Peeping Tom

It had been a long day of standing in three inch heels on a concrete floor behind the teller’s desk. Dealing with rude people with important problems. Moving money around like there was an infinite supply of it when her own rent was two months behind.

She fantasized about the rich men. Mama had always said to marry money. Love don’t last, she said, but money, honey, that’s happiness. She didn’t know if she agreed. Papa was piss poor and they seemed happy. But this one standing at her window now, he was six feet of perfect Armani and glittering Rolex. The smell of Italian leather rolled off him, and he stood austerely with bank book in hand. He was gray at the temples, his shirt was an imposing shade of salmon, and his tie shiny and one shade darker than the shirt. His eyes were hidden by $1000 sunglasses.

“Sir, I have to ask you to remove your glasses,” she said politely. Her tone wouldn’t give away her wet panties. They were just Fruit of the Loom. But they looked better than bargain bin on her ass.  She motioned with her pen to the sign by the computer. “Security reasons. The cameras have to get a good look at you.” She smiled. But it was more to herself.

He complied and slid his book and a roll of hundreds through the slot.

She completed his request, and he left without ever uttering a word. But she committed every inch of him to memory for later… She chewed her lip. What Mama didn’t know was, if you had money you didn’t need a personality. She wondered how big his cock was and blushed.

She closed the apartment door behind her and flipped the lock, then remembered it was broken. She’d notified management about it three days ago. It was a good thing she didn’t have any valuables. She kicked off her red heels and shimmied out of her pencil skirt. She took the clip out of her hair and let it fall in fire around her face and shoulders. She undid the fake pearl buttons on her blouse on the way to the bedroom.

‘Charly!” she called. She made a kissing noise. “Charly baby, where are you?” That was odd. He was always weaving between her ankles and meowing for her attention when she came home. He only hid when she had guests. She called and cajoled a few more times, to no avail.

In the bathroom she washed the makeup off her face and peed. Then, wearing only a lace half cup bra and those serviceable panties, she went to the dresser and took out her vibrator. Mr. Pink Shirt was still on her mind, and she was inventing a whole story around their meeting love affair as she settled back against the pillows.

Her eyes darted to the partially open closet… “Charly?” she could have sworn she heard something from there. Silly cat.

Her fingers were already lazily scratching her coppery mound. Her other hand holding her pink panties aside; he’d always asked why she left them on, why she didn’t just strip when she masturbated. She couldn’t answer him. It just feels good for some reason, she’d said. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t. Her fingers dipped between her wet lips and she took them to her mouth and tasted.

Her eyes drifted back to the closet while her mind imagined Pink Shirt inside, watching her. His cock would be growing, straining against his trousers. He might even be touching while his gray eyes watched her with a wolfish aloofness.

Her breath grew ragged as soon as she placed the buzzing vibe against her sex. She rubbed it along her slit, like he would do the head of his cock. She bit her lip, like he would do as he kissed her. A hand went to a full breast, teasing the nipple from behind the lace and nipping and tugging on it, turning it from dusky pink to purple. She arched her back and moaned when the vibrator finally touched her clit-

She heard it for sure that time. “Who’s there?” she demanded, growing still. Her body was humming and she felt like she couldn’t hear over it. “Show yourself!”

Nothing for a moment. Then a deep masculine voice said softly, “Please don’t stop.”

Her heart did a somersault. But instead of jumping up and covering herself, she felt a full flush of heat, and a feeling that her flesh was rising to meet the intruder’s eyes.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said. He spoke barely above a whisper. “I won’t touch you. I just want to watch.”

The vibrations were insistent, and her hips were rising to meet them without her permission. Her heart thundered.

“Forget I’m here. I’m just a fantasy.”

Was she insane? There was a stranger in her closet, and she was lying spread open like a lunchtime buffet.

She slid the panties off, and shifted her body slightly. He now had an unobstructed view. She resumed rubbing, and now, now the man in the closet was Mr. Pink Shirt. Oh the ways in which the wealthy indulged their fetishes. She held the vibe against her clit, then slid it lower, let it slide into her cunt. She felt her juices running down over her anus as she slowly, deliberately fucked  herself with it. She pressed it against her g-spot and her first orgasm caused her to arch and moan and cry out. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear Mr. Pink Shirt whisper “Again.”?

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t ready to stop. The need swept through her like a tide. The vibe back on her clit and she rubbed out three more climaxes before rolling onto her tummy and reaching down to slide it into her ass, pushing up on her knees and letting the duvet muffle her desperate moans.

She finally lay spent, her hair covering her sweaty face, her body throbbing and limp. She drifted off and was later awakened by Charly kneading his paws into the small of her back. She stood and pulled a robe tight around herself, and crept to the closet like a child expecting ghosts. Gathering her nerve she flung the door wide, prepared to scream, but it was empty.

a bizarre, bleached pantomime — Peedeel’s Blog

The porn films are not about sex. Sex is airbrushed and digitally washed out of the films. There is no acting because none of the women are permitted to have what amounts to a personality. The one emotion they are allowed to display is an unquenchable desire to satisfy men, especially if that desire involves […]

via a bizarre, bleached pantomime — Peedeel’s Blog

Sunday with Daddy

It had been a long weekend. A lot of silence between them. She wasn’t sure what was going on. He’d fucked her that morning then left the house, said he was going to check out a gun show and maybe stop by the music store… she’d wanted to ask if she could come along, but for some reason today it felt best to let him go.

It was quiet when he wasn’t around. Not that he was noisy. But he moved a lot. He kept busy. And even when he slowed down, napped on the couch or in the wicker chair in the front room, he snored. She took comfort in his presence. Even the snoring made her smile. Sometimes she watched him sleep, watched the lines fall away, the years melt, imagined the curious little boy he’d been before worry and responsibility laid their loads on him.

She heard the door off the kitchen squeak on the one hinge. He kept oiling it, and it kept squeaking. He came in from the garage. She finished folding the towels and stuffed them into the linen closet, and went down the carpeted stairs on bare feet. She was in her cleaning clothes; blue jean shorts and an oversized T-shirt with no bra. She didn’t wear make up. And fingers passed for a comb in her preening vernacular. As she stepped off the landing she heard the TV. She stuck her head around the door and he looked up and smiled. “Hi baby girl.”

“Hi Daddy. Did you have fun?”

“I did. Found my strings.” He motioned at a paper sack on the coffee table.

“Would you like me to bring the guitar up for you?”

He patted the cushion beside him. “No, sweetie. Come here and sit with me.”

That made her happy. She sat next to him and settled under his arm. She smelled his warmth and deodorant and felt the prickle of his whiskers as he pressed a firm kiss into her hairline. “I missed you,” he said.

She smiled and looked at the TV. “Who’s playing today?”

He turned her face toward him with his index finger. “I’m sorry.” His eyes were dark and warm, familiar.

“For?”

He kissed her nose, and his fingers trailed absently along her jaw and down her neck. Her entire body knew their path, their destination, and her heart sped and her nipples peaked in invitation. “I haven’t been very nice this weekend.”

She tried to shake her head. His hand came back up swiftly to firmly clasp her chin, his other arm tight around her.

“Don’t do that.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t excuse me. Just forgive me for being a dick.”

His hand left again, and before she could say anything his mouth was on hers and his hand covered and kneaded her breast. He growled in his throat. She knew it was because of the absence of a bra. He preferred her this way.

Her hands went to his neck and she shifted to straddle his thighs, sitting on his lap, kissing him with the fire he always lit in her. When they broke, he looked up at her. She felt him throbbing between them through his khakis, through her denim.

“I want you for supper.”

“I need to shower,” she said with a grin. “And actual supper is in the oven.”

His grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging her flesh. He kept looking at her, holding her blue eyes, holding her hips, and he’d begun a gentle but insistent rhythmic push with his pelvis. Her own answered. It was instinctual. It was the need they ignited in one another.

He took her mouth again, his tongue brushing hers, probing deep, tasting. He fucked her mouth with his. Invading and retreating, breaths mingling, and those gentle thrusts became urgent.

He pulled back as his hands went to his belt. “Get them off,” he said casting a look at her clothing. His voice had a rough edge and her excitement flared. The sounds of football faded into the background. She stood and stripped in front of him. Quickly, without fanfare. His cock was in his hand and he pulled and stroked it. She fixated on the shining dew leaking and running. He looked hungry. Everything about him looked hungry and masculine. She felt the trickle of her own juices.

A groan from him as he looked at her. Always for her that moment of discomfort, shyness, vulnerability with all her flaws on display for him. But he would growl, take his hand away just so she could see the independent twitch and wave of his cock. He knew she thrived on his arousal. He knew exactly what to give her to make her need to please him.

She didn’t ask. She dropped to her knees on the soft carpet between his. He said, “Yes, little girl,” as he reached to touch her face. She caught his hand, and sucked his thumb into her mouth, their eyes still locked. She licked over the ball and let her tongue slide over the nail before taking it all the way, rolling her tongue to cup it like a taco. She held him there, tasting his flesh, teasing.

She sucked as he took it back, and there was something intensely erotic in the exchange. The anticipation. Her other hand was wrapped around his shaft. She hesitated, knowing well what would happen when she did. His hand on her head, pulling her face into his groin. There was no teasing, no denial today. There was only Daddy needing his cock sucked. Needing his perfect whore’s hungry mouth.

Needing her.

She loved this feeling. Of kneeling naked before him. Of his strong thighs surrounding her body and the stiff fabric against her bare skin. Of his eyes watching her and the sight fueling his arousal. His hand in her hair, sometimes resting lightly but possessively, others guiding her movements, her speed, her depth. It was a dance they performed well together, for maximum satisfaction. Never the same twice, but always perfect.

He filled her mouth, her throat. His flesh was rubbery and pillowy over the tip, swollen and hot… it was her favorite. Those textures, like a ripe plum. She scraped her teeth over him as though to leave an indentation but no mark, careful not to rupture or bruise. She sucked, gently then harder, and the tip of her tongue swirled and danced over him until she found his slit… gingerly playing there, tracing; such intimacy… to suck and taste, hoping he would feed her, her hands always working along his shaft, around his balls, a finger straying to stroke lightly over his asshole now and then. Her eyes always finding his again.

She paused briefly to give her jaw a rest. She bumped him playfully against her chin and lower lip, darted her tongue out to flick his frenulum. Smiled up at him. “You taste good, Daddy,” she whispered. “I love sucking your cock. I want to swallow you. I want your hot cum, what you made for me,” she whispered as she gently squeezed his full balls.

His reaction was an intense darkening, a deeply growled “Fuck!” and he stood and pulled her up. He pushed her onto the couch where he’d been sitting, his pants around his ankles, and he held her head with one hand wound in her short hair while the other guided his cock to her lips. “You’re going to make Daddy feel so good, baby girl. Open.”

She did, but not all the way. Only enough that he could push through her lips. Carefully wetting and wrapping them over her teeth, she braced against him and felt him push, felt the throb, heard the groan as she provided friction on his shaft while her tongue worked over him. He paused, reveling in the onslaught of sensations before beginning to thrust with some rhythm. Pushing deeper and deeper… faster. Her hands on his ass feeling his muscles contract. She had the vague passing thought that she was probably leaving a spot on the sofa cushion. Then he was blocking her airway.

She relaxed. Closed her eyes. She thought of the intense pleasure she was giving him, the things he would tell her he’d felt later, when they lay close together and he sheltered her with the same body that was taking from her; all those things only he told her because only he knew how she needed to hear them. When he pulled back she inhaled deeply and looked at him through watery eyes. He thrust again. Both hands on her head now. His pubic hair tickled her nose. She loved the heat from his body, his scent. She heard him saying words, words like take it like the little bitch you are, take Daddy’s fat cock, Daddy’s good whore swallowing his cock… And every word excited her on a level she’d never quite understood.

She knew when he came, when she tasted the salt and bitter of him, her cunt would throb and ache and long for her own release.

He pumped a few more times, giving her time to catch her breath before the last one that shot a hot stream of seed against the back of her throat. She cupped his balls to feel the contraction. She loved that moment. His release. His body climaxing, the throb of his cock and the grunt as he spasmed. Tears ran as she struggled to swallow, and he pulled back, but not out. He knew she wanted all of it. She needed him like a drug. She felt him over her tongue, one spurt after another, each hot and thick. A little ran out the side of her mouth over her chin. As his contractions eased, she sucked him gently, again touched her tongue to his opening and felt the drops pushing out. She moaned around him. She needed him now, needed him to get hard again and fuck her.

He knew.

“Suck, baby. Make me hard again so I can fuck your beautiful sloppy cunt.” He lifted her breasts, thumbing over nipples so sensitive that she moaned again. And she suckled and teased and pulled at him. She dipped her two middle fingers into her cunt, then looking at him, offered them. He took them and sucked them clean. “Again.”

Again she fed him her juices. Each taste, each firm suck had him hardening.

He finally pulled away and in a swift movement pulled her up and spun her, made her kneel on the couch, hands braced on the back. And he filled her in a single brutal thrust, all the way to her cervix, his hips pressed hard and forcefully against her ass. A firm smack with his open hand. Then his body against hers, his hands crushing her breasts, and he was fucking her like an animal. Hard, fast. And she was screaming with every thrust, begging him for more, calling his name.

He fucked her until she orgasmed over his cock, her juices flooding over him, and he came again. He kept fucking her till he softened and as his cock left her she felt his arms catch her as she sank down.

He laid down next to her on the narrow couch, his body half hanging off, and he held her close, tasted her sweat and tears and his cum on her lips. Kissed her and touched her while her shaking stopped and pulse slowed. His spent cock pressed intimately against her soft belly.

The referee’s whistle sounded over the hum of the audience, and the sun was falling in the autumn sky, and the smells of roasted chicken and baked apples mingled with the musky odors of sex and skin.

Just another perfect Sunday with Daddy.

Immune

Just one word, one heartbeat, one misstep or right step away from disaster… never immune. Immunity is for immortals.

You trace my scars with your fingers. Paths of destruction leading down blind alleys into waiting jaws. I hear the drip drip drip, and a soft pant of breath. Is it yours? Mine?

You told me not to hope with too much abandon while you looked into my soul and saw the fallacy of your own words. Abandon is all I know. Abandonment. They entwine with one another as we do, skin wrapped in skin, wet and velvet and the slow steady thud of your heart, so reassuring. I tell you I don’t care about immortality, as long as my time is well-spent.

No one sees them but you. What you trace on my skin is an invisible mark, left by an invisible heart. If I could wrap you in parchment and put you under glass for safekeeping, I would. Holding you is like holding a whisper. Yet your teeth in my neck say different. Your fingers bruise. You claim with your sex, with your mind, with the forcible strength of your character.

I wonder who follows whom down these dark halls.

The Drive

He is a man of simple tastes. He likes white lace and black silk, but most of all, he wants my skin. My sighs. My ecstasy. He wants what I’ll give no other man.

Traffic was heavy. At a standstill. Her voice over the Bluetooth screwed into his ear sent fingers of pure sensation from his cortex to his cock, hitting every nerve ending in between. It wasn’t the filthy words she said that strummed the tautest chords; it was who she was, what she gave.

She gave everything. She left nothing on the table.

“Is your cock out?” she purred.

“I’m driving, baby girl.”

Her smile curved her words, making them more seductive. “You’re sitting in traffic.”

She made him want to take chances, to excite her further, to please himself. She made him want to fuck with a desperation he hadn’t felt since youth. He always wanted to fuck. But she made him want to fuck. Her.

“Take it out, Daddy. No one can see. Feel how hard it is, how much you want to see it disappearing into my mouth.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing it. The tail of his dark tie acting as a curtain, aware of the proximity of humanity on all sides, each in their own steel bubble. He let his fingers caress gently for a moment, the sensuality of his own flesh, rising blood, and her voice racing over and through him. “I need to see you, baby.”

The picture came through immediately, and made his heart hammer. You want to fuck me, Daddy? It was captioned.

“You are my little whore, aren’t you?” he said. He was concentrating on keeping his face neutral, eyes ahead. But he was stroking and squeezing now, more turned on by the precum leaking and getting on his tie, his trousers. He thought he should stop before he made a mess he wouldn’t be able to hide, but she was still talking. Not only that, she was touching, too, and he heard every sensation in the subtle catches of breath and pauses in speech.

“Yes, I am. Don’t make a mess, Daddy. No one can know.”

He stroked faster. A horn pierced his brain, and he inched forward without pausing.

“Do you have a hanky?”

“Yes.”
“Put it over your cock, cum into it. You will cum for me, won’t you?”

He couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. His balls were drawn up almost painfully while he listened to her pant, listened to the wet sounds and buzz of her vibrator. “I will.”

“Are you looking ahead, looking like you’re not feeling my wet pussy around your cock right now? Not hearing your hips smack against my ass, not feeling me drip over you? Daddy, I need you to fuck me, harder, faster, please please plea-” her words faded into jibberish and drawn out moans. He clenched his jaw and held the white handkerchief around his shaft, images of her tongue white with his seed, with it dripping out of her cunt, running over her tits all pushing their way through his mind and out the end of his throbbing cock.

“Fuck, baby girl,” he ground.

“Yes Daddy?” she whispered. Her voice had that slow, thick, luxurious sound it got when she was coming down.

“That turned my little whore on, didn’t it?”

She laughed, a throaty sound that if he dwelt on would have him hardening again. “Feel better?”

“You make Daddy feel so good, sweetie. So good.”

“Did anyone see?” she teased.

He laughed. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Only in theory. Now hurry home. I’m staying right here. Waiting for you.”

The line went dead, and he felt himself swelling again. He tucked himself back into his zipper before it got too difficult to do so, and thought of his homecoming.

Bar-stool Confessions

He wanted to watch her.

“Watch me what?” A soft smile curved her lips. She enjoyed teasing him, seeing just how far he’d let her go before his face darkened and his lips formed a tight line. She would push just a little further than that, because she liked making it up to him, liked when his gruffness turned back to tenderness; usually after she was bound to the four-poster with his cock softening in her ass.

He didn’t play along this time. “In the shower.”

“Okay.” He had watched her in the shower before. She wasn’t sure why the sudden interest.

His fingers toyed absently with the base of his glass. It was sweating on the scarred and polished walnut.

“Anything specific you’re hoping to see?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want to watch you pee. See how you enjoy it.”

She wished she’d chosen the high-collar over the scoop. It might have concealed the hot flush. “Daddy-”

“You don’t want to show me? Tell me why not.”

He was a handsome man. An intelligent man. He always wanted to know why. She’d often thought over all else that was what attracted her to him. He was in all things insatiable.

She played with her drinking straw. She had no good reason, other than it was a private thing. “It’s a private thing.”

He smiled then. “There’s to be nothing private between you and me.” He motioned the bartender and touched the rim of his glass.

“No.”

“It makes you uncomfortable. It shouldn’t. Why do you think it does?”

She squirmed. But the arousal awakening in the pit of her stomach was undeniable. “Because it’s new?”

He shook his head and sipped from his glass.

“It’s… dirty.”

He smiled his approval. “Do you think I think it’s dirty?”

She kept her eyes down. The crystal bubbles in her vodka and soda chased and raced one another to the surface.

He reached across the space and tilted her face up. “Well, baby girl?”

“No. You don’t.”

He let his thumb pass over her lips before he took his hand away, and his pupils dilated at the sharp intake of her breath. “No, I don’t.”

“Is it…”

He waited. Then, “Go on. Ask me.”

“Would it excite you? Sexually?”

His face relaxed and his eyes crinkled. “Yes, baby. Anything you find exciting excites me.”

The internal flush spread, encompassing her limbs and cheeks. She felt it manifest as a tingle into her toes and fingertips. He could have her, right here, right now. They both knew it. “It’s not just the peeing that is exciting.”

He propped his chin on his hand, as though settling in. “Tell me.”

“I mean… it feels good, right? It’s nice. A relief, and the warmth.”

“Yes. But there’s more.”

She drank from her glass, and he motioned the bartender again. The heat in her cheeks felt unbearably obvious. She kept her eyes down. “Yeah. It’s about what I see, when I do it.”

He made a humming, growling sound that was one decibel above inaudible in the noisy bar. “Tell me what you see, baby.”

She smiled at her glass, allowing those thoughts in. “I see you.”

“Always just me?”

He was so territorial. “Now, yes. Not always.”

“Hm. So you see your lover.”

“Yes.” She glanced at him. He was unreadable, intent but hooded.

“What am I doing?”

It took her a moment. It required getting lost in the fantasy, required drawing on her arousal in that moment to make voicing it okay. “You’re standing close, naked and wet, and watching.”

He leaned closer, began stroking her forearm with his fingertips. For all his severity, his touch was light, soft. The fine hairs stood up in anticipation of the next one. “Am I touching you?”

She nodded. Her fingers on her right hand played and twisted the tendrils behind her ear.

“Tell me how I’m touching you. Where.” This he whispered directly into her ear.

He leaned his own ear close to her mouth and waited.

“You start by touching my shoulders, playing in the suds.” She could smell his hair, his shaving cream, and let her lips barely brush against the rim of his ear as she spoke. “Your hands run down my sides, avoiding my breasts, and one caresses the low part of my stomach, above my mound, and the other traces the small of my back, just above my ass.”

He murmured an unintelligible sound of approval.

“Your touch is light, almost a tickle.”

“Because that makes you have to go.”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Go on, little girl. Then what?”

“You’re saying things to me, but it’s not the words I hear. It’s your tone. Encouraging and relaxing and assuring.”

He rested his hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers brushing hers. The contact added to her overall feeling of being heated. Or in heat. They were indistinguishable.

“You feel the shiver when I start to let go. It peaks my nipples. Then…” A pause.

“Don’t stop. Tell me. What does Daddy do then?”

Her heart did a somersault and her breath caught. The neurons were rapid-firing like an automatic, and electricity coursed over her skin. She wondered if he felt it. “You put your fingers in it.”

“In the urine?”

She nodded. He growled again. His lips brushed her jaw in front of her ear when he whispered, “I’m so hard right now. Hard for my girl.”

Something exploded in her brain. Something small that crumbled the wall standing between right and wrong, acceptable and not. Adrenal fluid flooded her bloodstream. Her juices flowed.

“Is that all?”

“No. You find my clit, while I’m still peeing, and you start to rub. You rub hard. I stop and start, but it isn’t intentional, just happens.”

“When you’re done, do you come?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Do I put my fingers inside your hot little cunt?”

“Yes!” It came out as a hiss.

“What if I did that first? When you first started, so you filled my palm? So that rubbing your g-spot made it feel so good to release?”

Her words left her. She was going to come on the bar stool, in front of everyone. Her hand was in his now, and she gripped. Hard.

He pulled her head against his mouth. “Breathe through it, sweetie.”

He shielded her there for a few moments, until her breath leveled and her shoulders relaxed. He pushed the vodka tonic closer and she took a sip. Then another. He did the same. He watched her face intently. She smiled a wistful, almost apologetic smile.

“Stop that.”

“What?” she covered her cheeks with her hands for a moment.

“You were about to apologize.”

She couldn’t argue.

“Never apologize to me. This is what we do.”

“Who we are.”

“Yes.”

She smiled a real smile.

“Is that all you see when you’re there, in the shower?”

She met his gaze with a boldness so rare it caught him off guard. “Nope.”

“You’re going to make me come right here,” he teased lightly. But there was an unplumbed depth beneath his words.

“I see a lot. Imagine a lot. And have a feeling I’ll imagine much more now.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s okay.”

He smiled and leaned in and kissed her. “It is. It’s more than okay.”

Fantasy

As the overpass loomed ahead, larger and larger, she smiled and wondered if people were built with an off-switch. Mama had said that, a long time ago. Somewhere in a past life almost buried in Jim Beam and uppers and meaningless sex. She said, we all have a switch, something, a word or a thought that pulls you out of the moment you’re in. It’s like a reset, child. God give it to you for when you get into trouble.

She was wrong though. No switch here. Just the growl of all these horses under the floorboard and the acrid smell of gasoline. Her eyes drifted to the abutment. A few more seconds, and at this speed there would be no question, no feeling, nothing left to come back from-

“Come for me,” he hissed. He was crushing her breasts with her thighs, driving painfully deep.

Part of her longed to be in that car inside her mind. It was a fantasy that cut her loose as she faked the first screams of yet another orgasm that didn’t exist.

Nothing to come back from. Nothing at all.

F4TF – Gender Switching

The Food for Thought question this week is:
If you could spend one day as a member of the opposite sex, would you? If so, how would you spend that day?

I’ve thought long and hard about it, and I think my answer is no. Truth is, I’m really happy I’m female. (However, don’t ask me this question when I’m menstruating. The answer will be very different!) Killer cramps and monster mood swings aside, though, I firmly believe men have their own equally difficult burdens to bear.

 

Socialization is the big one. Men are taught from childhood that they are expected to always be strong, never show weakness. There’s a certain expectation of success they’re pressured to measure up to. (Not saying these things don’t apply to the fairer sex, these binary gender roles, but really, I think women get more attention in this area. Things are tough both ways, and we need to remember that.)

 

Some of these standards are slowly falling away, I think. But I’m not sure we’ll ever be free of them. I honestly don’t think I could handle the pressures of being male. Perhaps it’s because I’m accustomed to the pressures of being female. Would I like to be able to pee anywhere? YES! Who wouldn’t? But  that’s not a tradeoff I’m willing to make.

 

(And you haven’t really lived until you’ve peed in a horse stall in a public barn with a territorial mare staring you down… but perhaps that’s a story for another day. Just saying, lack of a penis didn’t stop me!)

 

On the other side of it, though, if I were allowed one day to know what it felt like being male, I might like it! Then to have to go back… Hmm.

 

I’ve never been the truly traditional female though. I’ve always had the attitude towards ‘boys’ that ‘anything you can do, I can do at least as well.’ I grew up in a family where boys and girls alike were taught how to survive, to take care of ourselves. I make a fantastic apple pie, but I also have a basic knowledge of the internal combustion engine. I enjoy mopping the floors, but I find as much pleasure in mucking stalls. I crochet, but I also love to get down in the dirt in my garden. I love it when a man stands up for me, but if he’s not around, I have a high powered rifle and know how to use it. When it comes to the things I enjoy, I enjoy girly stuff. I like to dress up, I like flowery things, things that smell nice, etc. I will always choose feminine when the choice is afforded. I would rather be in my kitchen than under the hood of a truck! (I skinned all my knuckles last week wrestling the clip off a ‘67 Ford’s master cylinder… I was swearing the lack of an available man to do this ‘blue job!’)

 

I’m not sure how having a penis would change much for me.

 

The bottom line for me is, no matter how we’re plumbed, we’re all human. In that, we share a common experience.

Check out Food For Thought Friday and tell everyone what you think!

The Gentleman – Reunion

Read Part One here.

When Emily found herself looking into his eyes again the thrill that coursed down her spine stunned her; it landed where she’d felt his fingers almost two months earlier. Deep in her center where no man had touched before.

“Sam!” she heard the exclamation slip out under caught breath, spoken by someone else.

He was pulling her against him as though rescuing her from the incoming tide of boarding passengers; those eyes on level with her own told a different story.

His warm breath blew over her face and smelled of acidic coffee and living heat. “Where have you been?” It was more demand than anything. She couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell if he was angry or happy to see her.

“I got transferred,” she stuttered. “The temp agency-”

His mouth covered hers. Not gently or with any romantic undertone or request for permission. Hungry and taking. She felt his lips, his teeth, tasted his tongue and sagged against him. She held his shoulders for support. His hand was inside her coat against the small of her back and drawing her hard against his body.

The bus started and they swayed. He ended the kiss and almost pushed her into the seat, sliding in behind her, his big hand locked on her wrist.

Her brain was flooded with chemicals, a cocktail of lust, joy, a touch of fear, all tempered by relief. Relief that he was here again. When he started to loosen his grip, she put her other hand over his and squeezed. She searched his face hoping he understood.

The hard set of his lips softened, curved, and his fingers tightened. “I thought that was it,” he said softly. “I’d never see you again.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. Or if you wanted me to.”

She felt him slip something into her pocket. “My fault.”

The bus stopped, and it wasn’t his stop or hers. But they were disembarking. He pulled her behind him until they were on the street, then pulled her to his side. She wanted to ask but knew better. These chances weren’t afforded often. Life had been miserable thinking she’d never see him again.

Nothing mattered except that she be close to him right now. In this moment she’d follow him anywhere.

The hotel sign loomed. There was no hesitation in the sound his hard-soled shoes made. He held the lobby door for her, met her eyes as though checking that she was aware and present, if she was consenting. She passed him and waited. Waited for him to take her arm again, to tell her where to go, what to do. The complete surrender of control was a high.

He did, momentarily. She found herself standing beside an overstuffed armchair in a generically industrial fabric, and he leaned in and brushed her lips. “Wait here.”

She nodded and sat down. She watched him walk to the desk. Took in the lines of his body under his trench coat, took in the shine on his shoes. His shock of white hair, the confident way he carried himself. He didn’t walk. He strode. He spoke softly and with authority, he fostered no hesitation toward anything.

Her heart pounded. She wished she was better prepared, that her underthings matched, that she had shaved this morning, that she was wearing a little more makeup. It didn’t temper the reaction of her body, the flood of heat, the knowledge that it would be moments before she was audibly begging for him. How did she know that?

He turned and strode back to her, his hands in his coat pockets. He smiled slightly as he reached out as one would reach for the hand of a child or a charge. She accepted without hesitation or thought.

The elevator doors closed. He pushed the button and faced her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Is this what you want?”

Did it matter? Would he take it anyway? “Yes.”

“No,” he said.

“No what?”

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you didn’t want me to.” He smiled. It sparked his eyes.

“You can tell I do?”

The doors opened and his hand was on her arm again, propelling her down the dim hall. There were large arrangements of white flowers on the squat tables beneath the wall sconces. The swipe of the keycard, and they were inside. Shrugging out of their coats with their lips locked, and she felt like the hungry teenager she’d never been. His hands were on her, touching with a surprising softness. A gentleness that added heat to the hunger of his mouth on hers, on her ear, her jaw, her neck. She felt his touch trail down her side, pushing her clothing away, around her hip and into the band of her trousers. He stayed on top of her cotton briefs, his mouth back on hers, stealing her breath out of her lungs.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She put them on either side of his neck, feeling the soft velvet of his earlobes, the line of his jaw, the strong vulnerability of his neck; her sex was melting, running.

His fingers found it, the wet cotton, and he touched her through it. Everything slowed. His touch slowed. His breath against her cheek exhaled with a gentle rumble that vibrated the wall of his chest against her breasts. His whiskey voice in her ear; “You are a hungry little girl, aren’t you, Emily?”

They elicited an animal groan from her. She found her arms around his thick body, her fingers like claws falling down the linen fabric over his back, one thigh sliding upward against his, opening, giving him better access. She turned her head and caught his mouth, found his tongue and sucked as his fingers played and ground the soaked and slick fabric against her clit.

One hand slid around his body, found his cock and she wrapped her fingers around it, taking his trousers with her, being mindful of the zipper as she gripped and stroked his length. She tasted the shiver that ran through him. Heard it in the bass of another soft growl.

He stepped back and she moaned in protest. He raised his fingers to his mouth, inhaled and then tasted, his gaze locked on her face. Her knees trembled. It felt like her skin was moving with the rhythm of her heart, everything on her, in her, pulsed. Maybe this was what being alive felt like.

He touched his damp fingertips to her lower lip then withdrew, turned and walked to the bed. He sat on the edge and took off his shoes, started unbuttoning his shirt. “Over here, baby,” he said softly. He motioned at a space of carpet two feet in front of him.

She obeyed while her brain whispered what the fuck? at her.

“Undress for me, sweet girl.”

Could he see her trembling? She was paralyzed.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to show me? Show me your skin, your secrets, how badly you want to be fucked right now?”

She nodded.

“Can’t hear your head rattle, sweetie.”

She cleared her throat and cringed at the sound of her own voice. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He smiled. “You’re a good girl, Emily. Now, let Daddy see.”

She thought she could almost reach orgasm purely at the caress of those words, coupled with the intensity of his stare and the quiet patience of his body even while she felt his heartbeat and the the throb of his cock from here. Her hands went to the bottom of her sweater and she slowly peeled it over her head. Underneath, a serviceable white lace bra, nipples clearly hard and dark through it. She was self-conscious of her stomach, soft and white over her slacks. She subconsciously sucked it in, and barely caught the glimmer lighten his countenance.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Let’s get those pants off.” As he spoke, he opened his own trousers, and took his cock out, stroking it lightly.

She fumbled with the button. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting…” she trailed off.

He smiled. “What are you apologizing for?”

The flush crawled up her chest and into her face. “I would have been better prepared.”

“What’s worrying you?”

The trousers fell, revealing heather gray briefs with a very evident dark spot. She stepped out of them and bent to remove her patterned trouser socks. “Not my prettiest things,” she said apologetically.

He looked and gave a small shake of his head without his eyes leaving her. He motioned her to turn with his free hand, and when she faced him again, he said, “You’re so sexy. Far more than you know. Look at me.” He motioned at his lap. “I want to touch you, taste you, be inside you. What you wear is inconsequential. It’s you I want. I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.”

She smiled as warmth and confidence rushed through her. “Shall I?” She motioned to the underthings.

“Yes.”

She removed each slowly, deliberately. Fears mostly allayed. Arousal swelling as she watched his strong veined hands handle his cock. She paid attention to the way he touched himself. When he gripped, when he rubbed, when pulled, when he passed his thumb over the head. She learned what he liked from watching.

Another sharp exhale from him.

She didn’t wait. Standing beneath his gaze was too intense to last long. She took a step, then dropped to her knees while holding his eyes, making sure he was pleased. Down to all fours, pendulous breasts swaying, and she crawled and climbed her upper body into his lap, gently tugging his pants aside. “May I?”

He smiled and took his hands away, placing them on his thighs. She breathed deeply, reveling in and ever more deeply aroused by the warm musky scent of his sex and the vision of glistening precum, the throbbing veins and living color of his skin. She buried her fingers in the dark curls of his groin. Her first taste was tentative, and his hand touched her hair, stroking before surrounding and gripping her skull. “Take it, baby girl. Take what you want.”

Her hand around the thick base of his shaft, the other sliding under the white knit of his T-shirt, finding the light but coarse fur over his chest, finding a nipple to tease and stroke while she licked and sucked and lapped at him. His fingers tightened and loosened in her hair, and when she deep-throated him, she felt the reaction through every muscle and nerve in his body. His hand stopped her too soon.

“No baby.”

She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. She’d done something wrong. He pulled her head back gently, slowly, and let the pulsing crown rest on her lower lip for just a moment. “Are you okay?” she asked. “What did I do?”

He smiled. “Nothing, sweetie. I just don’t want to come yet. And you were about to make me come.” He pulled her face up to his and kissed her, explored her. His hands found her breasts, his fingers rolling and tugging at her nipples. Then he cupped her buttocks. He turned her around. “Bend over.”

She did. She felt his hands on her cheeks, finger on her asshole, on her cunt, stroking, probing, teasing. She felt his mouth on one cheek, then the other, leaving wet spots that heightened her awareness of what he was seeing of her.

He was standing, pulling her up, turning her, pushing her back onto the the bed and spreading her open. He laid his cock on her clit and continued to touch and tease with his fingers. She’d never felt a touch like his, one so erotic. Over her throat, the valley between her breasts, dancing over her belly and thighs, inside her wrists, her ankles and feet. She giggled.

“Ticklish?” All the while moving his hips just enough that she couldn’t forget where his cock was; or wasn’t.

“I’ll never tell,” she teased.

He swiftly ran a nail inside the arch of one. She squealed and jerked away, and he grinned a vulpine sort of grin. “You don’t have to say a word, baby. Daddy knows.”

She groaned.

Her surrender to his will went on for hours. Time stood still and raced away, and there were moments when all she saw was eternal darkness and it took his touch to pull her back to the surface. Between, she learned his body like one of her medical transcripts. Her fingers finding and tracing scars, her lips discovering his sensitivities, what made him moan softly inside luxurious pleasure, and what awoke him and made him growl and take. She sucked his cock soft and covered with her juices back to hardness and he fucked her again.

He didn’t say goodbye at the busstop. They didn’t have time to cuddle and speak and revel in the thing they’d found. When her mind was clearer there would be sorrow and fear that it would be all they ever shared. But in the afterglow of satiety, and the busyness that was city rush hour, he held her hand and it was solid. He kissed her lips, a kiss just deep enough to re-light that ember at her core, and he said, “Behave, baby girl.”

She offered a half-hearted wave as the bus hissed and pulled away, and shoved her hands deep in her pockets. She found a slip of paper. She pulled it out and smiled.