Helen’s Intrigue

I am beginning the process of getting to know Helen. Just the beginning.

She’s cute. And younger than me, of course. That’s the way things tend to go.

I’m much more interested in chemistry than age“, she says.

Her submissiveness intrigues me.

Let’s be honest  … it draws me like a magnet.

I send her instructions for tasks to amuse me. She diligently complies.

Helen lives about 2 hours from my village.

We need to arrange a meeting.

Cryptic Logrolling

I’ve thought about things a lot. Rolled it over in my mind a thousand, hell! maybe a million times. Like a lumberjack rolling on a log on the river. Trying to stay on top. How I got it wrong. So so wrong.

How I underestimated. Always the greatest danger, isn’t it?

I thought I knew you pretty well.  The mental abuse. The uncaring. The need for loving and respect. The craving for sexual variety. Being appreciated as a highly sensual being.

Oh I got that right for sure. Aced that target.

I was pretty good there balancing on that log. No matter how fast it rolled. For a while. You certainly were good at keeping me off balance. Testing me the whole time. And I thought I was testing you!

What I didn’t pay enough attention to was your comfort level with stability. And loyalty. And being true and “good”. I never thought those aspects would overrule everything else.

The water was pretty damned cold when I fell off and hit it.

Btw, I could be doing better.

Between The Times (5) … Let’s Further Introduce Jessica

jane-fonda-1960s-hairstyle1It’s now way past time to get back to those times. This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the five introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here. And the two most recent episodes (all true by the way) here and here.

You just know Jessica is going to come up again, don’t you … ?

I left off introducing Jessica. Let’s do a quick review. Jessica was Peter’s wife. I had met Peter shortly after my arrival in London. Peter was a work mate of a fellow (Mick) who had befriended me. The crazy part of all this is that I had met Peter in the “City”, the square mile of old London (roughly between Tower Bridge and London Bridge on the north side of the Thames) that at the time housed the major British banks and financial houses. Yet unbelievably, Peter was a habitue of a pub where I tended bar in a far away section of London. The odds of that were catastrophic. No actually, I guess they were providential when you add Jessica to the situation. Are you up with me now?

Jessica would typically come into the pub with Peter on a Friday night. Or perhaps on a Sunday afternoon with their 4 year old daughter while Peter played football (soccer) with his mates on a nearby pitch.

Jessica caught my attention from the very beginning. She was a natural blonde beauty, usually wearing a mini skirt and her hair down and slightly bouffante-style. Think Jane Fonda in Barbarella.  It was the very late 60s after all. Think very Jane Fonda at this time. Small of stature, she nonetheless had a big presence. All heads in the pub turned whenever she came in. I know I wasn’t the only one who thought this … how the hell did Peter … not the best looking man on the planet shall we say … land such a looker like Jessica? Part of the story was their daughter of course. Peter had got Jessica pregnant not long after they had begun dating.

A couple of quick facts here. I was 19. Jessica 25. A much older woman in my eyes. Older, more experienced, more worldly in every way. But I was mesmerized by her.

And she was starting to pay attention to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving Questions Unanswered

I don’t dream very often. At least not dreams I can remember. But the other night I did and it was very impactful.

I know what was the impetus. I was chatting with someone about thighs earlier in the evening. And you know I really love your thighs. But I’m jumping ahead here.

In the dream you got on all fours. Then turned to look back and gave me your smile to which I inevitably melt. But in the dream that’s not the way I want you. I want you closer. I need you closer. I crave you closer. I can’t live without you closer. I feel as if my existence depends on having you closer.

It’s the intimacy with you I lack. Intimacy is chemistry for me.

These days we have no communication. One by one you cut our channels. This is torture for me, as I am one who needs to communicate several times a day. Suddenly I am exiled to blankness. Nothingness.

Then mysteriously, you added one app with me. But with no warning, you cut that one, too. I am baffled. And hurt.

I kneel behind you. And pull you towards me. Your long, muscular thighs resting on my quads. Taut athletic muscle on taut athletic muscle. Your absolute perfect ass with its firm roundness rests above my crotch, my engorged erection climbing up the small of your back. I begin to feel you as I feel myself.

My hand reaches under and feels your slickness. My palm dampens your landing strip with your own moisture. Then three of my fingers slip inside you. I feel your sigh of pleasure and we begin to reconnect.

I have missed you terribly, the contact, being part of each other’s daily lives. You know I live for this daily rhythm. But my rhythm and routine have changed lately … saying goodbye to old friends and embarking on new challenges. And the progress has been mixed. And it’s been painful. Most everything is difficult these days.

As you rise slightly on your haunches I enter you. We gasp in unison at the sensation, you filled fully by my erection, our bodies finally attached. I move my hand along your firm belly, feeling the ropes of your hard abs. God I love your abs! My other hand reaches for your long, smooth throat and wraps it lovingly. At this moment you are again mine, totally.

Slowly, ever so slowly you inch up and down on me, barely any noticeable movement at all. But I feel you. I sense all your being through every cell in my body.

You just walked away. Convinced that it was the only way for you to carry on … to be a better you. A more devoted you. Even though you were going to surround yourself with all that gave you anguish and misery and brought you down to where I found you, broken. I had thought you were healing, that you would acknowledge it.  But perhaps that only refortified the strength of your convictions.

I know it’s only a dream, but I see you so clearly. Your beautiful mouth opens and your jaw juts just a fraction. Your visage in profile is stunning, a marble Michelangelo in flesh, the depth, the expression to your face mesmerizes. There is no sound … no, this dream is absolutely silent. Your orgasm comes in surging waves as I hold you tightly, passing through you to me, a crescendo that ignites the rocket I have sheathed in you . I, too, then silently climax into the mists of our engagement.

Then you are gone. I awake in a sweat. You have disappeared again.

Why this? Your leaving still unanswered.

 

 

 

A Promise Kept

As I was driving yesterday, the song on the radio flashed my mind back like the Enterprise going into warp drive. The song, the multi-octave range of the voice, its sweetness combined with its power. Theresa did the song even better than the original artist. It was one of her signature pieces.

I suppose the song hit me so hard and sent me reeling back because like then, I’m in a melancholic, reflective frame of mind these days. Then, it was a woman, too. She continued to reject my studied advances even though I knew she welcomed them. And she did eventually come around. If anything, when Marty knows what he wants, he is persistent.

I met Theresa in a European ski club.  She was definitely a torch singer. Her voice was magnetic, and the fact she had a stunning face didn’t hurt the attraction one bit either. She was English, very solidly built, shoulder length dark hair with eyes the color of Yorkshire coal.  I won’t bore you with the courting rituals, just know that they worked. Which was interesting because Theresa did not screw around on the road. She loved her husband deeply, and was devoted to her vocation, so wandering off the path so to speak was a very unusual experience for her. But for several days and nights that week she did.

Poor Robert! He had recently moved to the West Coast, and now we would see each other and play together but once per year. And here was I, abandoning our traditional pub crawling adventures to seduce and be seduced.  He was forced to come up with his own play activities. Robert, of course, well understood.

Each evening I would catch Theresa’s last set at the Club which would be followed by a wild night of sex and wine in her room. I so delivered on the promises she yearned for and couldn’t find at home. And her pillow breasts, sweet, thick lips, and hungry body provided the sexual respites I keenly wanted and needed. We craved what each could deliver, there, and at that time. All through the witching hours of the dark alpine night and through the morning we would have at each other.

Then I would finally arise, return to my room, get ready and meet Robert and the others on the mountain for lunch and a drink, before an afternoon of hard skiing. At the best of times I could barely keep up with him. His technique and finesse were far superior to mine. But I was fit and my legs were strong , so I  could stay with him and the lead group throughout the day. But not this year. My lack of sleep through the week hobbled me on the mountain. It made Robert’s hearty laugh all the more penetrating as he watched me struggle to keep up. I was the butt of his ribald jokes all through every dinner as he inquisitioned me on what happened through the prior night. My silence and knowing, Cheshire cat smile drove him crazy.

Finally the week was done. I was to leave and Theresa’s gig was up. We never delved into each other’s hearts. We dared not. The most hidden part of our lives and souls were not to be exposed. She made me promise to never try to contact her. It was just too dangerous she said. For reasons I’m not certain I fully appreciated at the time. But I was younger then.

And I’ve kept my promise.

Paris Nostalgia

Based on some conversations over the past couple of days, some memories of Paris have come back in a huge deluge. This was during the time of my travels as I was leaving my teens.

The cars on the old Metro lines still had wooden touches. When the doors closed, thin, metallic bars would somersault over to latch the doors, snapping to with a bold clic that could be heard across the carriage. It was practically Edwardian they were so old.

metro21

I was on my way, hopefully to see her again. I was staying at the Auberge de la Jeunesse. We slept in dormitories of 6 or 8 beds and paid 5 francs a night if I remember correctly. It was there I had my first café au lait. In the youth hostel they served it from bowls, along with your croissant. I remember my first taste of the café as if it were yesterday. The smoothness, the richness, which contrasted sharply with the chicory-infused coffee I had been exposed to in England at my last job. This was so delicious.

I had seen her, met her, talked to her the day before. I had caught her eye. She had grasped my fluttering heart. At the first glance she reminded me of Amy, her long, dark hair and relatively short stature served to bring my angst to the fore perhaps. She worked in a record store on the Left Bank. Her name was Françoise.

There is something I need to explain here. About Marty and Gallic women. They have this “thing” … apparently. An affinity for each other. That can turn into an attraction. And then a craving. It is often a full on irresistible force. So it started with Françoise. I’ve named her Françoise because she was a virtual clone of my then favorite French chanteuse, Françoise Hardy. That’s Françoise Hardy at around this time at the top of the post. Now, I’m sure you all can get a good feel for why Marty is drawn to these femmes fatales, but exactly what pulls them Marty’s way remains one big mystery. Perhaps it was the crooked smile or the flashing soft blues, possibly the fractured way he attacked the French language. Who’s to know? Certainly this recipe was much less successful with Teutonic women during my wanderings. They were probably put off by the lack of direction and purpose. Success with them required much greater diligence. But never French-speaking women.

But back to our story. I had entered the record shop the day before and was checking out the available LPs of French artists with whom I was familiar when Françoise approached, asking if I needed some help. One look at her and she was immediately subject to full-on crooked smiles and my best possible version of fractured French.

We hit it off and now I was on my way to visit her near the end of her work shift. We would get a glass of wine, perhaps later dinner … and then who knows?

In short, the wine was good. Dinner was fabulous. I learned that she would soon have her 22nd birthday. She lived at home with her parents.

But the following day she would have off from work. And we would meet at the nearby garret shared by her older sister and boyfriend. I learned more of French music and Françoise became much more knowledgeable about the American music scene than she had been.

And I would learn to make love to a vital, nubile young French woman. Without hesitation, with no prospects of a future.  I would understand that what was offered was but of that moment. Yet it would be timeless and unforgettable.

Françoise was the first French woman I had ever bedded. Fortunately and grâce à Dieu, she would not be the last. When I left Paris 2 days later, I was on a roll.

 

When It’s Easy

Some say I’m complicated. Others think I’m pretty basic. The reality, naturally, is it depends.

I adapt to what is required. Or is inspired.

Last week SBW, the queen of vids, sent me a very short video.

Wearing only matching black bra and thong, her large blue-grey eyes looked directly at me. The cleavage tantalized.

With a quick movement to push a wayward golden lock behind her ear, she smiled to me.

Tilting her beautiful visage she said only,

“Love you Baby. Have a great night.”

7 words … 6 seconds to completely make my evening.

It’s easy.

 

Mid Week Fantasizing — The 3some

These posts (Mid Week Fantasizing) are all about fantasies. They definitely are not a documentary of my past actions. More like a potential road map of where I’d like to go … maybe.

A while ago SBW (Strikingly Beautiful Woman) and I were chatting. We talked about how she has a dream of going to Paris. And having me fuck her there on a balcony from which you can see the Eiffel Tower.

And then she has fantasies. Secret fantasies. HOT secret fantasies.

She confided in me about one that no one else knows. How much do I love that? Knowing a beautiful woman’s hot, secret fantasy! Particularly when I’m part of it! The convo went something like this …

SBW: I’d even share you with another woman. But she’d have to be VERY hot. With small tits.

Marty: You’d share me in a three-some?

SBW: Yes, I would. I’m an Alpha woman. But I would want your cum. I think that would be super hot!

SBW: You watching…me watching… I’d like that.

Marty: You both sucking my cock at the same time? That would be hot for me

SBW: Me too. Mmmm…you would like that

Marty: What would you want to do with the other woman?

SBW: I’ve never kissed one. I bet it would be so soft. I’d like to undress her. But she’d have to have small tits.

Marty: Why small tits?

SBW: That’s just what I like. With great nipples

Marty: What would you do after you undressed her? Are you going to strip for me?

SBW: We’ll let her undress me. I want her panties still on. Then I’ll touch her tits… softly first. Before kissing them. Licking her nipples. And then taking them in my mouth.

Marty: What if she’s stroking me while you do this?

SBW: Mmmm…even better. I want her to suck on my nipples. To see a beautiful girl with my nipple in her mouth would be so fucking hot! I’ll run my fingers through her hair. Tug on it. And bring her back up to my mouth. Lots of kissing. Would you like this?

Marty: I would. But I’d need something for my cock to do

SBW: We won’t leave you out. I promise. You know how much I want your cock in my mouth. But I’ll let her suck you. While I kiss her stomach. And make my way to her panties. Inhaling her.

Marty: Is she shaved?

SBW: Yes, totally. I want to kiss her through the lace. Feel how wet I’m making her panties. I’ll use my fingers to push them aside…but I want to keep them on. Then I’m going to watch you while you watch my finger slide into her pussy for the first time.

Marty: You know I love to watch you

SBW: I wonder if it will feel like my own… I’m so curious. And I want to watch your face. While your dick is in her mouth. And my finger is slipping in and out of her pussy.

Marty: Oh? No jealousy?

SBW: No! Because you’re mine. She’s just a toy. I want to taste her. I’ve only tasted myself…I’m so curious.  I’m going to take off her panties. You’re going to take off mine and put your fingers inside me. And then put them in your mouth.

SBW: I’ll lay her down and be on all fours between her spread legs. I’m going to lick her for the first time while you drive your cock into me. I want her knees up by her ears so I can lick her from her ass to her clit.

Marty: You want to rim her don’t you

SBW: I do.

SBW: Then it will be time for her to taste me on your cock. I want to watch her lick me off of your dick. Do you want to fuck her? While I sit on her face?

Marty: Perhaps I just might.

SBW:  I want you to fuck her. I’m turned around so I can look you in the eye while you fuck her. Don’t you dare cum in her!.

Marty: While you’re on her face I’ll withdraw and put my cock in your mouth.

SBW: Good, I’ve missed your cock.

Marty: Then you can taste her as I cum down your throat

SBW: I‘m going to cum while she’s eating my ass and I’m gulping down your cock.

Whew  that was very hot … there was a bit of a break and then later that evening she said:

SBW: I said some kind of fucked up kinky sex stuff

I, of course, reassured her that her words and thoughts were no such thing. They were a fantasy. A very hot one, too.

Previously we had had some discussion on the likelihood of a female trainer she sometimes uses as a part of our potential 3some. It really wasn’t going anywhere because SBW (despite her active mind!) tends to be a little timid in person.

But Marty isn’t quite as shy. I think I may have found the perfect 3rd. My … ahem … Rolodex has the just the one. Her name is Amor Rose.

 

For Blog Pic

Small firm tits, 32C, deliciously fit (she’s a half marathoner), and very, very beautiful, with long dark hair. Late 30s. Her nipples are outstanding, large, projecting, and dark chocolate colored. SBW will love her. And Amor Rose will love SBW. And Marty? Why he gets to make everyone happy. A win-win-win.

And let’s do it in Paris. Because that would be le glaçage sur le gateau.

 

 

 

 

 

Between The Times (4) … Jessica

This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the four introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here and here. And the most recent here

It took me the whole day to hitchhike from Glasgow to London, and in typical Marty-style, I ended up in the central city late at night just as the pubs were closing. With no cash. Alas I can not tell you the tales of that night as they are well known among my acquaintances. And should they ever stumble upon the blog …  However, I will say that I was befriended by an over-the-top character, Mick, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Michael Caine in Alfie, and whose personal life was more than a match for Alfie’s story. It was the first time I had ever chummed around with a man and his wife and two young children while he expertly handled that situation and his three mistresses. At various evenings in the pubs in the center of London, I met them all, as well as many of his workmates, including one of his best, Peter.

Let’s fast forward several weeks, shall we?

I had found myself a room … what the Brits lovingly call a bedsitter. A small, tawdry room with a single bed on the second floor of a large house on the main thoroughfare in what could be charitably termed the very worst part of town. The bathroom was shared with 5 other rooms on the floor. A toilet, with a pull chain to flush (it took me fully 2 weeks to master the proper pull-technique), sink with cold water only, and a bath tub (no shower) that needed to be “booked” in advance.The bathroom’s final humiliation, however, was the toilet paper. No soft, tender to the touch Charmin here dear readers. No, you got to wipe your sorry ass from a roll of heavily waxed toilet paper with all the gentleness and absorbancy of street concrete. Colored a yellowish-brown. And that was before use.

These were the days when central heating was an unaffordable luxury for most British homes occupied by the workingclass, and my bedsitter heating consisted of a small gas heater that was activated with 2-shilling coins, the meager heat lasting at most 90 minutes before requiring more cash. The gas fire (as the Brits call them) had a 3 foot long wire cable, so moving its position was rather limited. Certainly nowhere near the bed for long, cold nights. And who wants to get out of bed in the shivering night to feed more money into the heater?

Low paying, menial jobs were also plentiful. The daily newspapers were filled with vacancy ads and adverts for temporary placement services for every kind of job. Basically, if you could walk, you were hired. I started work immediately.

There were 6 different pubs within a hundred yards of where I lived. Which to make my local? Honestly, I don’t recall the criteria, but The Bull Terrier became it. Not atypical for the times or the locale (very similar to the pic above), it had grimy yellowed brick outside, and inside hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since between the wars. But it was very much the working man’s home away from home, and it rocked Friday nights when Paul came in and played the piano in the lounge and all the old war songs were sung and played.

It took me about a week to understand that I was spending much of my available food money on pints of bitter while learning the specialized skills of dart throwing. The popular pub manager was only too happy to hire me part time, 2 nights a week, one through the week, and one weekend night. It was an excellent arrangement. I saved my food money, got paid to hang out in the pub, and managed to get fully intoxicated each evening I worked. You see in the pub you don’t tip the barman, you buy him a drink every other round or so.  All evening long Marty would have 3 or 4 pints of bitter along the bar in front of customers, as I moved among them between serving, chatting with them over the pint they had treated me to. Thus I also learned the key facilities of listening attentively, commenting sagely, and being everyone’s excellent friend. Plus acquiring the knowledge how to appropriately mix various draught brews and bitters, and mastering the fine art of pouring Guinness for the Irish. All important life skills for a young vagabond as you can well imagine.

It was probably during my second or third week of working at The Bull Terrier that I saw him. Peter, Mick’s friend, whom I had had drinks with several times not more than a month before. And low and behold, he lived in this neighborhood!

I have calculated the chance of that happening. The population of London at that time divided by the odds of a workingman living in my area, multiplied by the inverse proportion of the likelihood of the pub I was working in on that night being Peter’s local on the nights he was home. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 1/8,000,000 I figure.

The odds were so catastrophic against, that clearly it could not, and did not, happen by chance.

Fate was definitely in control. And in this instance Fate had a name. It was Jessica. Who would teach me additional life skills.

You just know Jessica is going to come up again, don’t you … ?

 

When Marty Has to Make Choices Red This Time (2)

RedThongColourSBW and I had agreed that I will choose her thong for the day.  Here is the first post about that as a refresher .

What I’m about to describe happened during the third week of last December.

I knew she was heading out that night to a small, intimate seasonal gathering. So the red thong was clearly what she would wear.

“Which should I wear today, Marty?” she asked in the early afternoon.

“You will be wearing the red tonight, Baby. No question. Seasonal colors and all that. You’ll be so sexy in that little black dress, and the red will let your intimate parts celebrate too.”

“Show me your ass please,” I instruct.

I watch her step into her thong. As she bends forward her beautiful, rounded ass faces me. The curvature is just so perfect. Yes, I said curvature. Identical to the Earth’s from space. Hauntingly beautiful in my humble opinion. How much do I crave that? You have no idea. Pussy lips visible between her firm muscular thighs. Ever so slowly she draws the red band up along those long sexy legs, wending its way to meet this curvature’s Great Rift Valley. I watch longingly as the red ribbon of fabric disappears. Everything snugly fitting.

A final tug and snap. As SBW does a quarter turn, she shimmies her ass in a so, so subtle fashion. I have never met a woman who combines these two unique facets in such an incredible way … sensuality … and innocence. She does know she is a very sexy woman … heck, I remind her several times a day … yet she doesn’t fathom the massive impact that sensuousness has on me.

Yes Marty, today’s choice was well done. You should celebrate!