The Dark Cellar

021[1]I try to avoid it. But I opened the door yesterday. I really don’t understand what I was thinking. Perhaps I had put it aside for so long, the urge just decided to pop back into my head on its own. But wait. No, it wasn’t an urge at all. Your prompt just made it come to the foreground. I was outside the door and I couldn’t not open it.

It is dark. And as every time before, I tripped on the stairway. You hate it when I stumble. Plus I know you question why I am even trying to descend the eerie staircase. However, it’s not like I picked the lock. The door is unbarred, and today it was ajar. I don’t want to be here. But I feel I have to be. We must meet in this dank, cold, haunted chamber. You have never wanted me there, and believe me, I have avoided it.

But now I know we need to see each other here. I wonder if either of us are ready.

I don’t know how to find my way in the blackness.

“I’m frustrated that you fall right away,” you say

“I only am familiar with a small part of the staircase,” I answer.

“So ask where the light is, instead of continuing with your stumbling,” you retort.

“I thought if you wanted me to see, you would turn the light on for me,” I mumble back.

“I get tired of the way you ask. It puts me on the defensive” you add. “It’s not something I want analyzed,” you hit me with. “That’s why I get upset. You ask all the wrong ways.”

“Tell me, then. Illuminate my path.”

“Tell you what? Ask me a direct question.”

Although you don’t mean it to be, I know this is a trap. I will fall, and most likely hurt myself. And probably you.

“No, not tonight,” I answer. “It doesn’t matter” I lie.

 

 

 

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Fuck Toy Mea Culpa

artlimited_img130583[1]Bless me WOMAN for I have sinned.

Yup. I’m confessing here.

This came about because of a conversation with Cassandra a few days ago. It wasn’t going all that well. The conversation I mean.

The key phrase that did it for me was “So am I just your fuck toy? Is that it?”

Gulp.

I assured her she most certainly was NOT. I love her and respect her too much for that thought to even enter my mind. Hence one major reason why I was so taken aback when she spat out those words.

But I have been guilty of that in the past. Not with Cassandra, but repeatedly with other women. Many other women. In fact so many, right now I can’t even remember all of them. I’m thinking this needs to be a sort of series or something.

Let me back up a bit.

In my younger years, I was something of a bad boy. I was learning how to use the tools I had been given, and I was using them primarily for what (small c) catholics would term “sinful lusts of the flesh”. I had women. I used women.

In my early to late twenties, I learned how a not unpleasant appearance, appropriately placed compliments, and disarming charm and boyishness, could be wielded as a powerful sexual weapon. It worked unfailingly. And I used it.

And when I had had my fill, or they displeased me, or I was ready with a new woman, I would drop them. Throw them away like a used tissue. With little thought. Sure I felt some guilt. But not a lot.  And not for long. I have this hard side to me. I can be as cold as ice when required.  A stone would have more warmth and feeling. I have some insight into how and why this developed, but I’m sorry, I’m not prepared to share that right now. Just know it developed at a tender age.

Much of that has, of course, changed. Thankfully. But as Cassandra inadvertently brought some of those memories back, I think I am going to have to address some of those awkward memories. And perhaps share them here.

I’ll confess.

Midweek Fantasizing (IX) – The Timetable

2d417995291c1c0fa1855c745c403284bbce01c9_large[1]It’s hot in Paris in August. But you don’t mind. You revel in the heat. And your big, beautiful smile hasn’t left your stunning visage since you arrived 2 days ago.

And when you are happy, I’m all smiles, too. Your love of the museums, the art, the history, the monuments is infectious. I know you are having the time of your life. You’ve always dreamed of being here. And well, here you are!

I chuckle every morning when I see the schedule you’ve drawn up for us each day. All the things we need to accomplish so our time is well spent not only in this magnificent city, but together, too. But I make sure you leave time for the cafes and people watching, a fine restaurant or two, and back to the apartment to be tucked in by 10 pm.

Because then we are on my schedule. I have a timetable too. Great sex before 11. More at 12:30. Again at 2 am. Probably an intense session between 3:30 and 4:00. And here we are at 5:30. Your luscious ass is calling me. It truly needs to be filled.

Another wonderful start to a perfect day.

The Two-Way Present

I gave Cassandra a special gift for her birthday some time ago. Though she didn’t know it, she even selected the basics for it. It was a very personalized present, and I enjoyed coming up with the idea, and then getting it to her.

She loved the present which was quite satisfying. But here’s the best part. It’s in a place where she sees it every single day. And everytime she sees it and smiles, she thinks of me!

I couldn’t think of a better present to myself.

Midweek Fantasizing [VIII] – The Finish

I answer the door holding my breath. The wait all morning has been almost unbearably long. You are visiting on your lunch hour.

We kiss at the door, then stride to the bed together. I lie on the bed as you come around and continue kissing and fondling me. I have my hands all over your luscious body and then take firm control of your heavy, heaving breasts.

As you stand next to the bed, you slide off my jeans then grab hold of my hardening cock as it slips through the opening in my boxers. A small gasp-grunt escapes my lips while you kiss me fiercely.  Then with a deft move of your left hand you pull the boxers down to my knees. I complete the task, then remove my shirt. I lie displayed in front of you.

Before I know it my hard cock is in your mouth and your lips are caressing it’s length, top to bottom. Bottom to top. You pump my cock like you mean it; your tongue rolls around the shaft, the head, you lick like a panting dog in the summer. I arch into your mouth in an unwitting aid to have you gobble my length. In no time you have me in a frenzy I can’t control. But you can. As your hand fondles my balls you steal a glance at my face. I am practically drowning as the suction through your lips pulls the soul of my need into the cool olive pool of your eyes.

Your grip becomes firmer, your pace intensifies. I want only to give you my release. I cry to finish. I crave completion. The tight palm of you hand twists the shaft as you inhale all I can give. You have had me orgasm five times in the past 16 hours, the last time five hours ago just before you left for work. For an antique I have done well. Vintage Ferraris can still perform impeccably. They have been built to amaze. It’s in their DNA.

I yearn to empty into your mouth, but I can not. I can feel the semen rush to the gate, but the path seems barricaded. It is as if an internal battering ram smashes relentlessly at the exit, demanding freedom. But the door is barred, my glory imprisoned.

My frustration has reached its limits. My cock exits your startled mouth as I rise from the bed. As we stand facing each other I gesture for you to remove your remaining clothes. I need to see your stunning figure in all its glory. While you strip I turn and grab a pillow from the bed, tossing it to the floor between us.

I love the look of pure lust in your eyes as you look at me and slowly kneel on the pillow. Still tempting me with your eyes your right hand slides around my stiff, eager cock and slides it between your moving lips. I hear you gently sigh. I respond with moans of my own. My hands grasp your hair.  The sight of you kneeling before me, taking me all in, the feel as you speed up your motions sends me, finally, over the edge.

“Baby! Baby!” I gasp

I finish.

Your lunch break is over.

 

 

 

 

The Sailor and the Skiff (Part I)

I knew of an old sailor.

Though old, he was skilled, experienced, and very brave. He piloted a small skiff, often into new unknown waters. Like the sailor, the skiff was old too, but had been built well and solidly by master craftsmen from a bygone age. The sailor and the skiff were long time comrades. They had explored many seas together, sailed to far off lands through pleasant times, and also much stormy weather. Heavy weather that would have sunk many boats mightier than the skiff. But no storm could outmatch the well built skiff piloted by the knowledgeable old sailor. They were like hand and glove, champion rider and horse, so attuned to each other’s vibrations that they could overcome any tempest they encountered. Though perhaps unremarkable apart, together they were a work of high performance art.

One September day they ventured off to explore an unknown Sea. There were no charts to guide the sailor, no maps to assure him of his way, only ancient myths he had heard and tales on parchment he had read. The myths told of beautiful lands surrounding the Sea, with high rocky cliffs, abundant forests, lush meadows, and snow topped mountains.

The tales promised a land where he was welcome to rest his weary ancient frame, renew his sapped energies, and sooth his fragmented mind. A land where even old mariners could dream, not thought of as foolish, and relive their better days again before the final hour. Where sturdy oaks grew and could be hewn to replace wanting timbers in a trusty skiff.

At last through pluck and good fortune the sailor found the narrow strait which served as entrance to the Sea. It was a well hidden passage. The Sea protected herself and her lands because she knew she was like no other sea, her lands a treasure to be enjoyed by only the few, the canniest, the most fearless, the most determined. Those who would face and overcome her perils.

The straight was long, but not straight at all, with twists and turns and false creeks and deceptive inlets. Only the most resolute could fathom the way through the maze the Sea had erected to guard her secrecy and protect her lands from the unworthy.

The sailor prayed he was worthy.