small that a regular pencil would stretch her uncomfortably.  She’s had some surgery to correct it, enough so that I never noticed when using my fingers, but it isn’t perfect.  She expects it to hurt, she says, but if we’re persistent, it will eventually fit, and we will enjoy ourselves.  Don’t worry if it bleeds a bit, she says.  Tearing is normal, for her.  The opening is really quite small.
Now, I’ve never considered myself monstrously hung, but I do enjoy the occasional compliment, and Jean has made it known that I’m the biggest fellow she’s ever been with.  I’m really not certain this is a good idea anymore.  Here I am, hurting her.  I don’t mean sort of making her uncomfortable, either.  I mean outright inflicting awful, tearing pain, quite literally damaging her vagina in an attempt at intercourse.  I’ve managed to force my way partially inside, but I’m hating every moment of it.  This isn’t just making her uncomfortable, it’s making me feel horrible, like a rapist, despite the fact that she’s urging me on, despite the fact that she wants it.  The looks of pain that pass over her face make it seem as if she’s lying to me.  Who, I ask myself, would really want that kind of torture?  In hindsight I understand that it was the only sort of pleasure she could expect to get, so she had embraced it.  What else could she do?  But at the time, it seemed monstrously cruel.
To make matters worse, she was so incredibly tight that the pleasure has been mounting despite my misgivings.  Without warning, my body gives in to the sensations and I spill myself into the condom.  We haven’t been at it more than a minute or two.  Not long enough to call it sex.  And now I’ve gone limp and no amount of encouragement will get a rise out of me.  After so many years of anticipation, the failure is epic and crushing.  We cuddle for the rest of the night, but something has gone out of our affection.  We know now, without doubt, that this won’t work between us.  I can’t believe, after knowing her so well for so long, that I didn’t know this one vitally important thing.  I can’t help feeling that it’s my fault, that I’ve failed her somehow.  Like I should have known some miracle method by which we could have made it work.

My uncertainty over this entire episode led to a year of intense self-doubt.  Being overly analytical, I went over it and over it in my head, trying to find some course I could have taken to change the outcome.  I did, in fact, require therapy to get over my feelings of sexual inadequacy.  All this in spite of the fact that it was never really anything to do with me.
So Jones, if you’re having troubles with your sense of self, your manliness as it connects to your manhood, please believe me when I say you are not alone, and discussing it with a professional can help a great deal.  Our sexuality is often at the root of our self-image, and when you consider that our self-image is at the root of a great many sexual hangups, it’s easy to see how a recursive and self-destructive loop can be created.  This kind of negative thought habit can be fixed with time and effort.  And if it turns out to be something physically wrong with your equipment, all that will come out in therapy as well.  They’re very good about working hand in hand with your doctor to make sure they suss out the root of the problem.  I urge you, reach out for help.  You’ve already reached out to me.
Now take the next step!
Love and respect,


Hi Eon,
This is pretty weird, but I’m into dwarves.  Not just short people, but those freaky people with big heads and stubby limbs.  I’ve got a ton of dwarf porn and I think if my girlfriend ever found out she’d drop me like a hot rock.
From Ed in Ed.

Well Ed, after seeing this post, chances are good a great many more people will be interested in dwarves who weren’t before.  The lovely lady pictured above can be seen at Suicide Girls, if you’re interested!


How are you?  Just wanted to tell you about the hottest thing that ever happened to me:  I was out with some girlfriends at the club, all three of us dressed to kill, and they announce a wet T-shirt contest.  We hadn’t really planned on it but we’d had a few drinks and we were the sexiest women in the whole place, we knew we could win!  So all three of us agreed to do it so long as the other two did.  And we did it!   We shook our soaking wet tits and asses in front of a huge crowd, everyone was cheering and chanting, and that’s when it happened.  I started stroking and touching my friend Jenny.  I thought it would get a good reaction from the crowd.  Oh wow, you have no idea!  The place went nuts!  She sort of looked at me like What are you doing? but everyone was cheering.  Jenny’s an attention slut, so before long she was loving it.  We got friskier, and Sara joined in, and all three of us were making out in front of everyone while they hosed us down.  I’ve never been so soaked in my life, and I don’t mean from the hose!  Kissing my girlfriends, touching their hot slippery bodies, all while being watched by hundreds of horny guys… there were dudes in the crowd touching themselves through their jeans, oh my god, it was so hot!  Jenny and Sara went home with someone that night, but I’ve got a boyfriend, and he’s away at camp, so when I got home I rode my jack rabbit to the biggest orgasm of my life!  When Brad gets home he’s in for a treat!  I’ve never been so horny!
Love ya!

I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that reunion!  Congratulations Brad!
Thanks for the sexy letter, Kelly.

*All Images from Internet*

A Last Goodbye


A little something from the personal file tonight…
You can share your own last goodbye stories with me
By writing to or sending a letter to


For every goodbye, I hope you find hello.
With love and respect,

It is the witching hour.  You went to bed hours ago.  Our goodnight kiss was brief, perfunctory.  I can feel the love ooze away, trickle out of our hearts bit by bit, day by trying day.  It isn’t your fault.  It isn’t mine.  It simply is.  These circumstances.  The nightshifts I work.  The dance performances you train so hard for.  You have fractured your feet, and still you dance.  We’re both a little crazy.
We occupy the same spaces but so rarely at the same time.  I see you in passing as I come home.  You’re on your way out to a dance class.  You see me in passing as you return home.  I’m on my way out to work.  By the time I come home you will have been gone to your own job for a couple hours.  I will sleep, fitfully, the sunlight too bright around the edges of the blackout curtain that doesn’t quite fit the window, the heat of a summer day sapping my will to move until I hear you come home some time in the late afternoon.
I will pretend to be asleep.  I don’t know why.  We both know I’ve hardly slept over the past year.  We both know it’s slowly killing me.  We both know I don’t have much choice.  There is no other full time work that pays even half so well.  So you will pretend I am sleeping, and I will pretend I am sleeping, because we both know I need my sleep.
But what use is sleep that does nothing to rest me?  And what use is all this money?  I never see you.  I can’t spend outrageously on you, treat you to jewellery store shopping sprees, fancy dinners, tickets to performances we never have the time for.  I heave a sigh.  I will stop pretending to sleep, stumble groggy into the kitchen to say hello.
But you’re already gone again.
I sit and stare at the wall, and wonder where it all went wrong.
Weekends are the hardest.  I’m not needed at work, but I stay awake all night because it’s the only way I can maintain the brutal hours of my schedule.  You come home exhausted after another long day of work and dance, dive into a whirlwind of last minute chores and organization, try to prepare for more of the same tomorrow.  I help where I can but we work in silence.  You don’t have much to say about your day and I only just woke up after a much needed period of total oblivion.  You frown at the empty bottle of rum that delivered me into sleep this morning, but you don’t say anything.  We’ve been down that road.  Your quiet disapproval is more eloquent, anyway.  I can see by the way you don’t even bother to mention it that you’re giving up.
So am I.  I’m so sorry, baby, but so am I.
So I sit here, stare at a computer screen well into the night, mindlessly surf the web, try not to think about it, about us, about you.  Headphones on.  Music cranked loud enough to fill the room around me.  David Usher tells me he understands what I’m going through.  He says he’s been there.  I sigh when he laments,

“The water’s beginning to freeze here…”

You glide up behind me on bare feet, barely a whisper of sound to give you away, your dancer’s grace evident in every beautiful step.
I don’t see it.  I play a mind-numbing computer game, strategically burst bubbles, think to myself this might be a metaphor.
With an air of trepidation you interrupt my reverie.  Your nervousness is somehow more seductive than if you were playing the pouncing cat.  It has been so long since we touched this way.  Your warm breasts press against my neck and shoulders.  You trail your fingers along the length of my right arm, lay your warm palm over the back of my hand.  Together we move the mouse, watch the pointer on the screen hover over to the X in the corner.  You press gently on my finger.  The web browser closes.  When you stand, my swivel chair rotates as you pull on my hand.  I look up at you and see the tears in your eyes, and I begin to understand.
You turn my hand palm up and guide it under the hem of your negligee.  You press my fingers into your wetness and heat.  For what seems the first time, I look at you.  I drink you in.  Your curly red hair tumbles down around your face like sunset clouds.  Your blue eyes, damp with tears, hypnotic, search my face.  What are you looking for?  Recognition?  Some connection?
You bite your lower lip.  Is it because of what you see in my eyes?  Or what you don’t?  Or is it because my fingers press against your arousal, begin to search inside you?
The white lace of your lingerie clings to your pale skin.  The shadowy outlines of your curves are visible beneath.  Your long sleek legs part slightly.  You press yourself into my hand.  My fingers curl, sink between the slick folds of your secret skin.  You lean down, put your mouth next to my ear.
David Gray croons huskily,

“Slowly the truth is loaded:
I’m weighted down with love.
Snow lying deep and even,
Strung out and dreaming of
Night falling on the city
(Quite something to behold).
Don’t it just look so pretty?
This disappearing world…”

His voice fades as you pull my headphones away.
“I was having a sex dream,” you whisper.  As though we need the excuse to touch each other.  How did it come to this?
Your lips brush like feathers against my earlobe.  I feel the gentle waft of your breath.  I smell the green apple scent of your skin, watch the swell of your breasts beneath the sheer fabric of your shift.
I turn my mouth towards yours.  Our lips touch.  Softly, tentatively.  Then with increasing urgency and hunger as we share a kiss every bit as passionate and searching as our very first… but there is an aftertaste, as our tongues touch and slide… a taste of despair.  A taste of hopelessness.
It tastes like goodbye.
I stand and guide you out of the room by the fingers buried deep in the heat of your sex.  Your thighs rub the sides of my hand and wrist as you follow.  Delicious friction, a hint of what’s to come.  You came to me, you offered me this, and I recognize it for what it is.  I will take the opportunity to say one last goodbye before the love drains away completely.  I understand that we must stop pretending.  We’re not a couple, anymore.  We haven’t been for months.
But tonight… tonight we will be lovers.
I carefully think of nothing, pull you by your swollen pussy down the hall and into the bedroom.  In the dim glow of a single lamp, you raise your arms over your head and I lift your nightdress away.  I let it slither to the floor with a quiet hiss.  Your milkwhite breasts fall free, bounce gently.  Your skin prickles with goosebumps.  I watch in fascination as your inverted nipples slowly emerge from their puffy pink areolas.  I’ve always loved the obviousness of your arousal.  I lean down to encourage them, run my tongue in slow circles around your breasts.  I lick their heavy curves, lap along their sides, trace the outline of your nipples.  I flick them with my tongue as they harden, grip them gently in my teeth and draw them fully forth to suck hard, to elicit a gasp of pleasure from you.
Your busy hands fumble at my clothes, strip off my belt, push down my jeans, my boxer shorts.  I step free of them as you pull my shirt over my head.  Naked now, we press against each other, hold each other tight.  There is a moment of desparate calm.  We breathe deep, cling to each other.
But we know it can’t last, so we begin to move our hands, to touch and stroke, to caress and call forth pleasure, and memories of pleasure, and we strive to layer them deep around us, build talls walls to hold out the reality of our world for just this one night.
My warm hands encircle your waist, slide down over smooth pale flanks, up over taut belly.  You are so tall!  Six foot three, statuesque, and there is so much of your strong slim dancer’s body to rediscover tonight.  I want to memorize you by touch.  If this is my last chance to touch you I will touch all of you, I will know you completely before I let you go.
I pull you close.  We kiss, eyes closed, and fall into each other.  Our mouths explore as our hands do.  Your lips draw a line of fire along my jaw, down my neck, over my collar bone.  You kiss my chest, my shoulders, lick the hollow of my throat.  I push you gently down onto the bed.  You fall back and sprawl in languorous abandon.  Your legs part and your fingers slide over the heart-shaped red fur of your mound, spread the wet pinkness there for me to see.  Your fingers delve inside, pull free with a sucking noise.  The slippery slurp and gurgle of you finger fucking yourself makes my cock ache with inner pressure.  I had planned to kiss and lick my way up your legs.  I had planned to circle teasingly around your sweet center and layer affection across your stomach, breasts, and neck.  I had planned to kiss you passionately, run my hands through your flame-red hair, wipe the tears from your ice blue eyes with a gentle thumb.  But seeing you now, wanton and aroused, soaked and shining with the slap and slip of your fingers, I can no longer wait.
You woke up this way, dripping and full of desire.  You don’t need me to take my time.  You need me to dig down to the depths of you, to drill for that fading connection before it slips beyond our reach forever.  You need me to take my pleasure, to lose myself in you, to let myself be carried away by the wave of emotion that threatens us both, to carry you along with me.
You reach for me.  Our fingers intertwine and I climb onto the bed, pin your arms to your sides.  I lower myself between your legs, let my erection push your glistening folds aside.  You buck your hips upwards even as I thrust down, hard.  We slap together, cry out in unison.  I fuck you furiously, punishing your body with mine.  I hammer out my frustration.  I pour it all out, the growing distance between us, the feeling of helplessness as I watch us drift apart, the sense of loss and impotence.  Thrust after thrust I beat my body against yours, hating you for your inaction, hating myself for giving up, letting go.
It isn’t exactly pleasure, but it overwhelms me just the same, and I growl with the release as I drain my agression into the spasming grip of your sex.
Gentler now, I continue in a slower rhythm, long, deep strokes, push hard into you, strain to touch you in what seems the only way we still understand.  The tears stream freely down your face, and I lay my body over yours protectively.  Our mouths meet and we taste each other’s sorrow.  Once again we cling to each other, touch, search, try so hard to remember every moment, every breath, every gasp, every look, every cry, every surge of pleasure, every contraction and release.  We roll in the oceanic grip of our emotions, ride the waves of our release to the safety of a shore of exhaustion.
Sleep reaches from the deeps to take us under.
When I awaken, you are gone again.
A note on your pillow reads,

It might have worked, in another life,
But not in this one.  I hope we can be friends some day.
Love always,

*Image from Internet*



You can write me at:


Dear readers,
You may recall a post entitled Homework Assignment,
originally posted on the 24th of August.
Today, I’m very pleased to share a pair of letters submitted by a husband and wife team who decided to spice up their sex life and assign each other some very sexy homework.  These are their first attempts at erotic writing, and I have made no effort to edit their offerings, so please be kind with your comments.
If any teachers are reading this, please dress as seductively as possible
and submit video of yourself grading this homework assignment
while being ravished by your lover.
But seriously,
Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. X., for your wonderful letters.
I give them both an A+!

He writes:

She writes:

I’m watching as you begin teasing me, running lips along my inner thighs.
You’re dressed in that sexy, lacy black underwear, wearing those striped thigh-
highs I love so much.  You move up and kiss my shoulder, breathing deeply.
Kiss my mouth.  The warmth of your tongue excites me and I stiffen.  Your
lips are soft and insistent.  I taste your want.

It’s so quiet.  I’m nervous.  Like it’s the first time.  You comfort me and
tell me it’ll be ok.  Your hands on my legs are a soothing sensation.  I love
your hands on my skin.  Your tongue whispers along the inside of my thigh.
It’s so sensitive it almost makes me giggle but it’s not ticklish.  I twitch as
your tongue hits my clit.  The sensation is almost too much to bear.

When you take it in your hand that way, look at it with such hunger, such
desire, it makes me twitch.  And then…
Oh God, I’m inside your mouth, your tongue rolls across the head of my
penis, and you take it deep with a moan of pleasure.  Warmth wraps my
cock like the heat spilling from an oven.  The wetness of your mouth feels
slippery and smooth… it’s like pressure and warmth and dampness all at
once.  The nerves can’t send signals fast enough.  Pure sensation, all of
it good.

 Your beard against my pubic hair is soft.  I love that feeling.
But then your 
tongue flickers over my clit and your fingers
slide inside me.  My heart is racing and my breath is laboring.
Your tongue is so quick.  
You focus on that little pink nub, licking
  Every so often you change the angle and direction and it
sends shocks up my body.  It 
makes me want to arch to
get closer
 and yet I want you to stop but I don’t.

As you draw your head back the cool air chills my shaft.  The exquisite heat
of your mouth descends again, so much hotter by comparison.  Hot, cold,
hot, cold.  Delicious contrast, wrapped in softness.  Your hands stroke the
length of me, slipping along the saliva you’ve coated me with.  It feels in-
credible, electric, the pleasure intensifying in the tip of my penis, building
up inside like the head is swelling.  It could burst at any moment.

A random itch distracts me, but then I feel your finger wiggle
inside me and it makes me think of your thick cock fucking me.
When you have both finger and tongue going I can’t focus on
the pleasure of my clit, so soon I’ll ask you to stop…

Now you’re on top of me and your pussy slips over my cock like liquid fire.
Your juices mingle with mine, with your spit, and you bounce.  God, so
tight.  Almost painful.  The skin pulls down as your muscles squeeze.  The
sensitive part where the foreskin connects to the underside pulls tightest.
Painful.  I have to pull out, push the foreskin up over the head of my cock,
slip inside again.  Now the skin has play, it can pull back until I’m all the
way in.  The head of my cock bumps into your deepest walls.  It’s a jolt
of intensity.

…to kiss my nipples, make them wet while you finger my wet cunt.
That’s what’s going through my head.  It makes me hot all over and
I almost say it but you replace your tongue with your lips and suck
my clit and the pleasure shoots through my body.  Your hands on
my nipples make me twitch in pleasure.  You start to position your
hands to hold me down, as you know I’m close, to keep me in your
mouth.  I can just imagine how hard you must be right now.

You take me inside and squirm like a puppy.  Enjoying yourself?  On your
knees… you thrust back against my erection and moan in ecstacy.  That
beautiful round ass, your skinny little waist sloping down and away to those
incredible shoulders… so sexy.  I love this view of you, face pressed into
mattress, hands reaching over your head to tangle and claw at bed sheets.
My own POV pornstar, my sex kitten, my sultry little goddess, my exotic,
sensuous bride.  Fuck you look good.

That first feeling of your cock inside me, that full feeling,
is so intense it almost hurts, but the pain is also pleasure.
I ask you to lick me again and you do.  The combination
of the fact that you’d do that for me and how you’re willing
to follow direction is so hot that I’m wetter than before.  I
feel my clit swell with the licking of your tongue.

You order me to drop the letter and fuck you.  Thrust and pound.  The wet
concussions of our bodies slapping together nearly drives me over the edge.
Your cunt tightens, a grip like velvet-lined steel.  You push up onto your
hands and hammer back against me and scream in pleasure.  I’m feeling
every throbbing millimeter of my cock, every square inch of skin.  The soft-
ness of your ass cheeks slamming into my hips.  My hands on your back,
your hips, your waist.

I know I’m close.  My body tightens up and the pleasant
tension starts in my belly and spreads slowly out from my
clit.  I want to wriggle and writhe and stay still at the same
time in case I stop feeling what I feel.  My clit is so swollen
that it extends past my lips.  Every part of my pussy is super-
sensitized to the point of discomfort but it feels so good.

The pleasure is entirely centered in the head of my cock, buried in your
slippery center and pulsing against the walls of this fleshly heaven.  It’s
building, straining, growing, stretching my endurance, testing me.  I struggle
to last.  I want you to cum first.  I need to see your pleasure to amplify mine.
I love making you lose control.  Sweet Jesus, you’re stroking my balls.  Your
hands tickle and draw sensuous lines across my sensitive skin.  I’m watching
your ass bounce and I can feel my orgasm closing in.

The orgasm starts in my belly and moves to my toes and it’s
like that instant electric shock from a socket.  It lasts forever
in a second that stretches on til it’s over in a flash but the after-
shocks roll on inside me and then your cock slides in and it’s
so hard and I can feel all the veins and the shape of it so snug
there’s no room for anything else except my wetness.

When it comes it’s like a wave cresting, rising higher and higher until it breaks
and floods out.  I spasm.  My cock jumps and twitches.  My knees lock and
every muscle stiffens.  It’s like turning inside out.  I overheat in an instant.  A
black hole opens up at the tip of my shaft and sucks my entire being inside in
a sparkling moment of bliss.  It’s like falling.  Like landing safely.  Like swallow-
ing fire.  Like submerging in water.  I shout.  I can’t help it.  I feel like a conquer-
ing hero.

The sensation of skin on skin sends shivers and shocks up my
pussy walls til you hit my cervix and then the 
pleasure is so
intense that I want to scream to release 
some of the tension.
The friction of you moving inside me faster and faster and faster
makes that tension so unbearable that when the climax finally
comes, if your weight wasn’t holding me together,
I would twitch and spasm until I came open.

This has been so incredibly intense.  So powerful.  I’m normally very quiet
during sex, I don’t vocalize my pleasure.  I have to remind myself to make
noises to show my enjoyment.  I sink inside myself, I get caught up in the
pleasure, the slippery sensations, the fantastic friction and smooth rock and
glide of it.  I feel my strain as muscles bunch and release, core heats up,
brain loses track of time, focus gets fuzzy.  I look and look and look and look
at you.

The streaks of sensation radiate from pussy to
brain too fast to focus on.  It’s pure feeling.

All my love,

Your exhausted,
Immensely pleasured wife,

I crave your skin.  I want to bury my face in your hair, your breasts, taste every
inch of you, bite you, dive into your wet hot mouth.  I want to take you again,
immediately.  Every time.  But our bodies need rest.  I’m patient.  I can wait
to have you again.  And I will have you again.  I will have you for as long as
you will have me.  Again and again I will.  So until next time, my love…

Yours always,


*Image from Internet*

Becoming Men


You can reach me at:


Between the ages of 10 and 12, I spent the summers hanging out with Devon and Felix. We would run around in the sun, pretending we were warriors assaulting castles, storming dragon caves for treasure and princesses, sailing the high seas hunting pirates. We would collapse in the shade beneath the trampoline and eat fruit picked fresh from the trees in Felix’s backyard. As night fell, we would set up a tent and gather foam mats, sleeping bags, and pillows. Flashlights illuminated our canvas-capsule late into the night. Comic books and junk food were consumed with equal voracity. Heated debates about super powers and favourite candies occupied our hours, and there seemed little in the world of more import than discussing the various virtues of the girls at school.
I clearly remember Devon started the touching. During the days, as we ran and played, he would swat at our asses with his foam-rubber sword. It was only natural to retaliate, until we all collapsed in giggles, wrestling on the lawn for control of the weapons. When the weapons were flung out of range, well, open palms worked just as well to deliver stinging slaps to butts and backs and stomachs.
Later, in the tent, Devon would muse out loud about how he would sometimes squeeze his own rear, squishing and squeezing, because of the way it made his wiener jump around. He thought it was hilarious, and Felix and I wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d demonstrated. Mission accomplished, rocket ship primed and ready for launch, nothing would do but we begin a count down.
“T minus 10…

And Devon would grasp his cock by the base and chase us around the cramped confines of the tent with his “missile,” intent on nuking us into submission. More wrestling ensued. He was half naked, so it only made sense for him to try to strip us of our pyjamas, too. Thinking back on it, I don’t recall Felix or I resisted overmuch. Then, sweating, naked, thoroughly exhausted by laughter, our play would take a gentle turn.
It progressed in stages. Days, weeks, months… one summer to the next. In time, Felix and Devon and I would touch and stroke each other’s penises, marvelling at the way they grew and hardened. We would compare notes on the new sensations our magic wands were supplying.
I’ve always been more curious than sensible. I began to hint at a thing I’d heard my older brother talking about – something called a blow job. I began to wonder out loud what it might feel like. We’d take turns guessing. Felix may have gotten closest, in his innocent imagination, likening a warm mouth clamping onto his fishing tackle to submerging his submarine in a sea of warm custard. I expressed doubts with his comparisons, asking questions about temperature, relative humidity, discrepancies of pressure, questioning the role of that rude animal who dwells within the cave-mouth: the tongue.
They got the hint, eventually. I wanted to try this thing, and I was willing to perform the act if they were willing to reciprocate. It was at this point that Devon became gun shy. He began to show up to play less often, citing chores and onerous duties levied by his grandparents, with whom he lived.
Felix and I carried on without him.
Felix, bless his awkward soul, was always a follower. I’ve always been something of a hinge, in social circles, friends rotating this way and that about my eccentric and charismatic whims. Not a thing I’ve cultivated, understand, just something that is. It may be my way with words; it may be my incorrigible good nature; it may be my mischievous smile; it may be (in every case but this one) my willingness to own my transgressions and face the consequences of my actions without compunction. I’ve talked good people into some very strange things in my lifetime, and even at that young age this wasn’t new territory for me. Felix had few friends. I didn’t consciously take advantage of that fact, but I knew he would follow wherever I led.
Hand-jobs became blow-jobs. I had already discovered masturbation, and the incredible inversion of orgasms; the joy of briefly achieving oneness with the divine by spilling my entire radiant being through the hole in my penis; leaving behind a vacuum for the overwhelming beauty of the universe to rush in. When Felix discovered ejaculation, it was in my mouth, and while I struggled with the taste of his young cum (how can something that feels so delightful fail to be just as delicious?) he struggled with his sexual identity.
He had begun to wonder if he was gay. Me, I couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. I was what I was, and I liked myself. I never saw any need to question our play. I didn’t feel gay, so I must not be gay. Pleasure was pleasure, and easy for me to accept on its own merits, regardless of the source. Certainly I still lusted after all the girls in school I wouldn’t find the courage to actually talk to until I was seventeen.

Felix felt differently. He was no longer sure of himself. He became distant and withdrawn.
I became increasingly impatient with his reticence, not understanding his ambivalence. He admitted to liking it. It felt good. Why behave as if it was wrong, when we clearly both enjoyed it? No, I hadn’t told anyone, but I didn’t see why anyone needed to know. I didn’t want to fool around with anyone else. Felix was my special friend, my best friend, and it made sense to me that we would share these intimate things.

The real problem arose from the fact that, while I continued to enjoy the overlap of numerous social circles, Felix had no friends but me. And more and more, as he struggled to figure out his feelings, his identity, I was leaving him behind. He continued to follow me about, a sad habit, watching me move easily between social encounters, never quite being accepted by the people who accepted me so easily. He was always just a little too weird, a little too awkward, a little too clumsy, and kids are so casually cruel.
In time, I began to resent him. I had experienced a blossoming of my desire for girls, to the point where it eclipsed any lingering contentment I may have found in the sexual company of boys, and I became firmly rooted in my heterosexual identity. I no longer had any interest in the sort of play we had engaged in as kids. Teenagers now, he was an embarrassing reminder of our clumsy childhood explorations. I knew well enough what people would think if they were to find out what Felix and I had shared. Worse, he was a burden. A lonely geek who held me back from fully engaging with my peers. So I began chasing him away.
It was like throwing stones at a lost puppy to keep it from following you home. He was so pitiful, so pathetic, and I felt it keenly as an offense. I raged at him to grow some balls, to take control of his world, to be himself without shame or remorse, to stop caring what others might think. To stop caring what I might think!
The irony of it, in hindsight, was that I wasn’t being entirely true to myself. I was too influenced by the opinions of my growing circle of friends, too concerned with keeping their positive regard. It would be a long time before I realized the true friend I threw away, but there came a time when, in a black mood, I attacked Felix and brutalized him, giving vent to years of directionless anger that, by rights, should have been aimed at myself. I had been running from my fears for years, and he, in his constant desire to come to terms with those same fears, had come to symbolize that. So I punished him, and destroyed our friendship forever.
To this day, regret lays heavy on my heart. We lost touch when he moved away, and I was never able to make amends. Once, in my mid-twenties, I saw him walking by as I was sitting in a cafe. He was hand in hand with a beautiful, dusky woman, her laughing midnight eyes flashing above bright white teeth in a smile meant just for him.
I had no right to shatter his joy, but I ran to catch up with him. The fear in his eyes when he turned to see who was calling after him smote me like a physical blow. It was almost identical to the day I chased him down to knock him flat and pummel him with fists and feet. The look on his face told me the verbal pummelling back then had damaged him worse than any physical blow I had delivered. The look on his face gutted me, hollowed me out. All my words left me, and we just stared at each other. Like predator and prey.
The lion runs up to the wounded gazelle, who can’t escape, and then the lion can’t find the language to express how sorry he is to have caused such pain.  I tried. God, how I tried. But it could never be enough. The gazelle limped away, watching fearfully over his shoulder.
  And suddenly I was the victim. He was rejecting me.
I swallowed my pride and tried to accept it as my due. I didn’t follow him, though maybe I should have. Kept trying, kept talking, until somehow something made sense. But maybe it was better to leave it alone. I don’t know.

Felix, please understand. I was never gay, and neither were you. We were children. We were ignorant. We weren’t wise enough to consider the consequences. We just followed our pleasure into a labyrinth too complex to escape from until we grew tall enough to see over the walls. Some days I don’t know if I’m actually tall enough yet. Maybe I’m just deluding myself.

Felix, I’m not ready yet to talk about the things I suffered as a teenager. The reasons behind the changes in me. Behind my anger.  I don’t allude to these things now as an excuse. But it was never really about you.  About what we shared.  I just want you to know that, for a time, it was beyond my control. I was as terrified as you, but didn’t have the strength of character and courage to face it as you did, to question it, to keep demanding answers.  The truth is, you were the lion.  I was a mouse.
I was 28 before I stared down my demons and put my feet on the path to becoming the man I want to be. That man would never have hurt you the way I did. That man would have supported and encouraged you. Listened to your fears and concerns. Given you sympathy and compassion. Defended you fiercely against any who thought to belittle your difficult journey through personal darkness. Perhaps that man would never have pushed you into the darkness in the first place.

I know it’s far too late to be that man for you. I have only just become him for myself. I am still becoming him. But I hope, if you can’t forgive me, that you can forget me:
Erase the stain I left on your memories of a bright and happy childhood, grow beyond the damage I did, turn your face towards the sun, and bloom.

I heave a sigh and tell myself I have to leave it at that. It’s hard to believe how raw such a wound can be, years after the fact. If I hurt Felix, I know I hurt myself every bit as much.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. It is catharsis, to share these things.
I want to thank Ben, who sent me an email and shared a story of his own. It was Ben’s story that put my mind on this track, and painful as it has been, it has also been good. A wound can’t heal until the corruption is forced out.

Ben’s story of seduction reminded me of my own explorations of sexual identity. As you will see, though Ben has come to terms with his desires, others aren’t always at that same point in their journey.

Ben writes:

There have been several (he said, feigning modesty) occasions of note in my sexual history; like the time I spent part of a summer as a caretaker in a gay nudist colony; or the guy I picked up by leaving a note on his car windshield wiper; or the twins whose natural body temperatures were 100 point five (talk about hot lovers!). But I think the best example would be to tell you about Walt.

I guess I should preface this by telling you that although I’d had sex with other males since I was 13, it was not until I was 25, in college, still having sex with men while dating a wonderful girl, that I decided to finally face who I am.  I was engaged to a wonderful woman and could not go through with it, as much as I really wanted to.  I knew I could never love her in the way that she needed to be loved.

I graduated college with my new self-acceptance (kind of) and made my way to a job in an eastern US city that seemed too good to be true — and it was.  I was soon unemployed and later found a job at a radio station in a suburb.  I was making friends, being new in town, and got invited to a party by one of my recent acquaintances.  When I walked in, there, slouched in an easy chair, was an extremely handsome, black-to-the-point-of-Nubian-blue stud with a crotch that looked like someone’s fist was stuffed in his Levi’s.  He had a scowl on his face like he was ready to rip off someone’s head, so I didn’t try to engage him in conversation.  It was just a straight, friendly get-together, bar-b-q kinda thing, so I went to mingle with the few I knew and maybe meet a few others.

I asked a friend of mine who the angry guy in the foyer was and he said, “Oh, that’s Walt.  He and Angela are probably fighting again.”
The recollection of his angered face posted a caution note to my libido.  Unfortunately, the more I learned about him, the harder it was to pay attention to the warning.  Walt worked on the production line for a company that made concrete blocks.  His job was to take the blocks as they came off the line and push two together, pick them up, then place them on a palette 90 degrees from their original orientation.  He would build layer after layer and then transport them to a drying room.  His job was a physical workout, eight hours a day, five days a week.  He was five-foot-five and solid, black muscle.

A while later I was in the kitchen when he walked in – not quite as angry, but less than welcoming in his countenance. I stepped out of his way and was getting ready to edge past him when he grumbled, “Just goin’ for a beer in the fridge.”
“I think there’s a few left,” I ventured.
He looked at me and a grin the size of Miami and just as bright lit up his face. His voice had an almost child-like lilt as he said, “Hey, sorry.  Didn’t mean it like that.” He extended a thick, calloused hand, “I’m Walt.”
Mentally shaking in my shoes, I managed a normally resonant, “Howdy.  I’m Ben,” and met his firm but not intrusive grip. What followed was a delightful conversation.  Walt laughed easily and had quite a sense of humour.  We had been talking for some time when he mentioned he had to go see his Mom, but wanted to catch up with me later.  He walked away and I saw a bubble butt from God as his denim rippled.

I have always loved the seduction of sex and being the seducer.  Years earlier I had learned how to massage (somewhat, but it was enough, back then.  It was enough this time as well).  Walt loved playing cribbage and euchre and I was a fair hand at it.  It did not take long before I found myself at card parties with Walt in attendance and our friendship grew.

One afternoon he called me. “Can I come over and talk?”
“Sure,” I replied.
A few minutes later he appeared at my door in a tight t-shirt and jeans, holding a six-pack of Mickey’s wide-mouth Malt Liquor.
He waved it toward me. “I brought some refreshment.  Where are the cards?” He grinned.
I threw a deck of cards on the table and he grabbed a chair, popped a Kool into his mouth and started in about Angie and her little girl.  He grabbed a beer and motioned the carton to me. I put them in the fridge and took one for myself.  Over the next hour we played cards and I listened to his concerns, how something was missing from his relationship.  I could tell he was frustrated and tense over the whole thing.

We finished the second brew and were about halfway through the third when we finished a hand.  The game was rather lack-luster for some reason, so I took the chance and paused.  “Let me just try something for you, Walt,” I said as I got up and walked behind him.  I sunk my fingers into his upper traps and squeezed with my thumbs, applying pressure to his back.
“Ugh!” He grunted in relief as the pressure released tension from his muscles.  “Damn!” he said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Just something I picked up a while back. Now just relax a little.  Part of your problem is you’re carrying all this tension and it comes across. Just relax,” I intoned as I worked my fingers into his sturdy flesh.  The way the tense energy was radiating off him, it was like massaging a wild animal.

I had worked his upper back and shoulders for a few minutes when I paused and said, “Hang on.”  I got up and headed for the linen closet.  I brought out a couple blankets which I folded into a soft mat on the floor.  “Here,” I said, patting the mat, “come over here for a second.” As he walked over, I said, “Just stretch out here and I’ll work on your back.”
Walt sat down, slipped off his shoes, and stretched out on his stomach.  I knelt down next to him. Spotting the massive lump he called a wallet in his back pocket I grabbed it and said, “We need to get rid of this,” and set it aside.  He wriggled his hips as if to adjust himself and turned his head to the side.

I straddled his back at the hips and began to work over his muscles.  He moaned in appreciation.  “Ya know what would feel better for you?” I asked.
“What?” he muttered into his arm.
“Usually feels better working on skin than cloth.”  I slid my hand under his t-shirt and then over it and asked if he could feel a difference. He propped himself up, peeled off his shirt and laid back down.

I worked my way down his back.  Solid muscle — so long worked, so rarely appreciated. I took my time but my brain was away ahead of my hands.  I got to the small of his back and purposely bumped into his belt, creating little jars to the massage movement.  I moved to his jeans and began to apply direct pressure to his glutes.  He sighed with release and I moved my hands up and again bumped into his belt.
“I’m sorry.” I could feel the heat from his thighs radiating into my crotch. “Ya know, this might feel better if I wasn’t bumping into your belt.  Do ya think you could do without it?”
He grunted and rolled on his side to unbuckle his belt.  He pulled it out and set it aside and was about to lay back down.
“You’d probably be more comfortable if you unbuttoned your Levi’s,” I offered.  He unsnapped them, lowered his zipper a bit, and rolled to his stomach.

About ten minutes later I had talked him out of his pants. As I pulled them off I was awarded with the sight of his perfect bubble butt, stark in the contrast of black to white jockeys.  Five minutes later, with a reminder of how skin to skin felt versus cloth, they were gone.  I made my way from his trapezius down, and as I got to his glutes I kneaded the taught muscles and felt them soften as he moaned in pleasure.  I continued down to his hamstrings and gripped each one firmly, feeling them respond as he squirmed slightly.  I went to his calves and then straddled his legs and began the trek back north.  I worked his inner thighs upward, drawing my fingers up as I neared his crotch.  I continued up to his shoulders again, and leaning forward with my weight, started back down.  This time, however, I leaned forward and began to breathe upon his back, creating a gentle breeze of heat, wet with sexual tension, as I worked down his spine.

I neared his perfect ass, exhaling slowly over his firm, slightly-furred mounds of pleasure.  My fingers followed after, stroking his man-fur as I slid ever so slightly into the crack of his ass and continued down toward his balls.  He gave a slight start – almost as if registering an electric current – as my fingers grazed his ball-sac.  I scooted down his legs and looked between them at my target.  The head of his dick was visible as I massaged his inner thighs upward.  When I neared his crotch I allowed myself to gently prod the semi-soft cock-head beneath my fingertips.  It responded with appreciation.

I grasped his adductors and began working them toward his pelvis and watched as his cock began to grow.  My fingers would knead to just below it and stop.  It pulsed and yearned to be touched.  His growing cock was trying to travel down his thigh but the sweat from his anticipation bound it to his leg.  It engorged with blood and began to arch sideways as it tried to force its way down his leg.  I straddled one leg, picked up the other, and moved it out a couple inches.  Switching so I was straddling the outstretched leg, I moved his “stuck” leg out as well.  The motion freed his manhood and it stretched, growing to a beautifully full, rock hard eight inches.  It was as rugged and defined as the rest of his body.  The sight of it was like throwing meat to a tiger.

My hand was gripping his inner thigh and his balls were next to it, moving with my every rhythmic gesture. My breath was behind the motion of my hands as my lips came close to his scrotum. My hands plied the supple buttocks of the hot stud beneath me.  I pulled up and looked between his legs. The head of his dick glistening with pre-cum.

I brought my face to where my hands were and began to kiss his cheeks softly, causing the hairs on his ass to stand.  I kissed each cheek and then wandered inward to the mother-load.  My tongue found its way to the top of his crack and worked in and down at the same time; following my hands — opening this world to possibilities.

I didn’t go deep enough to contact his sphincter.  I teased the territory and went on.  The next thing encountered was his nut-sac and Walt let out a sigh of welcome.  I tongued his nuts, lubricating the sides of his balls as best I could.  They slid aside from his thigh as I forced my tongue further toward his front.  There, I found his throbbing manhood.  I began on the side, shifting to the back of his shaft as I worked my tongue down toward his cock-head, now swollen and black-crimson.  I licked it and tasted his salty excitement.

I stood up and peeled off my pants and underwear, pulled off my shirt, and knelt back down between his legs, forcing them slightly wider. His ass was before me, glistening from the tongue bath it had received — the cherry yet untouched.  I slid my hands up his inner thighs and parted the way for my tongue; contacted his rectum with a hot, wet kiss, and it responded with an immediate appreciative pucker, like it was kissing me back.

Walt began to moan and thrash as his animal essence permeated the room.  His pheromones drove me to assault his hole with a fury — his hip gyrations increased as he raised his ass to the onslaught.  I forced my tongue into his tight sphincter and felt it throb against the sides of my wet probe.

Straightened up, my cock jutted, heavy with desire.  I shifted him to his side and moved his leg to reposition him, rolling him to his back. His staff, in all its splendour, flopped onto his stomach with a smack; laying there, begging to be kissed; swallowed.  And I did just that.

I grasped his legs and spread them.  I hooked my elbows to either side of his ass, placing my hands on his sides, and plunged onto his manhood, pulling his dick as deep into my throat as it would go.  He let out a squeal of ecstasy as I swallowed as much as I could.  His hands found my head and he caressed my skull as I ministered to his cock, pausing occasionally on the upstroke to breathe and admire the shaft before me.

I hooked his knees over my shoulders and raised his hips to expose his ass.  My hands went under his knees and pushed forward, bringing it into range.  Again I assaulted his man-pussy with a wet tongue that was out to conquer new territory and take no prisoners.  I pulled his ass to my face, pulled his body up and toward me as I sat with my knees toward his shoulders.  My body became a ramp for his mounds to find my face.

After driving my tongue into his hole and feeling it relax, I lowered him back down and reached for a small jar of lubricant I had placed on a table nearby.  I dabbed some on my fingers and started exploring his asshole as I inhaled his steaming cock with testosterone driven suction.  While my tongue was dancing up and down his shaft, the finger encountering his cherry hole was met with a happy response. His ass kept asking to be taken further.  I worked two fingers in, feeling the rings of muscle contract and stretch… as though asking for just a bit more.

His cock was leaking, throbbing, too good to ignore.  I swallowed as much of his length as I could, feeling the heat and pulsations in my mouth as he entered my throat.  I worked my tongue along his shaft and satiny cock-head.  My own cock was bobbing up and down, begging to be released.  I stopped rubbing his prostate and turned attention to myself while still trying to suck his nuts into his body.  I reached below and began jacking myself.
“Ugh-h-h-h!” He was grimacing in ecstasy. “I … am…going to….a-a-g-h-h-h!”  He pumped volley after volley of seed into my mouth.  I swallowed it as my cheeks gripped his jerking member.  The pulsations and coursing energy of his orgasm took me over the top.  I blasted his nut-sac and stomach with rifle-shot orgasms.

Exhausted and covered with cum, I let Walt back down on the mat and went for a hot, moist towel to clean him off.  He breathed deeply as I washed his abdomen and crotch.  I got up to put the towel in the hamper and when I got back he was dressed in his pants and pulling on his shirt.
“Uh, I gotta go,” he muttered as he threw on his shoes.  He stuffed his underwear into his back pocket, went to the door, and I watched as he disappeared down the hall, the door softly closing behind him.

You will be happy to know that Walt did, in time, come to grips with his sexual orientation, and Ben and Walt enjoyed years of mutual satisfaction in a happy and healthy relationship before going their separate ways. In followup correspondence, Ben wrote:

You are correct about the guilt issue washing over someone when they realize where they are sexually, given societal prejudices.  At the same time, you can only take so much before you have to accept who you are and say that the world’s opinion is not your concern.  Walt ended up being my boyfriend for a couple years before I moved to the west coast.  I saw him a few years back and he and his partner are quite happy.

Well, Ben, I hope you, too, have found contentment. Thank you for sharing.
And Felix, if you’re reading this… It may be too little, too late, but I am happy and content in myself and my life now. I feel I’ve come to terms with my mistakes, and I can accept the results. Wherever you are, I wish you well.
To everyone else, wherever you might be on that path:
Stay strong, and keep searching.

*Image from Internet*