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?

 

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Church Bells and Adventure

I am away. I am away on an adventure.Texts with Cassandra early this morning have reminded me I’ve always loved adventure. Since my first major adventure on my own at 17.

I am in a tiny medieval European village. I awake to the peal of church bells rousing the nearby roosters to prepare to perform their sunrise duty. An hour later the bells cry out again to the workers to come and begin the day’s labor in the fields. I hear a donkey bray.

The bells have sounded this way for centuries, providing order and structure, governance and stability. The antithesis of adventure.  Man can not exist on adventure alone.

A significant part of the adventure includes women. Beautiful women. Intelligent and successful. Literally surrounding me. My beautiful Bella just brought me a fresh coffee. I gaze slack-jawed at the good fortune I have engineered. I am the perpetual  8 year old in the candy shop, who rushes from glass display case to glass display case, unable to choose his favorite.

But there is an almost insurmountable problem in this adventureland paradise. The 8 year-old has no money! Due to circumstance, the candy can not be eaten, even when clearly it wishes to be consumed. The adventure is grand, but alas, not perfect

The boy must await another time to partake of his addiction.

 

 

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 … So I Picked Up this Hot, Young Chick in a Bar

montana%20bar%20Miles%20city[1]

I walked into the bar after my long day on a Monday night in a far off town I was visiting. Just off the highway. Several pickups parked outside. None of them foreign pickups either, I might add.

Inside, the bar had a real cowboy look to it. Even in the dim light I could tell this place was a bit of a dump. But it felt like a comfy dump, if you know what I mean. The U-shaped bar straight ahead only had 4 or 5 people around it, and there was a couple playing pool off to the right on one of the tables. A small, empty stage was further back. Probably used on the weekends, not enough customers tonight that’s for sure.

I sat my sorry ass down on a stool on the right side of the bar. There was no one on that side, so that suited my wish to be alone. I was also close to the tiny, open kitchen so it would be easy to sample the burgers and ribs. Yep, you guessed it. I’m a real foodie, too.

The woman serving behind the bar was probably all of 22. Very cute, very blonde to her shoulders, very built, and sporting a very low cut top. I don’t mind saying my view was going to be excellent. Even when she served the other side of the bar, her shorts-clad tight ass would merit all of my nuanced focus.

Very Blonde pulled my draught while I studied every inch of her. Not much could go wrong with that I figured.

As I lovingly sipped the tall cool one, just for a second I took my eyes away from Very Blonde. I nearly choked! I know my eyes widened. Directly across from me on the other side of the bar, nursing a beer was another blonde. While Very Blonde was young and cute, Far-Side Blonde had short hair, maybe a decade or so more in years, and the perfectly beautiful face that suited the cool sophisticate she obviously was. How could I tell all that from 40 feet in a dimly lit bar? Years and years of experience, my friends. An expertise that has been finely developed and tuned.That rarely fails to deliver.

But, holy shit … Far Side Blonde was looking right at me over top of her beer. No! She couldn’t be! If she was earlyish 30s, she wouldn’t be looking at me. I may have had some looks back in the day, but to her, this vintage has way too many years in the barrel to even merit a glance from such a beauty. Probably watching the couple playing pool behind me, I bet. I turned to watch, too. But no, they were no longer playing. What gives here?

And what is Far Side Blonde doing here? Not exactly her normal milieu I’m guessing. How did I miss her when I came in? You’re losing it, Marty-boy! Big time. Distracted by the shiny 22-year old baubles. That’s 5 minutes of high quality gawking you’ve just squandered.

I’m trying not to be too obvious as I stare at her. Right! You’re not obvious at all Marty, my friend. She’ll never notice.

Wait! She’s getting up … is she leaving? No, can’t be. Her glass is still 2/3 full. Umm … she’s walking around the bar, my way. Gulp, now what am I gonna do?

Oh, whew … she’s going to the bathroom. They’re not far from where I’m sitting, near the pool tables. That was close. Did she glance at me and give me a half smile as she walked by? No, I don’t think so. Your imagination is playing tricks on you again, Marty.

I went back to my beer and took a long sip. Was I perspiring? I think I was. Not only was Far Side Blonde stunningly beautiful, but she was extremely well built, too. Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!

I was lost in inappropriate thoughts of her when I felt a presence to my right.

“Hi there!. How are you?” I heard in a dulcet, silky tone.

There she was … beside me, touching my elbow with her hand. I was aghast!

“Ummmm …. ummmm … h-h-hello” I stuttered in response. I just stared into her eyes.

“I watched you come in.”

“You d-did?” I asked in an amazed voice.

“I did. I haven’t seen you in here before”.

“Um … no … I’m just here for a few days. Taking a course.”

“Oh? A course? What on?”

I hesitated.

“Uhhh … uhhhh … uhhhh … I … for …get.” I stammered

Far Side Blonde chuckled. “Oh, I see. I’m sure it will come back to you.”

“Probably. Later” I added.

“Is your hotel near here?” this beauty asked me

“Oh, yes. Yes, it is. Why do you ask?”

“Because I want you to whisk me out of this place, and ravish me all night long in your hotel room” she affirmed. “Then repeat in the morning.”

“You do?” I gasped. I sat there stunned.

“I do! So let’s pay our bills and get out of here. Now!”

This actually hasn’t happened, of course. But as I was driving home from work, this idea popped into my head. I think it would be fun to enact with Cassandra. Pick her up in a certain bar she is acquainted with. Or her me. Whichever works. Fun to play out, no?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Porn Star Marty

I received this text from Cassandra last night just as I arrived home from my evening workout.

I just came so hard.

With my vibe.

Watching some porn that made me think of you.

Damn! I came so hard.

I just wanted you to know.

I love you.

Hey and this is my 100th post! That must make me some sort of star.

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.

My Addictions

woman-driving-car-getting-sun-damage[1]I’m a bit addicted to working out. I like to keep in shape and a recent test of my fitness indicates I am off the scale for my age. Actually pretty close to off the scale for men decades younger than me. So some addictions are very, very good. But then the other day I pulled a muscle … ow! … the addiction didn’t feel so good that day. Add the nagging cold with sniffles and I wasn’t feeling all that chipper.

The same day I pulled the muscle, Cassandra phoned me in the early evening on her drive home from work.  Her call caught me a bit off guard because it was much earlier than I expected. So all of a sudden, I was feeling a whole lot better.

Sexy women are my other addiction in case you were interested.

Cassandra quickly came to the point that was on her mind.

“Shouldn’t you be slipping your pants off?”

“Umm, I guess I could … ”

“Only if you want to Baby.” she purred.

“They’re off!” I exclaimed. I can be decisive.

“That’s good Baby” she breathlessly whispered back.

Now right about here I should mention that Cassandra has the softest, sexiest purr of a voice you could imagine. With a creamy accent that makes my toes curl with lust the second I listen to her. You can hear the thick honey sweetness dripping with each syllable. She always has me in the palm of her hand with her gentle “mmmHmmm”.

“Is the thought of me and what I want to do to you getting you hard, Baby?”

I gulped. “Umm … yes it is.” I moved to the bedroom and on to my bed.

“That makes me smile.”

That comment got me harder.  I stretched out on the bed.

As I stroked, she softly outlined how her tongue would meet exposed parts of my body. A helmet and its tip were mentioned. How the swirls around said body parts would make me feel. What moist lips along extremities could then do. How her grip would tighten as I thickened.

I swallowed hard.

Then she outlined how she wanted to crawl up my naked torso and straddle me. Insert my throbbing cock into her pussy. And not so gently begin to ride me.

The image was vivid in my brain.

“And I can feel your tits crashing into my face. Oh how I would suck your nipples so hard!”

“You know how I love it and go crazy when you do that.”

I was out of breath … “I do” I gasped.

Now Cassandra and I are mismatched in so many facets. But then, we are matched perfectly in so many other ways. Like her words and my imagination and memory. Every thing she was saying flashed like a hologram before my eyes. And I remembered these things as they happened in hotel rooms in different parts of the continent. The effect they had had on me.

“Baby, you always make me cum so hard when we’re together” I babbled. The bed rocked to the rhythm of my hips.

“MmmHmmm” she cooed. “I know. And I want you to cum hard now, Marty. Very hard.”

“I want to … ”

“Cum for me Marty. Cum for me now.

Don’t you want to cum for me? I want you to cum Marty.

I want you to cum hard. I want you to cum hard for me.

I want you to cum hard for me now, Marty. Marty, cum for me! Cum for me Marty!”

The silky tone of her voice was changing, it’s urgency cranked up several notches. The notes of pure honey were morphing in my ear into erotic dark chocolate, flooding the pleasure zones of my brain, but promising much more than simple pleasure.

“I’m close, Baby”

They pledged wild abandonment.

“Oh Marty I want you so badly … will you cum for me?”

They vowed sensual treasures beyond what I could imagine.

“Please Marty. I NEED you. I NEED you to cum for me now. Please! Please Marty!”

They guaranteed an always with her. A forever like none before.

I lost control. I cried out as my hips bucked and I spurted into an awaiting towel. My body was wrenching outside my command. The spasms wouldn’t cease as the orgasm raged on.

When finally the contractions stopped I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Between gasps for oxygen I let out a hearty laugh.

“It was good was it, Baby?” Cassandra asked.

“Oh, much better than that my love. Way better … Chrisst … I’m sitting on the floor! I don’t even remember falling!. I’m sitting on my ass on the floor! How did that happen?”

Cassandra’s laugh roared in response “What? You’re on the floor? You’re on the floor!”

“I am,” I sheepishly confessed. “Talk about a ride … er … a fall … holy smoke!”

Cassandra had to hang up as she was in bad traffic. But I knew she had an ear to ear grin. A smile as wide as the great plains, the prairie, the pampas. Right that second she was basking in the power she commanded and exerted. The ability to make a Martian completely lose control.

For all you sports fans out there the final score?

Exotic Earth Women – 1  Frantic Martian Males – 0

Yep, my addictions are good addictions.

Last Night … Sigh …

Last night I did a heavy duty workout with some friends. Then, as friends do, we went for a heavy duty drink afterwards.

I received this text from Cassandra later in the evening.

I’m in bed. So tired.

I hit the wall Baby.

I would love you to be beside me.

Touching me.

Pampering me.

I love you so much.

You make things so simple.

Wouldn’t that have been so very nice!

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.

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.