Sex Night Delayed

No action on Monday night, but this morning started off with a wonderful post-shower quickie.

I loved it, and I think she had fun too.

Sex Night

Monday night, when things go well, is sex night at my house. We have sex on other night, of course, but on Monday night we make a special effort to stay in a good mood, get the kids off to bed early, and not watch TV.

This morning I woke up with a major stiffy. I wake up that way most mornings, but I’m usually up and out of bed so quick, and so early, that nothing happens and it slowly fades away as I get dressed for the gym. My wife is dead to the world at 5:15 when my alarm goes off and we’ve agreed that I don’t have the time, and she doesn’t have the energy, for even a quickie at that early hour.

Usually I’m up and out and on the road without even waking her up. But for some reason this morning she was up and alert and in the mood to ask me a couple of scheduling questions before I jumped in the shower. As we were talking I was stripping off my PJ’s and she saw that my erection was in full bloom. She said that she was cold and that I needed to warm her up, so I jumped back into bed.

She’s always cold, so she was in her flannel pajamas and sleeping socks, and I was buck naked with a stiffy. I told her that we didn’t have to do anything since she should really have been sleeping and I should have really been in the shower relieving my morning wood the old fashioned, and quicker, way. But, she was insistent, bless her heart.

With the cold morning wind blowing outside and rattling the chains on our hand-me-down swing set she ducked under the covers and wrapped her beautiful lips around my turgid flesh (I love that phrase, it sounds old-fashioned, obscure, and sexy all at the same time).

The warmth of her mouth and the light scraping of her teeth on my skin sent me into heaven in a heartbeat. To make it better, she gently cupped my balls in her hand and toyed with them.

My orgasm was just beginning to tingle deep inside when she took a long, wet, noisy slurp and pulled her lips from my cock. She popped up from under the covers and whispered, “Think about that until tonight!”

And believe me I have.

Its been a fantasy filled day, and sex night starts in just 2 hours.

Nice Video

Check this out. I usually don't link directly to individual videos, but I thought this was worth it.

It's long, slow, and a little cheesy, but the massage fantasy just got to me.

"Student Massage"

Cliche's I am thankful for

OK, since this seems to be the day to build a list of cliches, here I go.

I am Thankful for....

Being an American who loves his country, but hates his president
Being free to vote though I don't always do it
Being taller than all of my brothers
Being born at a time when I can listen to Broadway, classical, jazz, funk, techno, or banjo, all on my iPod.
Being a man of faith, where ever that may lead.

I'm am glad I have....

a penis
a wife
a wonderful family (brought to me, in part, by my wife and penis)
a beautiful secretary who's smart enough to stay away from me
a good job (for now, check back with me in January)
a house that is mostly mine, partly the banks, but in a safe neighborhood
a good pair of running shoes
a good pair of cycling shoes (but no bike at the moment)
a good set of golf clubs
a playhouse in the backyard for cool summer time reading
a brain, perhaps not often used, but entertaining to have around.

I should probably be more thankful for:

my freedoms
my church
my health
my wits
my teeth
my life (I feel that it is quite disposable)

I wish I had the following, so I could be thankful for them:

a ski boat
a bigger penis
slightly dumber secretary
a cool new truck
a fast road bike
a rugged mountain bike
time to ride my bikes
a better workshop
more talent
more creativity
more time to blog


Happy Thanksgiving!

My Friend - My Pain

I’m not sure if she knows just how powerful the sound of her voice is to me. She calls me to say hello and my heart jumps. She calls to tell me that lunch is here, and I have trouble breathing. She called and asked for a neck massage and I almost faint.

She calls to complain about her boyfriend, the one man whom I am most envious of in all the world. The man who gets to hold her while she is sleeping. The man that gets to touch her face, kiss her lips, and feel her skin pressed against his.

He is the man that kisses her, that holds her face in his hands and gazes into her eyes.

He is the man that undresses her at night; he peels away the clothes of the day and sees her in her simple beauty.

His hands caress her body, her curves, her supple skin, and her limber legs that wrap so naturally around him as he enters her. It is his tongue that feels the warmth of her mouth, the spicy wetness of her arousal, and the glorious lips that engorge and open in her orgasmic bliss.

She shows herself to him, and not to me, and yet she calls me when there are tears and trouble. I am the one needed to make the world whole again when his comments sting her heart and tear at her soul. She speaks of her love for him and expects me to help it deepen. He hurts her and she comes to me for solace. He toys with what I most desire in all the world and I am expected to help her win his heart more fully.

I sit quietly in my office, long after the trash has been collected and the lights have been turned out, and the locks have been tumbled, and I listen to her anguished voice. She seeks love from a man who has none and wonders why she awakes with tears in her eyes. She wonders aloud how a man can make her body rejoice and her heart break. She speaks of love and sex, intimacy and orgasm in a single breath, but refuses to believe that they are all such separate creatures, each to be sought, held, and nurtured on their own.

She tortures me at my own request. I ask for stories of love and desire, probing her more deeply for details of the most intimate kind. If it is late enough, and if she has had her evening wine, then I pull out all the stops and punish myself for loving her. I ask her to tell me everything. When the mood is right and the wine has gone to her head, she tells me. She lays back on her couch, which I helped her buy and deliver, and tells me. Her narratives ramble, divert, and wander; finally to return to the questions I gladly suffer through.

She tells me of sex, of touching, and of climax. She finishes her 2^nd glass of wine and brings out the narrative that I crave and despise. She tells me of his hands on her skin, his lips at her breast, his tongue between her legs. As my heart breaks, my body betrays me and arouses at her tales. I hear of her body writhing under his, of her hunger for his cum, of her need to be taken, of her lust for his dominance over her as she kneels on the floor and submits to his angry needs.

She delights in my pain and draws the knife across my wrists with sadistic glee. She tells me of his tongue on her clit and of his fingers as they play inside, teasing her, teasing me, with such specificity that were I an artist, or a painter, I would have captured every glistening drop that shines in the light of her bedroom candles.

When she is particularly cruel, when he has broken her confidence, she calls me at home, where my unsuspecting wife hears only my mumbled affirmations and inane questions that mask each call with a false patina of computers and finances and work. She asks me wicked questions using dirty words as my children sit at my elbow, eating their mac-n-cheese as we prepare to go to school for parent’s night.

She puts thoughts in my head, images only dreamed of, that torment me; images of silk and lace, oils and toys, showers and soaps, private pools and bikini’s tossed aside. She plants these images like cancerous seeds and then laughs, hangs up the line, and goes back to him for more.

And yet, I answer the phone. I see the number, I know the name, yet I pick up the phone and tear open the wounds anew. She is my love and my pain; my joy and my heartache; my disease and my cure. She is forever out of reach and always in touch. She soothes her pain by touching my heart, and I love her all the more.

With you in Savannah

This turned out much longer that I anticipated, but I hope it is worth reading. It was based on a true phone call with my own fantasy ending...
`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!`!!`

The conversation was long over due and it was nice to hear her voice again. We spoke of work, and kids, and romance, and ceiling fans. Her comments at first we short and distracted and the occasional, “Fuck-it” would escape from her sainted lips. When she heard me laugh, she admitted that she “swore like a sailor” now that her kids were out of the house more than in it. Since her ex-husband agreed to take on a larger role with the kids and changed jobs to avoid the travel, he had them a lot and she had more time to her self at home.

The ceiling fan in question, the cause of so much profanity, wasn’t working as it should though she insisted that it was wired correctly, that the previous one had worked just fine, and that the guy at Home Imports, just off the 95N, promised that it was a working floor model. When I questioned her she admitted that she never actually saw it moving, but that it was so perfect for her bedroom that she just had to have it, even though it was the last one of the model in the store.

“Shit, Shit, Shit” came over my headset as I sat back in my office chair and stared out the window at Mount Hood which was starting to turn white as each day turned colder. With 2” of new snow in the past 24 hours my heart was turning to thoughts of winter and skiing, and warm fireplace rugs with her by my side.

A crashing noise on the other end of the line brought me out of my daydream and I quickly asked if she was OK.

“I’m fine, but my ladder tipped over and landed on the fan, and it broke one of the F-ing blades.”

“You don’t have to censor yourself in front of me.” I chuckled into the phone.

“I don’t” she queried, no doubt flashing back to my “no cursing” rule that was strictly enforced in the office, “Really? Then, OK, my fucking ladder fell on the fucking floor and broke my fucking ceiling fan!”

“And what would you rather be doing right now?”

“Fucking You, you fucking spaz!”

“Really?”

“Yes, you fucker.” She was yelling, but not shouting, trying to hide the laughter in her voice in her mock anger. “If you hadn’t gotten hired by that big shot lawyer YOU’D be hanging this fucking fan, and I’d be doing something I’m good at.”

“And what would that be?” I responded.

“Fucking you, you freaking spaz.”

Her voice trailed off as her energy level dropped and the legitimate frustration of being 2,830 miles apart and weeks away from seeing each other again settled in.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m in the office already. I like getting an early start on all the law clerks that think they know more than the new guy on the case. Plus, it gives me time to watch the sunrise over Oxbow Park and reminisce.

“Oxbow?” she giggled, “You still think about Oxbow? I can’t believe it; that was so long ago.”

“How can I forget something like that?” I asked, speaking softly as I rise and close my office door.

“How was the sunrise this morning?” She asked.

“Sparkly” I said, “it’s rained almost 3 inches in the last few days and everything is covered in frost or dew in the morning and it reminded me of your eyes.”

“You are so full of crap.” She replied with mock anger. “Hold on.”

I heard the phone rattle as she set it down on some hard surface. I heard the sound of boxes being moved, a ladder being folded, and a bed being pushed out of the way.

A couple more expletives reached the phone from the background and I knew she was squaring away the room, getting the failing fan back into the box for the trip west to Home Imports and an argument over a replacement fan.

“OK, I’m back”

The static on the line told me that she has switched over to hear headset, leaving her hands free to clean and work as we talked.

“So what’s next?” I asked as I opened e-mails on my desk and gazed out the window. To the south-east was Mount Hood, now capped with a light dusting of snow and as beautiful as ever. My view included Oxbow Park which held special memories for both of us, and to the north was the Columbia River where we met and began to fall in love.

“I’ve got to take the fan back, but I should clean up first so I can pick up Cloe and Moe later this afternoon. I swear, if my brother brings Cloe home for Christmas and doesn’t have a ring picked out, she’s going to kill him. Kill him, and then leave him. But definitely kill him first.”

“If she leaves him, will she…” I cut myself off.

“Oh let it go. Oxbow was a one shot deal. She’s with my brother now, so stop thinking about it.”

“OK, I’ll try” which we both knew was a lie.

“So when do they arrive”

I could hear her walking through the halls of the house that I used to call home until a rustling of papers covered the sound of her feet.

“They arrive at SAV at 11:52 on Continental. Do me a favor and look up flight 2416 and see if they are on time.”

My fingers moved back to the keyboard and with a few clicks and keystrokes I found that flight 2416 from Newark was, in fact, on time and would be landing at a gate, yet to be determined.

“It’s on time, but they don’t have a gate assigned yet. What time do you have to leave there?

It’s only 12 miles from the fan store, and I don’t have to park, so if it give myself 15 minutes to get from here to the store, and 20 minutes to argue about the fan, and 5 minutes to find my way around the airport, I should leave about 10:45”

“That’s in 30 minutes” I reminded her, “It’s already 7:15 for me.”

“O crap, I’ve got to get moving.”

“Yes you do,” I replied, “but are you going to get cleaned up first?”

“I have to, I’m a mess.”

“What are you wearing?”

“What?” she replied, unsure of my intentions behind the question.

“Can you go the way you are, or do you really have to change?”

“I’m just in shorts and a tank top. It’s been really nice out here Mr. snow-fall.”

“And what else?”

“Huh?”

“What else, besides the tank top and shorts?” I tried to hide the nervousness in my voice. This was always the tipping point in the conversation, and it all hinged on her mood and how long we had been apart, and how recently she had given herself a “cookie.”

“Oh!” her voice brightened considerably, “I’m wearing the bra you bought me. It’s become one of my favorites.”

It was nice to hear such approval in her voice, and I think she knew how much I liked to hear that she was wearing the lingerie that I had bought for her.

“Is it really warm in the house?”

“Yes.” Her voice took on a submissive tone.

“Then why don’t you take off your tank top.”

“Now?” she asked, sensitive to the time and her pending trip to the airport.

“Now.” I replied quietly.

“Is your door locked?” she asked, making me smile, as she anticipated what might happen next.

“It’s locked.” I replied, “and double-checked” I added, to head off her next question.

“It’s off.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, you bought it, so you know that it’s soft and silky, a light peach color with white lace trim across the tops of the cups.

“Go on.”

“The straps are wide but smooth, to help support me…”

“Support what?”

“The straps are wide and smooth, so support my breasts darling. My breasts that miss you very much.”

“Go on. What would I see?”

“You would see that I’m getting excited, or chilly.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can see my nipples through the fabric, they are getting bigger while we talk and I’m feeling a little dizzy as I touch them for you.

“Mm-hmm”

“But you would also be able to see that I’m wearing the matching panties that you gave me. The g-string matches in color and style. Smooth silky peach material that is tight over my body and feels good against my skin.

Now my breathing was picking up it’s pace but I try and sound calm, “Keep going please.”

“My shorts are on the floor now, and I’m standing in front of our bedroom window, looking out over the back yard, and out on to the golf course beyond the trees. My hands are starting to wander Billy, and I wish you were here with me.”

“Keep going, it sounds wonderful.”

I heard her bare feel padding across the hard wood floor of our bedroom and the addition of some reverb to her voice told me that she had entered the bathroom. I heard the water start in the shower and the porcelain click of the toilet seat being lifted up.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Shhhhh” she replied, “just listen.”

The phone was silent for three, maybe five long seconds. I could hear my heart beating and the soft metallic sound of my zipper being lowered. I heard her breath in deeply and breathe out slowly, as if she was in her yoga class.

Then I could hear it, the soft but steady stream that emanated from between her legs and filled the bowl. I couldn’t believe that she was sharing this with me, her most personal and unguarded moment.

“How was that sweetie?” She asked as the delicate noise came to an end.

“I’m speechless. How are you?”

“I’m wet.”

“You have my permission if you narrate.”

“Hold on.” The high pitched squeak was followed by silence as she turned off the water in the shower.

“Don’t interrupt me. Don’t ask questions. Don’t hold yourself back. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“I’m in the bathroom. My bra is still on. I love knowing that you picked this out just for me and that it fits so well. I still on the toilet with my hair down, out of its ponytail, and my legs spread. I’m open for you but you aren’t here. I miss you. I miss your touch, you scent, your face, your cock. I miss it all. And sometimes, if you force me to admit it, I miss her too. It’s going to kill me to have her in the house, in my shower, in my pool, and not be able to see her the way I want to. My hands are moving Billy, I think about you and I think about her and I wonder what would have happened if we stayed at Oxbow just a couple of more days. I’m touching myself Billy. I’m wet and it feels good, and I miss you. My nipples are bigger now; I can see them clearly through my thin bra, my bra that holds my breasts that are so different from hers. I love hers, so small and firm, so perfectly round.”
I wasn’t sure if she was saying this for me or if she really meant it, but the sound of her voice made me think that she was being sincere and that memories of last summer were more deeply ingrained than I thought.

“Where are your fingers?” I dared ask.

“No interruptions please, but I’ll tell you, they are inside me, like I want you inside me, my legs are open and spread and the cold seat is warming up and I’m stretching my legs wide and I can feel my muscles stretch as I wrap my legs around your waist and pull you inside me and fuck me, and fuck me and fuck me.”

My orgasm was building inside me and I wanted her to hear me cum, but I didn’t want to break her rhythm.

“I’m getting closer” I admit to her breathlessly, hoping that my assistant arrive late for her day and doesn’t get too curious about my closed door and the flashing light on my phone line.

“Are you going to cum for me?” she asks, “Are you hard for me? Are your fancy slacks down around your ankles, the fly on your soft silky boxers open, is your pretty assistant kneeling in front of you, waiting for your cum to cover her young, innocent face?”

How did she know about my fantasy? How did she know about Teresa’s effect on me?

“Yes to everything.” I groan back into the phone, my headset starting to slip because of the steady movement of my right hand. “What are you doing?”

“My bra is off, I’m naked, I’m spread wide open for you Billy. My pussy is so wet that my fingers are shiny and slippery and they feel good.”

“More, more, more”

“I’m fucking myself for you Billy, I’m naked and wet, and I’m ready to cum. I’m touching my nipples and pulling them Billy, I’m so close Billy, I’m so close.”

“Cum for me” I whisper into the phone, “I give you permission.”

“Oooooooh shit.” s all I hear through my headphones. Her short-of-breath exclamation is followed by the sound of thrashing; I hear the shower door tremble and the rough scraping of porcelain against porcelain as can only imagine her shoulders pressing against the lid to the toilet bowl as her back arches in orgasmic spasm.

Her breathing is heavy and I can hear her grunting my name and “oh fuck” in a guttural mix of passion and showmanship. She wants me to hear her cumming and lose herself at the same moment.

Watching her climax is a complete immersion into deep and total release. She knows no inhibitions and holds nothing back. I picture her in my mind, naked, sweaty, spread-eagled on the seat, her hands glistening with her own juices and her lustrous hair a tangles mess that frames her beautiful face and cascades over her shoulders, partially obscuring her amazing chest, her full nipples, and the beads of perspiration that highlight the full curves.

My own orgasm has come and gone, not unnoticed, but a perfect compliment to her moment of release. Somewhere deep inside my vision of her climax was my own, an explosive mix of stroking and motion and fire and heat. My breathing, panting mostly, catches her attention over the phone after several long relaxing moments of silence. She is out of breath and sounds distracted, and almost confused.

“Did you cum for me Billy? Did you feel me through the phone? Did hear me?”

“Yes, Yes, and Yes.” I reply, not wanting to break the moment with my own voice when hers carried so much passion and post-orgasmic bliss in each syllable.

We let several more moments pass as listened to each other breath, deep satisfied breathes that connected us across the miles.

Finally, the clock on the wall said that she had to get going to the airport and I called to her gently over the phone, knowing that she would be on the verge of sleep after such a powerful climax.

“Sweetie, you need to hop in the shower and get to the airport.”

“I know,” you sigh in reply, “I just want to crawl into bed and do that all over again.”

“Don’t worry,” I laughed, “My phone at the apartment works just as well as this one.”

I heard the water start in the background and she started humming to herself, her energy returning.

“Is your headset waterproof?” I asked jokingly.

“Good thing it’s not.” You said in retort, “I can’t afford the water bill and you couldn’t afford the phone bill if they were.”

“Don’t be late,” I said, knowing that one of us had to end the call and move her along. “Give Cloe a kiss for me.”

“You know I will Billy.” She purred back, “Put that image in your head for your next meeting.” And with that, she giggled, blew me a kiss for me to hear, and hung up the phone.

My Anniversary

My anniversary is today. Leading up to this has been two days (nights, really) of terrific sex.

Friday night was in the bedroom, door locked, vibrator out and on high. I asked her to let me watch her cum and she did. In glorious surround sound she laid back on the bed, spread her legs, and brought herself to a marvelous, noisy, long-lasting orgasm. Truly a delight to behold.

Saturday night was on the couch, the TV on, the kids asleep, my pants around my ankles. She started off while I was soft and distracted by the TV, soon the TV was forgotten, I was full and hard, and then she straddled my lap, supporting herself on the floor, giving me full access to her bare and beautiful chest as I moved in and out of her from below.

We climaxed together and collapsed in giggles on the living room floor.

Tonight is too crowded with PTA events to go out to dinner to celebrate properly, but when the lights go out, the party will start, and she left me a note stating that it is "Boys Choice" for position and location.

Perhaps it's time to break in the kids new tree house......

Stories I shouldn’t write…..

Leesa, from Leesa’s Stories @ http://dsmoya31410.blogspot.com/ had an interesting post about hypocrisy last week (11/2/2007). Since then I have been thinking about the things I say, the things I do, and, most certainly, the things I think. Outwardly I’m a “good” kid. I grew up in a traditional home, with mom and dad, brothers and a sister, a dog, a couple of cats, assorted pets, a tree house, a back yard, and 2.5 cars in the garage.

But, as I’ve gotten older, I realized that my home wasn’t as traditional as I remembered. So let’s start over, I grew up in a Christian home where we actually prayed over every meal, went to church every Sunday, supported the youth group, the dance group, the choir, and “gave service” to every old lady and shut-in within 20 miles. Mom and Dad were married for a million years, but no longer spoke to each other unless absolutely necessary, my oldest brother was gay, then straight, gay for a little while, and now is celibate and lives back home again with my Dad.

My other older brother was fooling around with his girlfriend (I know, because I stole and read his journal) before they got married and he admitted that he stole stuff from his office at work. My sister, just 10 months older than me, is single, fat, bitter, condescending, intrusive, and a know-it-all. She dumps all of her friends every 3-5 years and starts over with people who don’t know her and expects us to dump the old friends (who we still like) along with her. My younger brother married late in life. He’s not quite handicapped, but he’s emotionally stunted, socially inept, and short-tempered. Luckily, he found a woman who is exactly the same, so now they can raise their two wonderful, cute, and inherently doomed little boys while living in, and destroying, my dad’s basement.

My youngest brother married a woman 10 years older than him. He met her in Ecuador while he was there on business and decided to stay for 5 years, quitting his job, dumping a current girlfriend (by letter), and breaking my mom’s heart. Rumor was that he was kicked out of his first apartment back in the states for making too much noise; too much noise during fights, sex, and parties. Now he lives back home, close to my dad, and makes his living, of all things, as an actuary. I guess they never saw the tattoo on his ass that screams, “Fuck the man!” in big bold letters. Maybe that was just instructions for his wife, who knows. And his wife, wow, what a piece of work she is. Short, dark, sexy as hell, and a temper that would scare the worst in the WWE. I can see how the “loud” factor would come in. Word to the wise, NEVER take this woman out for shots anywhere near a mechanical bull. I know that riding the bull (especially at slow speeds) can look an awful lot like having sex, but it doesn’t help when you get drunk, strip off your panties, and start flashing the other patrons in what was, really, a pretty sedate cowboy bar.

So what does this have to do with being a hypocrite? Well, I’m the “good” boy of the family now. I’m active at church, sing in the choir, help little old ladies and shut-ins, and I donate to the boy scouts every year. But I think, out of all my siblings, I’m the only one who writes erotica for the web. And I love writing it. I love it, love it, love it.

I haven’t written much lately because I’ve been struggling, even before Leesa’s wonderful piece, about being a hypocrite. If one of the youth group approached me at church and asked about the dangers of the Internet I would wax profound and warn them away from all sorts of material, even the stuff I write. Especially from the stuff I write, since a lot of it is about their mothers, and sometime, for the older girls, it’s about them (but only after they turn 18, I promise).

But is it being a hypocrite to hide my hobby of writing erotica? I wouldn’t encourage it over the pulpit, but I wouldn’t condemn it in private either. Also, I’ve strayed on my wife. The complete details aren’t important here, but I will teach against cheating, even though I’ve done it. I can teach more powerfully, because I’ve seen the pain and harm that it can cause. I can condemn the things I’ve done, because I’ve done them, but does that make me a hypocrite?

A lot of parents shy away from discussing drugs with their kids because they did drugs when they were kids. Does it make them a hypocrite to warn their kids, even if the parents go lucky and made it out OK? Alcohol is a different matter. Because many adults drink, and occasionally get drunk, can they tell their kids not to? What about the doctor who smokes, yet encourages his patients to quit and get to a gym. Can a fat chef teach us about healthy cooking? Can a lazy man write a book about work? Can the devil teach us about God?

Can I write erotica while telling my friends to be “good”?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part Two – Arguing about what it means to be “good.”

:-)