Dirty | Sexy | Pretty | Fun » Dirty & Erotic

The Pleasure Chest

Dee Stern — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 07:01:08 +0000

He stood well over six feet one inches, resembled a 60’s pre-Dracula Christopher Lee and his eyes twinkled when he noticed another student waiting outside his staff room. His sardonic gaze and stiff manner relaxed when my genuine concern streamed through my tear ducts. Weeks passed. Assessments came and went, as did our private tutorials within his office. It wasn’t until the end of the final year that world events altered my plans.
Two weeks before summer break, Professor Anthony Watts wanted me on my knee for reasons that surprised. He could have had me on the desk, in the chair or beneath the decade old cheap bedspread in a motel. Outside, the trees swayed to the gale force wind. His office of freshly polished oak and teak, edged closer, eradicating the importance of my dissertation or the reason for my presence.
“But professor…I don’t understand.”
“Let’s not be coy Angelica.”
“Coy?” I said, still recovering from his received pronunciation of my name. Most people called me Angie, I waited for his cue.
As he outlined evolution to the undergrads, my eyes traced the flesh filling his chinos. Sexual histories intrigued him and he took great pleasure in titillating the masses. Each undergrad neophyte blushed when he described the human sexual response. Professor Anthony had a way with adjectives. Pulsing, sultry and feverish were often paired with vagina, labia, clitoris and vaginal canal.
The week after, he presented me with a small package and offered me a challenge. If I guessed the contents of the package, he’d be gentle during our first appointment. The only clue he provided, came in the form of a name: Love Honey.
Immediately, my mind thought clit stimulators, but the deceptive professor had me. I opened the box and saw, to my amazement, two silver objects. At first glance, I thought earrings, but I noticed their un-earring shape. The fine professor enlightened me, explained that they were nipple clamps. Considering his love for Roman history, the nipple clamps were a typical selection.
Standing before him, he noticed my extended stare, flushing cheeks and wandering eyes, and guessed that I obeyed and arrived with the nipple clamps attached.
“We’ve been working together for quiet some time, have we not?” his hand brushed my breast.
“Yes we have,” I said, tasting my salty upper lip, “I have valued each step. I wouldn’t be in the program without your…tutelage?”
It wasn’t supposed to come out as a question. The game began.
“Tutelage,” he said, squeezing the word out of his puckering lips. “Must I remind you that I don’t tolerate nonsense in my lectures?”
He leaned against his sturdy desk, feet firm against his Turkish rug. He was the Higgins to my ratty Eliza. I don’t want to see grubby tattered denim in my presence Angelica.
“Switching off the lights in the lecture hall? What did you hope to accomplish?”
I shrugged. I had no real excuse other than to make it to a job interview on time. The regimented professor didn’t tolerate pranksters.
“What do you have to say?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you say?”
“I am sorry professor Anthony,” I said, as I raised the skirt of my dress.
He sat, rigid and proud. Words weren’t necessary. His eyes went from mine to his knees and back.
“If you will,” he said.
The faux apology didn’t miraculously restrain his large hand. The hot imprint scorched my backside. He slapped me six more times – seven being his lucky number.
I steadied my torso, fought against the swirl of red, green and yellow shapes within the Persian rug beneath me. The antique trophy reflected his eccentric tastes and low-scale wealth. When people though wealth, they thought streamlined cars, Lear jets and something by Louis Vuitton. He’d laugh off his wealth, pointing the finger toward generations of Anthony wealth. Some said he smuggled the rug out of Turkey.
“Christ, you have a hard hand!”
“Manners Angelica,” he said, unruffled at the prospect of positioning my ample derriere over his lap. He grasped my right buttock and squeezed until I kicked my feet. Pain rippled through pleasure, broke through my ankles and slithered along my calves. Tits aflutter, I focused on the swaying mounds. As he worked his two fingers into my pussy, I reigned in my thoughts. The idea of inflicting my creationism flavored question during his evolution lecture brought on a deluge of juice, as did his spittle-flecked tirade. There, among the hundred or so students, my panties strained to contain my juice. I had no choice but to force my thighs together until I crushed my clit. Professor Anthony glared as I bit the back of my hand to quell the spluttering moan that would undoubtedly shock the prissy front row. Mind candy. How far can I take the professor?
Provoke me Angelica. Say something, he’d said. Dumbfounded at his request during bland campus espresso, my thighs quivered and my knee broke into a nervous jig beneath the table. I remained silent. Apparently I’d had no fire. He politely left, and I returned home to spend another evening. Sullen and frustrated, I thought my pussy would suffocate beneath its year old cobwebs.
Obstinate, fastidious and tightly buttoned beneath his plaid shirts and chinos, he looked the least desirable option in a sea of young gym honed male undergrads. His irascible temperament cemented his aura of obstinacy.
When the grim financial forecast was confirmed, I decided to hang back a little longer. I approached the fine professor to ask him for dissertation guidance. His lower lip curled and his eyes danced. You, Angelica – you preferred gathering my handouts and abandoning my lectures. Let me think about it…and I really need to examine the validity of your request. His mercurial green eyes reached flash point. I hungered to make it worth his while. What was the point of riding the erratic naïveté that perforated male dorms? Toby, Jason, George and Justin were hot. But they didn’t walk the walk. They talked…and talked. They also spent more nights playing Halo tournaments on their X-Box. Fuck that.
“Angelica you’re elsewhere,” he said, and followed with a firm slap.
It’s not my fault – you stopped, professor. I held my breath, clinging on to my next maneuver. My boobs jiggled, and the bells jangled. The tight nipple squeeze matched his ardour.
“Your response to my question…I need to get myself on track.”
“Ahh,” he moaned. His breath fanned my ass.
“G-God…” Groaning, I didn’t dare speculate on the number of digits he used. I moved to and fro, my swaying tits balancing my torso – anything, to gain a grip on the digital invasion.
“God is dead Angelica,” he muttered.
I tend to disagree, for if God resided within me, God would undoubtedly tumble out as a mind-splitting guttural scream, such as that which echoed within his den. He jabbed my G-spot until my face brushed the exotic rug and I almost wept. My pussy almost wept. Every cell resonated to the mood.
I’d love to say he reciprocated, positioned me in a variety of ways, to regal me with his enthralling member, but that would be unreal, if not staged. I stood on demand. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock and stuffed himself in me. I lay on my back, ass teetering on the mahogany edge of his desk, as he rammed against me. One, two, three…eight. I tried squeezing my thighs around his waist and thrusting my hips upward in the hope of rubbing my clit against his hirsute pubic area, to no avail.
After he doused me with his substantial load, I smiled and swallowed; yes, I’ll just come next time. I stood, faced his rectangular mirror and followed the customary protocol. He watched me inspect my used body. The crimson hand marks on my ass would turn a purplish blue and my waist and hips would display the crescents his fingernails left for a few days.
“What do you say?”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“Very good. Next time, I want your pussy bare,” he nodded and took his leave. He had papers to grade. Books to read. From anyone else, a comment like that roused my anger. From the professor, it translated to marathon cunnilingus.
Later that night, I read the note Professor Anthony dropped in my handbag. A believer in elegant letter writing, his cursive letters outlined his plans for our next appointment:

You will present yourself at precisely six p.m., and you will have on the vintage Chanel black dress that will be delivered to your flat. You will present yourself at The Dorchester at 7p.m.
I blinked at the letter, laughed and shrugged. It had to be a practical joke. The Dorchester was as far out of my league as The Ritz.

***

I arrived and carried myself well, or at least I imagine so. The minutes flashed by between the lobby and suite.
I stared at the mirror, vowed I’d keep it together, but caved in and splashed handfuls of cold water on my face. Then I felt guilty for splashing the white onyx vanity. I thought, I can pay my car loan with this vanity unit.
The suite revealed Professor Anthony’s financial capabilities. How I ended up in the bathroom will remain a mystery. Did I faint between the doorway and the bathroom door? I felt nervous about returning to the living, but I did.
Surrounded by silk papered walls and extravagant leather settees, I calmly sat and relished the feel of the leather against my bare legs.
On the immaculate coffee table, sat a simple note. I unfolded the note and read the few details.

Go the master bedroom, undress and wait.

“Okay,” I said, shrugging to no one.
Standing in the living room, I felt the ghosts of celebrities past. There were the Hollywood rat pack. Richard Burton sans Elizabeth Taylor. The hairs on my arms stood on end. A brief shiver draped round my thighs and calves. Then it left.
Walking through the ornate hall, I ignored the bespoke lamps, rugs and fruit bowls.
In the bedroom, I allowed myself the luxury of laying back on the bed.
Hotel beds tend to be perfectly firm. Logically, they’re built to last and outlast the most vigorous sex sessions. It was as I lay on my side that my eye fell on a ornate wooden box that had seen more centuries than the furniture within the room. Undoubtedly out of place, my curiosity nudged me from the bed.
With my ass on the edge of the bed, I leaned forward and stared at the rosewood box, thinking that it would have looked perfect on Antique Roadshow. Inlaid with mother of pearl leafy shapes, I thought, feeling slightly ancient. Too many afternoons watching the telly.
The box opened easily enough. The first tray was empty. I carefully lifted it out, to notice the contents beneath the innocent tray.
“The shifty devil.”
Undecided on whether to grin or shake my head, I wondered who’d be in charge of the toys. The professor had to be a Love Honey expert, or succumbed to his inner whimsy and engaged in a shopping spree in the comfort of his study.
I groped and inspected the sexy trove. There among the collection, my eye latched on to the novelty lubricant that promised a fine tingle, a vibrating butt plug, and a double ended dildo.
My attention was pulled away by the sound of voices. At first, I thought I’d left the big screen television on. One look at my surroundings returned me to the real hot moment.
The voices travelled through the hall. Professor Anthony’s voice led the way, finally sliding through the gap.
I looked up and dropped the double ended dildo.
“You’ve made your selection,” he said.
I swallowed, “Selection?”
Nodding, he slowly opened the door and stepped into the room.
“This room is satisfactory,” he said, nodding to himself. To me, “I have a surprise for you.”
Like the opulent hotel suite wasn’t sufficient?
Without waiting for my reply, a second person entered the room. A woman. It wasn’t what I expected. The woman’s presence silenced me.
I stood at an average height of five feet six inches, whereas she qualified to be Amazonian. Black leather thigh high boots fitted her like a second skin. Somewhere within my pelvis, a nerve went bang and it ignited a few more nerves along the way.
“This is Selena,” Anthony said. “She’s here to enhance our experience.”
The woman turned to me and smiled. Sleek from head to toe, even her straight black bob glinted blue. She reminded me of comic book heroines: Modesty Blaise and Vampirella combined
Her bustier hugged her breasts in such a way that it took five minutes to avert my eyes. I wanted to know what sat beneath and soon.
“It’s a pleasure. Or it will be,” Selena said, extending her elegant manicured hand. “Anthony has told me a lot about you.”
I noted her neatly trimmed fingernails and smiled. “That’s interesting.” He didn’t tell me about her, not that I was jealous. But I could have been more prepared.
Standing, as Anthony arranged his seat, I sensed my ankles wobbling. Each time Selena regarded me with her sable eyes, I felt another nerve twitch against the next. Pretty soon, I’d be putty. I hadn’t time to undress and present myself to Anthony’s specifications. The impish girl within me thought, “stuff that!”
Anthony sat in upholstered heaven, crossed his legs and smiled. “A cognac please.”
Selena and I turned toward him.
“Selena. Then you’re to continue with the arrangement.”
Fucking me boiled down to a set of plans. Not that I minded, but it felt highly orchestrated. Would Selena fake her orgasm too?
I watched as she effortlessly walked to the bar. Her heels exceeded five inches, yet she didn’t wobble. I envied her hard thighs and muscular arse. She presented a nice mix of gym honed muscularity and femininity; her hips slightly fanned outward, adding to her peach shaped derriere.
She gently took my hand and positioned me in front of the wide mirror.
“Let’s do something about these,” she whispered. “I’m feeling quite warm in here.”
I joked, “Must be the thermostat?”
“Hm…Sure,” she grinned.
My dress came off in seconds. Selena only had to raise it above my head. I was left with my matching red bra and panties.
“I think they’re better off, don’t you Professor?” She turned toward Anthony.
Selena’s hands lingered over my buttocks. I shut my eyes and relished the sensation of her hand over the satin, squeezing each buttock.
“You didn’t undress on time,” she said, lips against my ear.
I swallowed.
Surprisingly warm, her hand slipped under the fabric. She ran her nails over my flesh, stopping at random intervals to pinch me.
“Pull them down Selena. Let’s see what she has underneath. Is it to your liking?”
Selena obeyed. She pushed my panties down to my knees. If I wanted to run, I’d fall face first. What a sly bitch, I thought. Then I wanted a little more direct stimulation.
“Nice…I can work with this,” she said. “Mmm.”
I leaned back, rubbed myself against her and allowed her heat to wash over me.
She turned my head forward and tilted my face up. Her artfully made up face and cherry-bomb lips gazed back from the mirror.
“Spread yourself a little,” she requested, her hand dipping between my inner thighs.
I obeyed, craving her hand between my legs.
To the professor, “Can I Professor?”
From the mirror, I saw him swirl his cognac and smile.
Her fingers lightly traced my labia.
“All ready,” she said to Anthony. To me, she licked her lips. “Are you ready for me?”
Light headed, I gripped the edge of the dresser for support.
She removed my hands, turned me around and unfastened my bra. Just so she could enhance her experience.
Her hands retrieved two clamps from her pant pocket. She fastened them on my nipples, all the while watching my face.
“Nice,” she breathed. She held my breasts as she tongued my nipples.
All I could do was look up, ahead, anywhere but her mouth. I kept my thighs apart to minimise the friction against my clit, delay my orgasm.
Her right hand left my breast and dropped between my legs. The next thing I felt, apart from her fingers invading my pussy, was the urge to stand up straighter than I’ve ever stood.
Selena’s fingers prodded.
“Fuck her hard, Selena. Open her up so I can see,” Anthony said.
She quickly slid out of my pussy, pushed my left leg up on the dresser and returned.
“I need a little more here, darling.”
The professor stood, walked toward the box and fished out a thick dildo.
With my nipples screaming for attention and relief, I used my hands to support my back. I thrust my pussy out and watched. As surreal it seemed, the straightforward transaction between Anthony and Selena rapidly unfolded. In no time, she pushed the dildo into my pussy, rotating it in both directions.
“Take it all. Yessss,” she moaned. Her nose was less than two inches away from my clit.
She pumped the dildo into me and looked up. Deeper and deeper, I moaned. Warmth spread from my pussy to the tops of my thighs.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Harder…Harder.”
The orgasm became more elusive. I needed my clit tweaked, sucked or pinched. This time, Anthony sat with his rigid cock in his hand. He watched Selena fuck me through half-closed eyes.
Unable to withstand the torture, I moved my right hand to the spot. Selena quickly slapped it away with her left hand, as her right gripped the dildo. She didn’t miss a beat or thrust, the dildo rhythmically stretched me. Even I couldn’t remove my gaze.
“Now,” said Selena. “It stays inside while I lick your hot pussy.”
She pushed the dildo all the way inside. I cried out.
Selena’s tongue muffled my cries. Her tongue swirled around my erect clit. Then her lips closed around it, tugging it upward.
I bit into the back of my left hand, each guttural moan vibrated against my flesh. My explosion didn’t upend the hotel, but I came close.
I almost felt bereft when she removed the dildo.
My hand moved in position.
“Fuck that felt great,” I said, enjoying my sticky goo. I enjoyed it so much I slathered it all over my pussy.
Even as I watched Selena undress, it didn’t occur to me that I’d have to take her to pleasurable limits.
Her sinuous back and fuckable butt taunted me. Then she bent forward and slowly pulled down her g-string, presenting me with a rear view of her pussy.
I moved on in, wasting no time in pulling her up and around and kissing her deeply. The intensity of need overtook the smaller things, such as the nipple clamps that continually pinched my flesh.
Her tongue masterfully partnered mine. We stood chest to chest, breasts crushing against each other.
“Here,” she took my hand and planted it between her legs.
Rubbing her with the back of my hand, I continued the kiss. The kiss enveloped us, almost blocking Anthony from view. His presence didn’t dominate.
When I cunningly turned my hand and played with her clit, she moaned into my mouth.
With Antony, I’m as brazen as a mouse cornered by a feral cat.
With Selena, and the humid pussy-struck moment, my inhibitions vanished.
“I want to fuck you so badly,” I snarled into her ear. “You’re to lie on that bad, spread your sweet thighs and wait.”
A voice behind us moaned. The horny, wanking professor.
“Angelica…slow down.”
Ignoring the professor, we both eyed the bed. Selena raised her arms and fell backward onto the bed.
“Please,” she said, spreading her legs.
From the short distance, her groomed mouth watering pussy goaded me. But I greedily considered my own pleasure and chose the strap on without the strap. This way, I’d still fuck Selena’s pussy and fuck my own at the same time.
Odd, but torridly beautiful.
Selena agreed with me, “Yes, that one.”
My eyes returned to her. As tempting as it was to watch her finger herself, I kept my thoughts on the toy.
The first time can be awkward, but being saturated with arousal aided me.
Her lower lip trembled. I knelt between her legs and shoved the shorter end of the strap on into my pussy. Slow, fluid and visual, I made sure Selena watched every second of my pussy as it gripped the shaft.
She looked down, abandoned her pussy and began kneading her breasts. “Fuck my pussy now,” she said, raising her hips slightly upward.
“I can’t see,” said the professor.
“Then get up off your arse,” I barked.
It was as exciting for me as it was for Selena. I rubbed the tip of the shaft between her engorged labia, feeling myself moisten anew.
“That’s so fucking hot,” I hoarsely said.
Carefully avoiding her clit, I used my hand and directed the tip of the shaft downward and around her wet slit. The temptation to impale her immediately almost claimed me, but I took my time, slowly sliding two fingers into her warm accommodating pussy.
It felt too good to stop. Five, eight…ten thrusts…
Selena came to the rescue, hands closing around my wrist. Her dilated eyes begged for a hard, deep fuck.
Decided, I stared at the hypnotic scene. The thick shaft disappeared into her accommodating pussy. It could be said that she absorbed the shaft into herself. I shifted position and thrust myself into her, holding the shaft as her voice bounced from one wall to the other.
Anthony’s voice sharpened. From my periphery, his cock spurted copious pearly jets onto his stomach.
Selena gazed into my eyes, drifting in and out of ecstatic reverie. A blush of rose shaded the flesh of her breasts and the sticky moisture of her arousal pooled around the shaft as I withdrew and left her momentarily hanging.
Then I plunged into her, to the hilt and tapped her clit with my first two fingers. The initial taps blended with hardier slaps.
With her pussy filled to the brim and clit finger-slapped, Selena’s mouth gaped and her moans rose in pitch. She thrust her pelvis forward and moved her head moved from side to side.
I clenched my pelvic floor muscles around my end of the strap on dildo, rode it out and watched. Her face contorted to a lust fuelled scowl. Her cheeks blazed red and her lips parted.
Heat filled my clit until I slumped forward and rested on her chest with my tongue lazily licking her left nipple.
We’d all but forgotten the fine professor. Reluctant to watch his scowl, we rubbed our warmed groins against each other, relishing the post orgasmic contractions between our legs.
After a few moments, I smoothly slid out of Selena and lay on my back.
Anthony remained in his chair, flustered and shocked. “You took charge there…I’m surprised at you.”
“Not as surprised as I am,” I said.
Selena lay on her side and rested her hand on my stomach.
“I’m hoping for seconds,” she said. “What else do you have in that pleasure chest of yours?”

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Dee Stern — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 15:09:32 +0000

You stop your pacing, open the refrigerator and ignore the fragrance of modern pollution and pigeon shit that wanders in from the balcony. You retrieve an orange and you stop to take in its piquant aroma in the hope that it will replace the stench of modernity. You vigorously peel the fruit with your fingers and the scent expands and I’m enthralled by the show until you break the moment by popping a fleshy morsel into your mouth, bite into its flesh and smile as juice sparkles from the corner of your mouth. I toy with the idea of licking it away but I don’t joke about the humidity and the annoying way my satin nightshirt clings to my body. It suffocates my skin so I remove the offending garment and watch your eyes absorb my bare skin.

It’s futile to ignore the warm pocket of air between your cock and my ass as I bend down to check the roast. Who in the fuck considers roast on a humid day like this?
My rear says hello by nudging your pelvis within seconds and you nod and acknowledge the interval. Your chin caresses my head and I smell your fresh sweat.
‘Did you not hear me? What’s in the oven?’
It’s difficult for me to hear you when my head is awash with blood-red lewd thoughts.
You sweetly smile. ‘Is your mind elsewhere?’
Your voice is tinged with a sliver of menace and your hand lovingly strokes my hair in a fatherly manner and with that thought I feel torrid.

Each exquisite stroke lulls me into a rose hued sense of security, and I briefly drift into a realm of sweetened sentiments that’s aptly punctured by gentle strokes of your cock, that is, until your other hand tugs the gusset of my cotton panties downward, paying no heed to my flesh. It’s a clever ploy. The fabric rides up into the moistened slit between my legs. Your hand continues to soothe my weary head, while your other…

My cunt begins to flower and trickle as your fingers delve into my hair. You take hold and I try to press my thighs together to offset the friction. Your voice scrapes my ear and the tension of the cotton – as you shake it from side to side – burns my clit. You use your bare teeth on my ear lobe, tugging my flesh as though your life hangs between the balance.
I exhale through my teeth while you work that cotton deep between my inner labia; the outer flesh escapes the burn and pleasure seems so close yet so far.
‘This is only the entrée,’ you say and jab me with your cock.
I’d bend over but your fingers pull the cotton aside and stir my flesh with hard circular strokes that take my entire pussy into account. I turn my head. Every strand within my scalp tautens and your fingers barge in. They waste no time, and hammer away.
‘Oh…!’
I’ve lost count. How many have you stuck into me?
You slide out, skate up and down my moist hot groove and my lips curl until they tingle.
‘Sh…it…’ and the word elongates as you sting my clit with your fingers. Each firm tap gives way to a cacophony that squeezes out every drop of juice.

‘Get on up. Sit!’ you order, and I do it, because I need to.
You spread my legs wide and sweetly smile at the cutlery drawer beneath me. I close my ears, hear your hand rummaging around, and open.
‘I’m taking these off…’
My eyes watch the shiny serrated blade. You run its sharp point over my wet crotch and up toward my navel. I swallow hard as the blade caresses my skin, and silently watch as you circle the depression that once housed my umbilicus.
‘Round and round we go…’
And where it stops?
‘Don’t move.’
Your hand takes a detour, as does the blade. You raise the cotton and pierce it at the junction of my labia. You slice through the fabric while I pant until I reach the point where I need a rigorous invasion or assault on my ravenous pussy.
You know I need it.
Do it…

You eat your dinner, licking away at my clit.
Buried within me are three energetic digits, that stoke audacious thoughts.
Fuck me, stick them…all the way inside.
Your lips clamp my distended clit.
I buck.
I heave.
I gush…soaking your lips and chin with every morsel of my lust.

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Dee Stern — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 15:41:47 +0000

I didn’t know what a fetish was when I found myself falling into the psychedelic-like sexual trance at a gay pride parade. I’m not gay, but seeing leather men made me wetter than a water slide. By the time we returned home with my then boyfriend, I felt like climbing the walls. In less than five minutes, I stood naked in the entry hall. To my boyfriend’s horror, I rammed three fingers into myself and climaxed within minutes. When I suggested he use his leather belt to tie me up, he protested. He used my parents as an excuse to take control of the situation. I reminded him that my parents were away for the weekend and that I wanted him to fuck me senseless. We were eighteen. It’s true, girls do develop faster than boys.
I see leather and a zealous primate is let out of its cage, ready to test the very limits. It can make shoe shopping with the opposite sex difficult. Friends don’t fully comprehend my appreciation. My fetish makes dating vegans impossible; they cannot merge with my sex drive. The leather acts like a thicker skin, coming between us every time and if I’m away from my primal accessories, I feel half-sexed.
The texture of leather is brutal, sensual and enticing all at once. Its brutality stems from its animal origin. My curiosity skittered until I spent long evenings researching leather. From the kill to the tanning process. I’d spend afternoons in department stores, browsing leather accessories. Then I’d finish up in the bathroom at my work, finishing the job I started and it didn’t require much effort. Using my fingers to masturbate, I’d come within minutes, only to finally get myself together and traipse into the office, ready to take customer calls like nothing elapsed; another day, another dollar.
Adding leather to sex can be fun, but it can be an odd topic to broach. It isn’t simple finding like-minded partners. Those who I do have sex with aren’t suitable for relationships. I’m at the stage where I’d like a long-term relationship without the complications of having an open relationship or swinging. It’s just not me, and those whom I do meet, who have fetishes also subscribe to the view of being in, either, a polygamous relationship or an open one.
Using leather as an accessory alters me or enables me to entertain fantasies that don’t come out to play during my nine-to-five hours. I own two leather masks that I use with men who like to experiment with their submission. I get off on resting my hand on their scalp, which is the leather of the mask; tapping and caressing the leather, I don’t need anything else to become aroused. They will, on request, be silent and kneel, and all I need to be ready for sex, is the feel of leather on my fingertips or the sight of their obscured face – as though the leather is their actual skin. It works into the idea of the faceless fuck that sometimes becomes the home intruder fuck.
On other occasions, watching films with masked executioners fills me with an icky arousal; I can’t rationalize the fantasy of screwing a masked executioner, except to say that the extreme fantasy may have links in my previous life as a medical professional, seeing finality before my eyes and being left with additional questions that I knew would never be answered and yielding to the uncertainty that life holds.
From the submissive angle, I prefer to have my hands bound with leather. I prefer it to the silk scarf or fluffy handcuffs; the fluff turns me off. Even something as simple as a naked man using a leather flogger on my ass cheeks, when I’m on all fours is thrilling for me. I don’t think a similar scene would work without the leather, with a bare hand slapping me. If I desire wearing my other investment, thigh high boots, it’s to tease and be a role playing bitch to my partner; I get turned on by the power, but more so the glimpse of their lips on the leather as they kiss my feet. There is a primal undercurrent present. I can’t place it and I don’t want to be technical or academic about it.
For all I know, my preference may be straight out of a Freud essay, relate to my father’s shiny patent leather shoes during my toddler years, or my mother’s fondness for leather purses. I do not know but I do know that I’d rather save my few hundred dollars spare, than give it to a therapist to explore my sexuality; my sexuality is for me to explore.
For me, delving in leather, means overcoming skittishness. I have difficulty relating to extreme vegans, PETA activists and everyone who is squeamish about steak and leather products. That doesn’t mean I don’t respect their view; it’s their life. But to step over the line, enter a sexual relationship with an anti-leather person is like entering the dark side for me. I can’t imagine sex this way.
It isn’t cheap to have a leather fetish. Over the years, I’ve refrained from purchasing a multitude of sex accessories made from leather. Even so, I haven’t stopped myself from buying leather jackets, shoes, bags, belts…anything else I can think of. I have spent thousands and I don’t feel guilty. When friends express wonderment at my latest leather purchase, I justify it. If I’m not in a relationship, I want the texture close to my skin.
Every year, I attend the annual gay pride parade just to see the leather. If I’m with a partner, then that partner will be lucky. If I’m solo, I will return home hornier than lioness on heat and sort myself out.
‘Right now, I’m single and I may be single for a little while or until I’m comfortable with a person but I’m not willing to compromise or keep my fetish in the closet,’ I said.
He blankly stared at me.
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘You asked the golden question.’
‘You’ve provided me with a month’s supply of thoughts to chew on,’ he said.

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Sleeping Blowjob

Dee Stern — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 00:55:41 +0000

He sleeps, oblivious to the maddening roar within my womb. I command my legs, no, my cunt to take the initiative. There are no rules, and my hand turns the doorknob. Should he awaken, I’ll inform him of my mission, and if he continues to snooze, then so be it.
I stealthily creep into his room, a room that’s doubled for ‘ours’ and his slackened lips are perfectly positioned for my tongue to enter, no, invade his blissful sleep. Cheap, sluttish, amoral, wanton, and more words crisscross my mind. I’m all of these, yet all fail to sum up my psyche. It’s difficult to define each burning thought, and separate those thoughts from the rising pulse within my pussy.
The darkness is a cloak, and I’m a walking succubus who isn’t going to stop to ask for his permission. Three silent strides see me by his bedside, I sink onto the floor and my hand reaches up, and over, to caress his warm abdomen.
He’s naked, asleep and I open my mouth for the first taste. My tongue circles his lips, and his breathing rhythm falters. I retreat, watch and inwardly leap around like an excited child. I’m going to fuck him.
Opening wider, my tongue boldly tickles the soft damp inner lining of his lips for a few seconds before painting his teeth. I grip his stirring cock, and relish its plasticity. Its metamorphosis, within my hand, unlocks the wetness within me. I briefly butter my pussy, and return to the centerpiece that is his cock.
‘Err…W-Wha….’
Shut up.
His voice protests but his cock or his tongue interrupt his logic, short circuiting it with a fiery slap. He then tells me that it’s my fault, that I did this, that his hardening cock was all my doing and I have myself to blame. With one firm sweep of my hand, the sheets give way and his cock lies on the altar of his belly; the main course is served, and I savor it slowly. His hips rise, and my tongue paints. Up and down, all around and my grip never falters.
‘Jesus, freaking Christ…’
Fully awake.
He guides my head, needs to fuck my mouth. Who is fucking whom?
Moisture’s music massages our ears. He slides in and out, and I stroke my furious clitoris until I hum, for my song to vibrate along his shaft and for him to hit the roof – of my mouth – mid gyration.
‘You bitch…’ he groans as his warm syrup floods my mouth.

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