Of Old Pics and Beards

article-2219175-158CF6CB000005DC-857_306x423[1]serious-children[1]I am acquainted with a very Startlingly Beautiful Woman. Last night she requested some pics of the younger Marty. I ranged around for any I could easily find. You see it’s not that simple, photography having been newly invented when I first began roaming this planet.

SBW: I would LOVE to see a pic of you when you were younger!

I found  3 or 4. They aren’t like the great posed selfies we exchange these days. These were anything but; post action shots of Marty in sweats or casual attire. Not at my “picture best” in other words. One with a full beard. One bare chested from a distance. One after a hard 5k race.

SBW: Omg!! You’re so HOT!

Marty: Huh?

SBW: You. Are. Hot. I love the pics.

Marty: You’re making me smile

SBW: You made me smile.

SBW: You are so cute!

My evening was made. Sometimes I’m so shallow and easy to please.

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Tall Oaks Don’t Tell Tales

I haven’t mentioned Annie in a long, long time. You can get a feel for her here, here, and here.

Annie and I were together for several years. One weekend we attended the wedding of a young man who worked in my office, and with whom I played on a sports team. I was his mentor in business, doing my very best to teach and smooth over some very rough edges. But on the sports field, he taught me the subtleties and intricacies, as he had played this game professionally. So we had become reasonably close as mentor and student, switching roles in and out of the office. As well, Annie had become close friends with his fiancée.

The wedding was on a brilliant July Saturday afternoon, with both the ceremony and the reception at a classy suburban golf and country club. We were all dressed to the nines. I had on my newest, classy, top of the line suit, and if I do say so myself … I looked … ahem … pretty damn good. Definitely rakish. With my longish greying locks, think Richard Gere on a bad hair day. And Annie? With a figure hugging new blue dress, long slit showing off her perfectly rounded 36Cs, and her firm ass, she was every man’s dream date.

The bride was beautiful, the groom dashing. The self prepared vows they swore were tasteful and contemporary. As the bridal party left for the photograph session, we all headed for the bar, which had been set up on a nearby patio. The booze was flowing and nobody seemed to notice the long absent wedding party, as the photographer must have been taking his time.

At this point let me remind you again that Annie was gorgeous. And very much a sexual vixen. Which kind of fit pretty well with the way I was handling myself in those years. It may not come as a big surprise to you either, that after 3 or 4 drinks, Annie’s dress with the deeply plunging neckline and her soft sexual banter in my ear in her mother tongue were starting to get a rise in a particular area of my anatomy. She giggled and taunted me mercilessly once she could see my situation. Something needed to be done! An immediate remedy was required!

Off in the distance to the right of where we were, I could see a small copse of trees. I wondered if they could possibly shield us from being discovered if we were able to partake in some naughtiness. Here at this exclusive Country Club. In public view. Dressed as we were.  I could see the trees were all alone, a bit apart, as no fairway passed close to them.

“Let’s go for a walk, Beautiful,” I said as I grabbed Annie’s hand and headed toward the trees.

We walked about 50 yards. The trees were a dozen tall, stately oaks. Though the branches didn’t start until far off the ground, the trunks of the trees were exceptionally large and I was pretty sure would act as a secure screen from an unwelcome peering.

We found our spot, 3 trees in and to the left. On the away side from the clubhouse.

This wasn’t a time for romance.  This wasn’t a time for sweet talking. There was no time!

Annie quickly pulled down her tights and lifted her dress. I unzipped.

It was pure “Slam! Bam! Thank you M’am!”

Or maybe “I demur! You made me purr! Thank you, Sir!”

One and done.

We quickly cleaned up after the deed was finished. Certain the tall oaks would keep our secret. Only they knew what had just happened.

And now so do you, faithful readers. I hope you will keep my secret, too.

After all, I may want to join the Country Club one day.

Sometimes I Get Embarrassed … When Girls Talk

I have decided to revisit certain posts from time to time. Call them a Marty-Replay.  Posts I like. Or I’m happy with how they were written and catch the moment just right. Or are particularly relevant even now. But mostly that I like. Here’s the 2nd.  I’m sure most of you are not familiar with Marcie. If you are curious, here is some background.

Here    and   here

It was like a girls night out. Except the boys tagged along. Three couples sitting around the pool on a warm evening. Marcie and I were on a winter break and had booked a week at a Mexican beach resort. During the evening meal of our second day there we had started to chum around with two other couples around our age.

After dinner we adjourned to a patio near the pool for drinks and conversation. For some reason the three women sat beside each other in patio chairs, while the men were together opposite. As the cheap Mexican red wine flowed, the inhibitions began disappearing like a rapidly outgoing Caribbean  tide.

The women were all extremely attractive. There was the tall Chicago blonde with below shoulder length Farah curls and the 38Ds. Then there was Virgina beauty, short with long raven hair complementing her cute button nose, tight little ass, and 34Cs. The men didn’t really have much to say. We were more interested in listening, I guess. Wine induced, the girls’ conversation became very sexual, very quickly.

It wasn’t long before Marcie got into describing the evening we arrived. How a few Mexican beers had led to a walk on the beach as darkness was setting in. How in the blackness of the night, the softness of the zephyr off the sea, and the effects of the beer we felt totally alone. How I sat on the solitary beach chair, beer can in hand facing the sea, and how Marcie knelt and took my cock deep in her mouth. How she slurped noisily  How after several minutes of that she grabbed my hand and I pushed her to the sand on all fours and took her roughly from behind. How as I pulled her hair and she grunted while climaxing a group of people could be heard strolling nearby. How we couldn’t have cared less.

Chicago eyed me with a sly smile. Virginia Brunette’s eyes opened wider. I was on the hot seat and I could feel my face flushing a bit. Good thing it was early evening and the light wasn’t so good.

There was more wine and more girl talk. Lots more. And it started to get dirtier. Chicago blonde explained how in order for her husband to get fucked at all, he had to perform cunnilingus just right on her, and for the length of time and number of orgasms she felt appropriate that night. She made it quite clear who was the boss, and who gave the sexual directions

I flashed her my “that’s not how it would be with me Hottie” look with my deep blue eyes. And she nodded back in agreement. I looked over at her husband and even in the dimming light I could see him silently slouching lower in his chair.

Virginia Brunette, not to be out done, filled everyone in on how she took care of her husband. Apparently she had a coterie of 4 or 5 men. Periodically one would be invited to their house in the Washington suburbs for the evening, for dinner and drinks with her and her husband. Which would be followed by raunchy sex with Virginia Brunette. In the bedroom with the lights on. While husband stood in the bedroom doorway to watch and listen. At the appropriate command, he would be allowed to undress. And should she feel generous, she would give him permission to stroke himself while he watched his beloved wife in the throes of outrageously noisy sex with the visitor. Then after her upteenth orgasm, if she was feeling really generous, she would go to the doorway and finish him off with a hand job.

I had always wondered what those Beltway civil servants did with their free evening time.

Marcie was loving it. The other men, not so much. Marcie had this laugh, that became raunchier the drunker she became. She was very drunk now, and the laugh was an outright cackle. Given the spirit of the conversation, and fearing the worst from her mouth, I suggested it was time for us to call it an evening. I wasn’t really interested in having my personal modesty tested any more than it had been. But she wasn’t interested in leaving.

“You know Marty has just the best cock I have ever had” she blurted out. My heart sank.

“It is such a good length, and nice and wide. And oh, does he know how to use it on me!”

“Marcie! Enough!” I could feel my whole you don’t-really-know-me, I’m-so-respectable world becoming a distant memory if I didn’t get her to quit soon. But I feared she was just getting started.

“But what is really amazing about Marty is how incredibly hard he gets! Like hot, hot rock! Yes, that’s it, hard as rock.  With super big and hard veins. I have never had a cock in all my parts that is so hard!’

Chicago Blonde raised an eyebrow in my direction. “Really, Marty?” she purred. I knew I was squirming noticeably even in this light. Could they see my sweaty brow? I’m pretty private, and the discomfort I was beginning to experience was, for me, stomach turning.

Virginia Brunette eagerly slid forward in her chair. “How often do you get to Washington, Marty?”

Damn this was embarrassing. Normally I would love the attention these two beautiful women were directing my way. But not like this! It wasn’t me doing the selling. I wasn’t in control at all. And I couldn’t handle it.

“Marcie, we’re leaving now!” I commanded

“I’m going to finish my drink. And my story!” she retorted

Uh-oh. This was not good. Though usually very compliant, Marcie had a stubborn streak at times, and I didn’t want to test it. I wasn’t going to win if I did. That was certain.

“Well I’m going back to the room,” I huffed. It was a gamble on my part. I was certain Marcie was terribly horny, but she was also enjoying her girl time. But I couldn’t handle the spotlight, I knew that for sure. At worst, I figured she’d be along in 2-3 minutes.

I was right, of course, it was under 3 minutes when she joined me in the room. I have no idea what else she confided in the group. And I didn’t ask. But she got one helluva spanking that night.

 

Hidden In Plain View

It was quite the place for a young man to spend the summer. The beaches, the bars and restaurants, and most of all the girls, in the process of becoming women.

She was becoming a woman. We were all still boys.

It’s not that I underestimated her; I just wasn’t paying attention. I really wasn’t interested in her at first.

Oh she was cute enough. But right at the beginning I was told she was “Miss Wholesome”. Proud of being a virgin. The virgin with the goddess’ figure.

Early after my arrival, it was Faye who caught my attention … what with her Southern accent, long dark hair and charming, disarming smile. Until she left for home. And then I hooked up with the Party Girl. She was fun, but much too skinny for what my 21-year old body wanted. So my friend from home and I switched playmates. That’s the only time I’ve done that, but I thought it worked out pretty well at the time. No muss … no fuss.

I had no idea she was closely watching with those hazel eyes and evaluating the whole time.

When she decided she wanted me though, she made certain I saw her every day in her bikini in the surf. It was quite a sight. Even to his day, every time I see a beach scene or the surf pounding, I picture her running through the waves, long loping strides, her tits bouncing and craving escape. And she never missed a night of drinking if she knew I’d be there. Eventually she caught my attention. And my focus.

When we were in the bar or back at my apartment, I loved the way she wrapped her arm around my thigh. No one had ever done that before. Or since. She was the only one. A signature move if ever there were one. We would sit sometimes for hours like that, downing our beers. When we were like that, I knew I would be the one to ruin her good girl image.  I knew she wanted me to. It was the first time I ever could feel and be so sure of something like that. That I knew exactly which way she was headed. And why.

Once we started, we were inseparable. I guess all young love is that way. But I had made my mind up I wouldn’t be falling in love. There would be too much distance, too many restrictions, too many complications.

But someone had a different idea.

My Christmas Witch List

Boudica_Modern_by_quickreaver

Boudica_Modern_by_quickreaver

I have decided to revisit certain posts from time to time. Call them a Marty-Replay.  Posts I like. Or I’m happy with how they were written and catch the moment just right. Or are particularly relevant even now. But mostly that I like. Here’s the 1st.

Beautiful Boudicca. I wish I could call you mine. But no, I can’t.

When you arrived late to the gathering, I found myself at the other end. Trapped, away from you. I saw you glance my way so many times. And send me smiles and eye missives.

Finally you motioned for me to come to you. It had been over 4 months since I had even seen you or talked to you. And now talk we did. Standing nose to nose for more than 30 minutes, we caught up.

But it was much more than catching up. I saw the repeated flicker of want in your pale blue eyes.  I peered beneath the exterior, glimpsing into your depths.

I have always known of your powers. We are few who recognize. And my knowledge gives you pleasure.

I wonder if you and Cassandra would get along. Celtic princesses, mystic sisters of the same spirit.  Your pale blue, her olive green. The Artist and the Warrior. You would know each other and understand, identify. But you two are very different. I wonder.

Then your husband grew impatient. And drew you away.

I await your text. Or are you awaiting mine?

 

Midweek Fantasizing … The Letter

This hasn’t happened. It’s a total figment of my imagination. I just kind of day dreamed it the other day.

Cassandra came to see me in my small corner of your globe. It was just a quick visit on a Saturday. She managed to stop off for a day on the return trip from some business thing-ma-jig she was on. So I thought I had better make good use of the time I had with her.

We strolled leisurely down by the water, close and occasionally touching, but no PDA. Neither of us are really into that. She was enjoying seeing me relaxed in my village, in my element, where I’m very comfortable.

The mid-afternoon sun was becoming quite warm so I suggested it was time for a cold beer. I had planned ahead. Cassandra thought this was a superb idea and we headed for a nearby bar. The pub’s outdoor patio was lively and perfect for people watching, a Cassandra-favored activity. I knew this, but instead I suggested we find a table inside.

“Why Darling? It’s so lovely outside. And lots of people.” She knows that in my climes, we need to take advantage of any sunshine we can get.

But I was firm … “No Baby, I want to go inside. I think my pale skin has had enough exposure for today.”

“Ok” she pouted, “if that’s what you want.”

“It is,” I sweetly smiled. I knew it wasn’t making my girl happy, but I rarely do things without a purpose. Cassandra well knows this, but for some reason she didn’t further question my choice.

We found a small table at one end of the bar. It was far from crowded inside and we had our pick of spots. The pub’s dark wood finishes all around would be very warm and cozy on a chilly winter day, but this afternoon they lent an air of coldness and an almost gloomy vibe. Cassandra was not her usual beaming self. I just inwardly smiled. The server approached, raised her eyebrow toward me, and indicated in the affirmative when I ordered two pints of a local brew.

“Oh look,” I said. “Maybe there will be a group performing” as I nodded to a nearby corner where there was a stand up microphone sandwiched between an electric keyboard and two large congas.

“Hmmpphh. Maybe. I hope so.” Cassandra retorted.

And just as she finished snarling her words 3 grizzled veterans of the 1960s strolled up to the mike and instruments. My kind of guys!

“This could be fun!” I said, hoping to drum up some interest. No reaction.

The “boys” immediately broke into Ray Charles’ “Georgia On My Mind“. And it was good!

The songs began to roll out out in a constant stream, mostly blues, and then some older pop hits. These boys were taking no breaks!

Now Cassandra and I are alike, and at the same time,  so very different. I’ve touched on these things before, but I should also tell you she plays the piano. Classical. Me? I’m musical, too. Ask me anything about the British Invasion.  Same part of the brain I figure … only a different mix and quality of neurons.

Cassandra’s mood was rapidly improving despite the dark interior of the pub.

“The singer reminds me so much of Joe Cocker” she chimed in as she tapped her foot to the groove happening a few feet away.

“Mmmmhmm” I answered while slurping my ale, trying not to choke as I chuckled.

She was correct, of course. He sounded a lot like Joe … a small register higher, and an itsy bit less of a rasp, fewer arm and hand gestures, but the similarity was irrefutable.

“I love Joe Cocker!”

“I know” I smiled. “You used to hear him while riding in your daddy’s truck when you were small.”

“That’s right! How did you remember that?”

I smirked downing another sip. Cassandra was full-on giggly-happy right now.

I told her how I had first been exposed to and got into Joe Cocker, as a young barman in a South London pub, pouring pints while watching him on telly on Top Of The Pops.

The band then did an unbelievable rendition of Ben E King’s Stand By Me. I think this was going to be a Celebrate the Great Ones Recently Gone Saturday for the band.

There was pronounced applause from every corner of the room. The bar was totally full and fully rockin’ at this point. The singer smiled broadly. As the cheering ended, the singer looked towards me. I smiled and not so discretely nodded back to him.

In my mind, Joe Cocker was absolutely the best rock interpreter of other peoples’ songs. He covered songs as well as, or often better, than the original. Think about With A Little Help From My Friends, or You Are So Beautiful, Ain’t No Sunshine, and several others. Including the one that I had prerequested … heh heh … The Letter.

On cue, the piano played the familiar opening chords and I watched as Cassandra’s eyes lit up. She knew what was coming …

“Come on, Baby! Let’s dance!” I shouted.

“Yes!” she laughed. “I don’t care if we’re the only ones!”

This is one thing Cassandra and I have never done … danced.

And we did! My lord she’s a great dancer. Such wonderful rhythm as I twirled her and swung her, as I hugged her, I dipped her. We danced cheek to cheek, we laughed. And I watched the older audience eat it up watching us … the vintage male with a few moves charming the hot blonde babe.  The raised eyebrows and nods of first disbelief, then comprehension.

All to The Letter.

We had to leave. The bulge in my jeans was much too obvious now. It needed to be taken care of. ASAP.

Here’s the late great man himself. This reminds me I need to get one of those hot, black female bass players for myself.

 

Midweek Fantasizing … I’m Focused

posting_41603_lg[1]I’ve had this image in my mind for the past couple of weeks. In fact I can’t get it out of my mind.

I see her clearly. Above me. Fabulous breasts hanging down to my face. Unbelievable! She looks down smiling.

I kiss.

I lick.

I suck.

I touch.

I fondle.

I play with.

I pull.

I tweak

I twist.

I nibble.

I bite.

I gorge.

She cums.

But that’s irrelevant,  because it’s all about what I want. Right now.

I want more of course. I adore all her parts and crevices. But at this moment that’s my focus. Which is a bit strange for a multi-faceted lover like me.

I want what I want.

And I want those breasts and nipples. For me.

And I want to send her home with bite marks and bruises. Like I’ve done before.

Mid Week Fantasizing (X) — Of Opposite Poles and Dichotomies

This isn’t exactly fantasizing. It did happen this past summer. But as I awoke with a very hard erection this morning, thoughts of the hotel room came flooding back. Pay it Forward at Joyce Gordon Gallery backside of flier For well more than an hour she had had an orgasm every several seconds. No more than 15 to 20 seconds apart for 60+ minutes. I had fed her voracious need with my cock, my tongue, her vibrator, and for the longest time, my fingers and hand. Four fingers worked best. Pressing her g-spot firmly sent her over the precipice and usually meant a warm, powerful gush into my open palm.  I was falling deeply for her as I studied her face the whole time. I spoke softly to her, I whispered my love in her ear.

There were no words back, only slight nods in acknowledgement, the pleasure too numbing.  Placid, classic beauty shifted through the seconds into a wanton, needing goddess of the feminine divine. She arched, she contorted, her green orbs rolled back. The slightly parted lips revealing the pearls of her teeth rounded into a perfect “O” before the animal groan to her climax. The off white hotel room’s walls surely were over the saturation point absorbing the flood of orgasmic grunts. While one hand pressed in her pussy, my other would gently enclose her slim neck, or circle and tweak her erect nipples. Fingers lovingly stroked her cheek and then could slide down  and brush along her abdomen and drop to fondle along the inside of a thigh. Each light touch of my hand stoked the embers of ecstasy that coursed through her body.

At last my own wantonness began to return. I could feel the hardness happening. I half chuckled at nature’s perversity, the female’s ability to orgasm almost continuously when lovingly stimulated contrasted to the male’s requirement to regroup and refresh.

I told her to get on her hands and knees. She complied without a word and languidly, turned and raised herself.  I moved her to the side of the bed. As I felt her soft skin along the length of her back and my fingers caressed her upturned ass, I thought of the contrast she would be feeling as my steel like erection would enter her. I forewarned of the abrupt change with a quick, hard push down on her back, driving her head into the pillow.

I grabbed her arms and clasping her wrists with my left hand, I pinned them behind her back and jammed her down harder with my right.  Then using my right to guide, I slowly entered her dripping, waiting pussy. I heard … I felt … her gasp. Pumping slowly into her, my erection was stiffening like mad, as though I hadn’t already cum hard several times earlier.

The room held nothing but contrasts. Dim natural light slipping between darkened curtains shadowing the white lovers’ bodies. The young, beautiful, soft and nubile … the old, hard and grizzled. The warm … the cold. The south … the north.

I watched my reflection in the grey glass of the picture across the room. Taut torso, bending backward before each thrust. The act, a physical need as old as the beginning of the species, yet the emotional bond as deep as the human soul can dive. How can these polar opposites possibly attract? How can a momentary union connect and bond two so disparate creatures together perpetually as one?

Her breathing moved up tempo, her moaning intensified. I could feel her as she clenched around my hardness. Cries and gurgling were pushing me to the edge. As I continued to hold her wrists tightly, the walls suddenly echoed with her shout as she came hard.  Two, maybe three, probably four pumps later I, too cried out savagely. I held her, releasing her wrists, with one arm around the front of her body, my head resting gingerly on her back. More whispers in her ear. Then we decoupled, her head safely cached upon my shoulder.

Sweet, soft words and tender grasps and touching. I kissed her forehead, and then her lips Her breasts begged for my hands, her nipples my fingers. The touching commenced anew. The embers inside began to glow. This goddess was far from sated.

I knew four fingers would work best.

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.

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.