It’s Nice When They Appreciate (III) The Green Couch

Marcie and I were seeing each other most nights. While we would generally hang out at my house on weekends, during the week we tended to alternate between my house and her large apartment in an older section of town. Though older, the building was well maintained, and super clean. And the rooms were quite large. Following the night described here we decided the next evening would be at Marcie’s. The attention she had paid to my cock was really intoxicating, and I knew I’d be ready for a lot more the next night. And I suspected so was Marcie.

This upcoming night was my midweek basketball night, though, and it was an important game. With a beer after the game, it would be near 11:30 – midnight before I would get to her place, so she should be prepared for that.

I gave her some instructions for the preparation.

I promised to phone her when I was leaving the bar. But she was to prep herself for my arrival. I wanted her to be waiting for me in my favorite room in her apartment … the living room. This room was quite large, with original dark oak floors, covered by an enormous oriental rug. There were 4 original iron radiators.

When I arrived she was to be naked, on the room’s couch … memorably green in color … perched on forearms and knees, her ass lifted and facing my direction. And two of her “smelly” candles were to be lit … no other lighting.

She was also to be mentally prepared for me to be ravenous with her. She was to be a total “good girl”, knowing that I potentially would be using “all” of her. Especially if we won the basketball game. Her upturned ass was to be adequately lubed, and the tube to be available nearby, just in case. I was a little more “direct” with her than normal. Marcie reacted well. I could almost see her smiling on the other end of the phone.

I wasn’t certain what would happen … nor in which order … but I was expecting it was going to be memorable.

… to be continued.

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And Life Goes On

I texted her to ask about a city she recently visited. I will be there shortly.

Almost immediately she texted back. I was surprised. It usually is not so quick.

She answered my questions, and we had a brief chat about my upcoming trip. And then about some other relatively unimportant things. A chat just like any other chat “friends” would have.

It hurt.

“You ok?” I asked. It had been some time since we have communicated.

“Yes. I’m good. Just busy. It was so nice to hear from you today” she wrote.

“I miss you, Marty. xx”

I could only stare at the words. Wistfully. Heart in throat. Bleeding.

“I miss you every day” I typed.

There was no need for her to know about the tears that were suddenly welling in my eyes.

The Feist

She is tall. Her hair is dark, just above shoulder length. Blue-gray eyes.

Lithe and leggy. Small breasted.

Very firm ass. I’ve watched it move around closely. She has a highly understated sensuality. The way she grabs her hair to make a pony tail …

She’s also used to being in charge. I can tell. But for some reason, she is quick to back off that with me. Needless to say, I’m hooked. Well not yet, actually. More like the bait is out and I’m circling it.

And she has an uncanny resemblance to the singer Feist.

I wonder if she can sing …

 

 

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.

A La Prochaine

We run you and I.

We run to stay ahead.

Something is always chasing us.

Our past.

Our shadows.

We think we have it all under control, because this is what we do; we’re professional runners-from-our-past after all.

And then, when we’re comfortably way out ahead, we’re ambushed from out of nowhere.

We’re caught!

Adieu my Lovely. I’ll miss you. Focus on the important.

I know you will.

I know your will.

A la prochaine

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.

If Somehow The World Were … Different

Time carries on. It inevitably changes things. Us. Time is history … moving. We can fight the motion, but we can never keep up with the result. But moving on without a struggle offends human nature. It’s so … defeatist.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m on the brink,

Because …

I remember how I used to think”

“Would you if I asked?” she queries me.

She wants to know what I’m thinking these days. Where I’m at. Really, where I’m going.

“If you texted me more often, you could find things out,” I say.

“I don’t like to ask”. She infers, “Would I tell her the truth?”

“Yes, I only want to see a peek

But if …

You skirt the questions … I’ll just be weak”

Where once there were no secrets there is now caution and timidity and the fear of seeming weak or needy. Instead of brilliant clarity in the relationship, there now are only shadows. Shadows which hide, grey shadings to mask feelings. An illusory mist to dampen and lubricate previously sharp emotions. A veil concealing the feared imperfections.

While dormant, the intensity is there yet. She fears it. I don’t know whether I should get closer. Or go away.

‘No, it won’t ever be like before

Not now …

The Dark craves always for even more”

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Secrets Come

There is something very special when secrets are revealed. Without pressure or coercion. When they are freely given. They open you up. They release you. They free you.

She has entrusted me with several of her secrets. That very few, if any, know. Her thoughts, concerning her deep cravings, of her condition, her past, her activities, secrets concerning her closest family.

This is a very important beginning.