He picked up the digital camera and suggested nude photos. She gave him an eyeful.
Showing posts with label couples. Show all posts
Showing posts with label couples. Show all posts
STRIKE A POSE
He picked up the digital camera and suggested nude photos. She gave him an eyeful.
LONG DISTANCE BRINGS COUPLE CLOSER
My girlfriend and I dated long distance all through college. We got used to phone calls late at night, which lead to sexy talk, which led to phone sex.
Now my partner and I like to lie just far enough apart, not touching, and lie back. We close our eyes and slowly let our hands fall down between our legs. We pretend that the other is not even there. Soon we become aroused, and soon our breath quickens and our body responds, and we are lost into our own private moments.
At that time, we can hear the other. The panting, grunting, moans. Wet skin, and the rythmic slap. We match sound and pace. Now I can smell us, and we know we are getting close. And closer. And faster. And then we come together.
GETTING AWAY MEANS GETTING IT JUST HOW SHE WANTS IT
They had made plans for the bed and breakfast months ago. It was a cute, simple B&B on the Coast, near a small town called Oysterville. They picked the place because they needed to get out of the city. Seems all year was work and deadlines and house projects. They just needed a weeked away. No cooking, no laundry, no yardwork...nothing. To recharge their batteries, they needed nothing more than the three basic humans things: eating, sleeping, sex. Especialy the last. They could always catch up later on sleep.
He started out driving and she read a magazine in the passenger seat. She had left her underwear at home; she said, who needs underwear this weekend?
As they drove, she felt the breeze from the vents slide up her legs, tickle her trimmed curls. She read him articles from Cosmo. They'd picked up a copy at the gas station on the way out of town. It had pieces like "What drive men crazy, ten tips to try tonight" and "what men would ask for in bed--secrets reveaed!" She read aloud and he added his oopinions. Talk of biting, spanking, tying up with with ties on the bedpost, whipped creme, blindfolds, made her increasing wet, and made his cock strain in his pants.
After an hour, they traded drivers. The conversation continued. She realized that even though she always felt free to do whatever felt good in bed with him, that they never really talked about it as they made love. They just did it, fell into the patterns of what worked well. As she drove and he continued to read to her from the magazine, her hand had moved down between her legs. She had pushed up her dress and was slowly running up and down her wet folds, grazing the now sesitive hood of her clit.
He stopped reading when he noticed. She noticed his pants were strained a spot of precum had appeared.
By now they were deep into the Coastal Range on a two lane road. They'd finished the magazine, but were still turned on. She reached over and unfastened his pants, releasing his half-hard cock to the open air. As she drove, she slowly storked it. She kept her eyes on the road, but could picture every inch and wrinkle in her mind. She knew exactly what she wanted when they arrived.
Finally they were on the coast. They checked in and set down the bags.
She unpacked a bottle of lube and set it on the bed. She then stripped totally naked and assumed the possition. On her hands and knees, she thrust her ass to the air, wide, open, inviting him to stand behind her, lube her up, and fuck her like she had needed to be fucked in years. He was hard, filled with the strain of hours of foreplay. He was ready. He would fuck her, no holding back.
He climbed behind her, lubed up, and pushed it home to the hilt. They both moaned deeply, having found exactly what they were needing.
ONE FOR HER MEANS ONE FOR HIM
It was time for bed. He was in already under the covers with just the reading light and his current book. Rather than walk in wearing her nightgown and robe, she entered naked. One hand behind her back. She had two toys. A long hard vibrator and a battery pack operated soft jelly butt plug. It was her surprise. But what she would do with her toys, she wasn't yet sure. She could use them on herself, make him watch. Or better yet, use them on him. Maybe she would make him pick one, and not tell him why he was picking. Which ever one he picked, she'd use on him. The other he'd use on her. That's fair, balanced marriage, right?
FIRST DATE TO STRIP CLUB LEADS TO SPECIAL NIGHT
There first date was to a strip club, the Diamond J. They hadn't planned it, but the college town was small and had a few bars, but only one that served full meals so late. It has a poker room in back, past the Keno machines, and past that a door that lead into a small strip club. The college girls danced their to make book and tuition money. The locals were mostly college boys, there boyfriends and some times professors. It was a small town. And such things were accepted. It was not a town by a highway, there were rarely, if ever, long haul truckers or felons on the lamb. Just college girls and it worked out fine.
Her freshman roommate Michelle danced. And said she should try. She hadn't. But it was no big deal to go into the back club after a midnight meal of chicken fried steaks, scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns to meet with a study group for an upcoming test. Or a first date to order a night cap of whiskey rocks.
The first Tuesday of every month was amateur night and first place was $500. They joked about entering her. the money would be nice, she agreed, but not the point. More, she thought of Michelle and figured, it's college. If not now, then what stories will I have when I am old. All skin sags eventually, she knew. Why not shake it once in her prime?
Still, she wasn't ready then. Not on the spot. So she tucked it away.
The first date become more dates and after a few months they lived together. Sometimes they would talk about amateur night and laugh. Finally, one day, she said--well, why not?
He was shocked, impressed, embarrassed, and excited. Sure, he agreed. We'll need to do it right to win the prize, she said. He agreed to that, too.
They returned to the Diamond J. They watched the dancers now as if studying for a test.
At home, she'd practice her moves. He'd watch, gladly, offering any pointers he could.
When the first Tuesday came and they were in the morning shower, she said she should shave like the dancers. He looked at her with a gleam.
I'll help, he offered, taking the razor in hand and kneeling before her.
There first date was to a strip club, the Diamond J. They hadn't planned it, but the college town was small and had a few bars, but only one that served full meals so late. It has a poker room in back, past the Keno machines, and past that a door that lead into a small strip club. The college girls danced their to make book and tuition money. The locals were mostly college boys, there boyfriends and some times professors. It was a small town. And such things were accepted. It was not a town by a highway, there were rarely, if ever, long haul truckers or felons on the lamb. Just college girls and it worked out fine.
Her freshman roommate Michelle danced. And said she should try. She hadn't. But it was no big deal to go into the back club after a midnight meal of chicken fried steaks, scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns to meet with a study group for an upcoming test. Or a first date to order a night cap of whiskey rocks.
The first Tuesday of every month was amateur night and first place was $500. They joked about entering her. the money would be nice, she agreed, but not the point. More, she thought of Michelle and figured, it's college. If not now, then what stories will I have when I am old. All skin sags eventually, she knew. Why not shake it once in her prime?
Still, she wasn't ready then. Not on the spot. So she tucked it away.
The first date become more dates and after a few months they lived together. Sometimes they would talk about amateur night and laugh. Finally, one day, she said--well, why not?
He was shocked, impressed, embarrassed, and excited. Sure, he agreed. We'll need to do it right to win the prize, she said. He agreed to that, too.
They returned to the Diamond J. They watched the dancers now as if studying for a test.
At home, she'd practice her moves. He'd watch, gladly, offering any pointers he could.
When the first Tuesday came and they were in the morning shower, she said she should shave like the dancers. He looked at her with a gleam.
I'll help, he offered, taking the razor in hand and kneeling before her.
SHE FINDS WAY TO MAKE THE RIDE HOME MORE INTERESTING
The road from my college town to home wound down through a narrow mountain valley, following a rocky, crooked mountain river. Every quarter mile or so was an unmarked logging road, a turnout, or a gravel bank where a lone fisherman would fly cast. In spring the air was thick and humming with insects. As we drove, you'd get sticky, sweat on your thighs and legs. If we'd made love that morning, we could still smell it on our skin. We drove, hair whipping in the window. Kick off the flip flops.
As we drove, her hand rested on my thigh. The sun slipped down in splinters through the tree, and she began to rub through my jeans. Responding, I grew hard. She knew, and I knew what was next. She unzipped my jeans and wiggled around to drop her head in my lap.
I concentrated as we rounded each corner of the narrow road. Her lips touched my skin, still musky with our morning sex. I grew harder and she slipped her tongue slowly up and down my rigid shaft. I tried to focus on the road. She slurped and sucked then paused. More? she'd ask. I knew it was dangerous, but I eagerly said more.
Maybe we should find a turn off, she suggested.
Within a mile, we pulled off onto a logging road. I drove up, just out of sight of the road, parked. We didn't speak as she pulled a blanket from the back and continued to hike up the logging road, around a bend, out of sight of the car. We both knew what would come. She spread out the blanket and then we stripped off our clothes. Naked, the sun beat down on our backs, shoulders, and warmed our pubic hair. It was sexy, like Adam and Eve, maked in the forest, in a spot of sun.
She reached to my body and instantly it sprung back, hard and ready. Then we were together. She riding me, her breasts flopping in the sun, me on her, her fingernails criss-crossing my back, her on her knees, and me ramming into her like wild animals.
When we made love in our bed, it was sexy, but often soft as the flannel sheets. Sleepy like morning before coffee. But outside, she became a wild child. I became a savage. Somehow outdoors, we were stripped of civilization's moors. It was the call of the wild and it surged in our blood. We were sweaty, sticky, and savage. Instead of her usual cooing, "uuuuuummmmm, uuuummmm, baby, like that.....ooooohhhh." She barked out: "fuck me, fuck me hard."
I pounded her from behind. I grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her back harder, deeper. "Harder!" she screamed. "Harder, fuck me hard!" Her voice became jagged and raspy as she yelled. "Cum on my ass," she cried as she became to convulse in orgasm.
I pulled out and shot globs of sticky cum across her ass.
Exhausted, I collapsed back. She remained in position, her face buried in her arms, that were crossed on the ground, making a pillow. Her ass jutted in the air. Noontime sun is so bright. As I lay there, I stared at her body. Her two smooth round buttocks, creamy white, red scratches from our love making, bits of grass and dirt, pine needles stuck on with sweat. She left her ass in the air, feeling the sun and breeze dry the sweat. The globs of milky cum had splattered across her butt and lower back. some began to slip up her spine and begin to dry in the sun. Some dribbled down the cleft of her butt. It tickled the pucker of her anus, the few hairs that grew there that her razor never caught. She had a mole and a few freckles. And her vulva was swollen, red, glossy with her own juices. It cum slid over her lips, beading and dripping off her clit. It was a shinny pink, small bead of skin wrapped in her folds, brushed by her trimmed curls. There is nothing as beautiful, I thought, as a pure blue sky, framed by towering trees, and a woman's hindquarters jutting up the sky, her cunt rosy and slick from hard sex, cum caught on her curls, her ass open, exposed, her anus a tight wrinkled passage of invitation.
The image is burned in my memory. It remains my definition of wildness in wilderness.
The road from my college town to home wound down through a narrow mountain valley, following a rocky, crooked mountain river. Every quarter mile or so was an unmarked logging road, a turnout, or a gravel bank where a lone fisherman would fly cast. In spring the air was thick and humming with insects. As we drove, you'd get sticky, sweat on your thighs and legs. If we'd made love that morning, we could still smell it on our skin. We drove, hair whipping in the window. Kick off the flip flops.
As we drove, her hand rested on my thigh. The sun slipped down in splinters through the tree, and she began to rub through my jeans. Responding, I grew hard. She knew, and I knew what was next. She unzipped my jeans and wiggled around to drop her head in my lap.
I concentrated as we rounded each corner of the narrow road. Her lips touched my skin, still musky with our morning sex. I grew harder and she slipped her tongue slowly up and down my rigid shaft. I tried to focus on the road. She slurped and sucked then paused. More? she'd ask. I knew it was dangerous, but I eagerly said more.
Maybe we should find a turn off, she suggested.
Within a mile, we pulled off onto a logging road. I drove up, just out of sight of the road, parked. We didn't speak as she pulled a blanket from the back and continued to hike up the logging road, around a bend, out of sight of the car. We both knew what would come. She spread out the blanket and then we stripped off our clothes. Naked, the sun beat down on our backs, shoulders, and warmed our pubic hair. It was sexy, like Adam and Eve, maked in the forest, in a spot of sun.
She reached to my body and instantly it sprung back, hard and ready. Then we were together. She riding me, her breasts flopping in the sun, me on her, her fingernails criss-crossing my back, her on her knees, and me ramming into her like wild animals.
When we made love in our bed, it was sexy, but often soft as the flannel sheets. Sleepy like morning before coffee. But outside, she became a wild child. I became a savage. Somehow outdoors, we were stripped of civilization's moors. It was the call of the wild and it surged in our blood. We were sweaty, sticky, and savage. Instead of her usual cooing, "uuuuuummmmm, uuuummmm, baby, like that.....ooooohhhh." She barked out: "fuck me, fuck me hard."
I pounded her from behind. I grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her back harder, deeper. "Harder!" she screamed. "Harder, fuck me hard!" Her voice became jagged and raspy as she yelled. "Cum on my ass," she cried as she became to convulse in orgasm.
I pulled out and shot globs of sticky cum across her ass.
Exhausted, I collapsed back. She remained in position, her face buried in her arms, that were crossed on the ground, making a pillow. Her ass jutted in the air. Noontime sun is so bright. As I lay there, I stared at her body. Her two smooth round buttocks, creamy white, red scratches from our love making, bits of grass and dirt, pine needles stuck on with sweat. She left her ass in the air, feeling the sun and breeze dry the sweat. The globs of milky cum had splattered across her butt and lower back. some began to slip up her spine and begin to dry in the sun. Some dribbled down the cleft of her butt. It tickled the pucker of her anus, the few hairs that grew there that her razor never caught. She had a mole and a few freckles. And her vulva was swollen, red, glossy with her own juices. It cum slid over her lips, beading and dripping off her clit. It was a shinny pink, small bead of skin wrapped in her folds, brushed by her trimmed curls. There is nothing as beautiful, I thought, as a pure blue sky, framed by towering trees, and a woman's hindquarters jutting up the sky, her cunt rosy and slick from hard sex, cum caught on her curls, her ass open, exposed, her anus a tight wrinkled passage of invitation.
The image is burned in my memory. It remains my definition of wildness in wilderness.
A BLANKET IN THE WOODS, FOR OLD TIMES SAKE
We had been broken up at least since spring. School had ended and summer started and we told ourselves that the relationship was over. Still, we'd call, we'd go to movies. We drove up to Mt. Hood for no reason other than it was a sunny summer day. Mostly we were silent. It's hard to chit chat when you are "officially" broken up. We hiked up a trail to a waterfall. I dunked my head under the spray, but Sally didn't want to. She fretted and grumbled. All I could think of was our early days, when we both would have stripped, dashed in and out of the icy mountain water, and sun dried naked on hot boulders.
We turned and went down the trail. I wish I could remember exactly how it happened next. I go over it in my mind, but it is always more a feeling than the exact steps. Back at the car, we knew we'd get in and turn back to the city. The air was hot and humming with insects. We were sweaty and sore from the hike. I was horny. So was she, apparently. I guess we both had been thinking of the road trips we used to take back from Montana. We'd stop, at any forest turn out. Grab a blanket from the back, and hike just far enough off the road. And fuck. Lord did we fuck. Fast, sweaty, hard, loud. We'd shake the trees. We'd slap together, grunt, moan, gasp, grind. That summer she rarely wore underwear, bras, or deodorant. We would get sweaty and wash in a creek. Then drive until we were hot and horny enough to pull over and drain ourselves again. But the thing is: we'd never feel drained, the more we fucked, the more we wanted it. The more we dripped sweat and cum, the quicker our bodies replenished.
Now, standing at her car, ready to turn back, we understood. One of us grabbed the blanket. We said nothing, not even a nod of recognition for old times sake. It was just a straight movement. We had a blanket, we walked just far enough off the road. I lay down, she climbed on top. We pulled aside just enough clothes and then we were there again, back to that moment, the riding and churning and crying out. The slapping and screaming and scratching at the sky. The shudder, the release, the collapse and skin and salt.
It would be our last time together, though we didn't say it then. It didn't matter. Words didn't matter, or time. Just the forest above, and splinters of light falling down. The moment repeats in my mind, forever.
We had been broken up at least since spring. School had ended and summer started and we told ourselves that the relationship was over. Still, we'd call, we'd go to movies. We drove up to Mt. Hood for no reason other than it was a sunny summer day. Mostly we were silent. It's hard to chit chat when you are "officially" broken up. We hiked up a trail to a waterfall. I dunked my head under the spray, but Sally didn't want to. She fretted and grumbled. All I could think of was our early days, when we both would have stripped, dashed in and out of the icy mountain water, and sun dried naked on hot boulders.
We turned and went down the trail. I wish I could remember exactly how it happened next. I go over it in my mind, but it is always more a feeling than the exact steps. Back at the car, we knew we'd get in and turn back to the city. The air was hot and humming with insects. We were sweaty and sore from the hike. I was horny. So was she, apparently. I guess we both had been thinking of the road trips we used to take back from Montana. We'd stop, at any forest turn out. Grab a blanket from the back, and hike just far enough off the road. And fuck. Lord did we fuck. Fast, sweaty, hard, loud. We'd shake the trees. We'd slap together, grunt, moan, gasp, grind. That summer she rarely wore underwear, bras, or deodorant. We would get sweaty and wash in a creek. Then drive until we were hot and horny enough to pull over and drain ourselves again. But the thing is: we'd never feel drained, the more we fucked, the more we wanted it. The more we dripped sweat and cum, the quicker our bodies replenished.
Now, standing at her car, ready to turn back, we understood. One of us grabbed the blanket. We said nothing, not even a nod of recognition for old times sake. It was just a straight movement. We had a blanket, we walked just far enough off the road. I lay down, she climbed on top. We pulled aside just enough clothes and then we were there again, back to that moment, the riding and churning and crying out. The slapping and screaming and scratching at the sky. The shudder, the release, the collapse and skin and salt.
It would be our last time together, though we didn't say it then. It didn't matter. Words didn't matter, or time. Just the forest above, and splinters of light falling down. The moment repeats in my mind, forever.
BACKSEAT
Sometimes when the mood grabs you, it's nice to hop in the back seat, take off just as many clothes as needed, and go to it. Yes?
Sometimes when the mood grabs you, it's nice to hop in the back seat, take off just as many clothes as needed, and go to it. Yes?
KICKIN IT, RIVERSIDE
Saturday they went to their favorite river. They stripped down to swim suits and rubbed on sun screen, cracked a cold beer and were ready to relax. Sun and water, the sound of the river over the rocks. He could not help but look over, the line of the bikini fabric promising everything and nothing all at once. So he reached.
Saturday they went to their favorite river. They stripped down to swim suits and rubbed on sun screen, cracked a cold beer and were ready to relax. Sun and water, the sound of the river over the rocks. He could not help but look over, the line of the bikini fabric promising everything and nothing all at once. So he reached.
MORNING GIFTS
Mornings, the light streaming in. He always wakes up hard. She is wet and knows. With touching they are rolling and then she is on top. His eyes are urgent and she says yes. His tip is at her hole and looking at him with all the love she can hold in her eyes, she spits on her hand and reaches back. Then he is in and his eyes say thank you. She moves and he is home.
BREASTS AND BEACHES BRING ONE COUPLE TOGETHER
In high school, my sister and her best friend April would sit out in our backyard in their bikinis and sun tan. I'd use any excuse to go sit and chat for a while, sitting at the best angle to strategically steal glimpses at April's breasts. They were not large, but for what I had seen, they were full, firm, and perfectly shaped. If a cloud slipped over the sun, sometimes her nipples would pinch hard and poke through the thin fabric. On sweltering days, beads of sweat would slide from her collar bone and trickle down the valley of her cleavage.
The thin fabric of her top barely seemed to cup them. And if she moved, if seemed the round of perfect flesh could spill out. And the thin ties that held the thin fabric seemed more taunting than practical. This became even more painful if she'd lie on her stomach, and slowly, gently, tug ever so slightly on the string and the top would fall to her sides, and her angular shoulders would be perfectly bare. In my mind -- so juvenile then -- I double dared myself to wander close with a garden hose, pretending to water the flowers, and accidentally spray cold water on April. She'd ach her back with a squeal --just a split second, but just exactly long enough to finally she her breasts exposed.
It has been years since these memories. Married now, my fantasies range farther than spraying my sister's best friend with a garden hose. But this summer, while sunning with my wife on a river beach, I could not help but catch a glimpse of sweat trickling between her breasts. I stared at her curving skin and the rise and fall of her breathing. I don't think I have a breast fetish, per se, but I was suddenly and undeniably aroused.
Maybe my wife caught a whiff of my pheromones suddenly in my sweat, or maybe she just felt that sense when someone is staring at you. She turned and met my stare and then glanced down at the sharp bulge in my swimsuit. She could see my body straining for release.
"Whats got you so keyed up?" she asked.
"I was just checkin out your boobs, sweetie," I said playfully.
She smiled. "You've seen them."
I knew that she knew there was a story. She has that way of not letting me off the hook. So I told her all about my teenage crush on April. She nodded as she took it all in.
"You were how old?" she asked.
"I was 15, a freshman, April was 18, a senior."
My wife nodded sagely. "That seems about normal." She thought for a while. "But when you were checking me out, were you thinking of me or of her?"
Ughh. Talk about a loaded question. In such situations I have learned only one technique, and it rarely, if ever works. I turned the question back to her. "Who do you think I was thinking about?"
"Humm," she said, caught off guard. "I'd say probably her."
I had to nod, and look at her sheepishly to see how deep in the doghouse I was. But marriage is funny. It can go either way. This could have sent her into a pissy mood where all her insecurities mixed with all my faults mixed with the last four arguments we can comes out all mushed up and ugly. Or she could brush it off and say, "you're a lecherous old man, but I guess you're harmless. Let's go get some sandwiches"
She must have been thinking all the options through. The one she picked still surprises and astounds me today. She reached over and grasped my cock that had gone half limp and rubbed it back to full. Then, glancing quickly up and down the stretch of deserted beach, she positioned herself directly in front of me. Without even taking off her bikini top, she dropped her chest to my groin and pushed my cock up between her breasts. Pressing her cleavage together, she began to give me a steady rhythmic tit fucking until I came between her breasts.
She slipped off, tucked my body back in my shorts, and looked out at the slow turning river. From far off, we could see another couple walking this direction, but they were far to distant to see clearly. We didn't talk for a while, waiting as the couple eventually neared. I could see globs of my cum on the round flesh of my wife's breast. They were not large, but they were full, firm, and perfectly shaped. Still aroused, her pinched nipples poked through the thin bikini fabric. Beads of sweat slid from her collar bone and trickle down the valley of her cleavage and mixed with the white salty globs of my cum. She did not wipe them off, now the couple was about 200 yards away.
I had cum a lot and the couple was now about 100 yards down the beach. My wife still made no motion to wipe her chest clean, and I was frozen with wonder. I didn't dare reach over and brush it off. The sun shone down. The sweat and cum mixed and more salt flakes glistened. And even though we were totally clothed and looked innocent enough and were pretty sure the couple could not have possibly seen us from the distance, but as they approached, the cum was still clear between my wife's breast, and spattered on her bikini.
I stared transfixed at her breasts as the couple neared. Slowly they wandered closer and my wife sat facing the sun, her cum-soaked breasts rising and falling with her breathing. Then, just as the couple were just about to pass us, my wife rolled over on her stomach on the beach towel. She unfastened her bikini top and let the sun warm her bare back.
The couple passed with a slight wave and a smile. I thought I could detect a bit of that knowing look of understanding and approval. But I couldn't be certain. They passed and continued onward up the river beach. I knew that it would be a while before they were out of eyesight again. I knew if they walked that far, it would mean that much time to walk back. I glance down at my wife, the line of her spine and her round butt, the fabric clinging, sandy and damp with sweat.
"Well," she said, not lifting her head. "Now when you think of breasts in a bikini, maybe you'll think of mine."
I have ever since. I cannot possibly think of April without then shifting into the beach. My wife knew this then and I know now.
SLOW SATURDAY MORNING SEX
She straddles him and begins to rock. He tugs down her sleeping camisole, letting her boob fall to his face. He nibbles and sucks. She grinds her clit hard into his shaft. His mouth is fixed on her breast, sucking and slurping. He knows it sends her. She comes quickly. And he into her. She lets her breathing slow, and her head stop spinning and him to go soft and slide out. Then they get up and take a shower.
She straddles him and begins to rock. He tugs down her sleeping camisole, letting her boob fall to his face. He nibbles and sucks. She grinds her clit hard into his shaft. His mouth is fixed on her breast, sucking and slurping. He knows it sends her. She comes quickly. And he into her. She lets her breathing slow, and her head stop spinning and him to go soft and slide out. Then they get up and take a shower.
AFTER THE GUESTS LEAVE, THIS COUPLE DOES WHAT THEY PLEASE
The party was over and the guests had just left. Empty glasses, empty bottles...the room still a swirl of laughter and revelry. One cocktail then the next, the hours had past. Now they found themselves alone, too drunk to go to bed, too tired to clean. What else but to stand on the balcony looking over a city that slept. Distant lights of vacant shops and offices. The summer heat just fading from the cement and concrete. They sway, they stumble. Just enough clothes off and then forward. They move together while a city sleeps and their guest's keys hit front door locks.
The party was over and the guests had just left. Empty glasses, empty bottles...the room still a swirl of laughter and revelry. One cocktail then the next, the hours had past. Now they found themselves alone, too drunk to go to bed, too tired to clean. What else but to stand on the balcony looking over a city that slept. Distant lights of vacant shops and offices. The summer heat just fading from the cement and concrete. They sway, they stumble. Just enough clothes off and then forward. They move together while a city sleeps and their guest's keys hit front door locks.
A CLEAN COMFORTABLE ROOM
What I love about this image is that it's clearly a motel, with the same room layout of any motel room. Walk in, the bathroom is to the right, then the TV and mini-fridge and desk with the TV guide, and the two queen beds with the starched, scratchy sheets. The cups are wrapped in plastic. The carpet smells a bit musty. And for whatever reason, it's a total turn on.
When couples leave the routine of the bedroom, somehow motels are sexually charged. Many nights while traveling I've heard the headboard slapping the adjacent wall. When I've been in motels, I've been that person, grunting and panting and screwing like its the first time. What is it about the plain wall paper, ugly art, ice bucket and rubber-lined curtains, that gets us so hot and ready to romp?
Je ne sais pas.
Whatever it is, this lovely lady is ready. She's stripped naked and goes to the door to hang the "Do Not Disturb" sign, and then bolt it, just in case.
HIPSTERS
THE NEW JOY OF SEX -- A classic revised, for better or worse?
When I grew up in the 1970s, I found my parents’ copy of The Joy of Sex: A Gourmet Guide to Lovemaking. My best friend also found it on his parents’ bookshelf. In fact, all my friends, at some point, had either found a copy at home or had spent hours at another friend’s house, flipping page by thrilling page through, what seemed to be, the most popular book alongside the Bible and the Yellow Pages.
The Joy of Sex spent 11 weeks at the top of the New York Times bestseller list and more than 70 weeks in the top five (1972–1974).
First published in 1972, The Joy of Sex was a landmark in what Boomers like to claim as “the sexual revolution.” When published, there was nothing else like it. The famous Kinsey Report had rocked American’s understanding of their sexuality. But the state of sex manuals stuck with the science and sanitized the pleasure.
The original Joy of Sex contained numerous illustrations by Charles Raymond and Christopher Foss based on original photographs of the book's art director, Kenn Ford and his wife Anna. In contrast to the clinical style of earlier books about sex, the illustrations were titillating as well as illustrative. Unlike the glossy, airbrushed Playboy Bunny’s I found in my Dad’s magazine stack, the pencil-sketch images in The Joy of Sex showed a couple engaging in the actual act. I saw oral sex, both given and received, dynamic sexual positions with exotic sounding names (“croupade” for anything today we’d call “rear entry” and “feuille de rose” for rimming) and images that made me touch myself to orgasm. Most importantly, I saw images of a couple obviously in love. I saw them smile, flirt, and play. One image showed the woman playfully tied to the bedposts, legs parted and ready. (How I touched myself to that one!) And, as one good turn deserves another, an image of the man on his back, his ankles bound, and the woman on top. (How I dreamed one day a woman would do that to me.)
The center of the book also contained color images of sex from ancient Japanese and Hindi texts. These were exotic to me, not quite as erotic for my onerous purposes. However, they added to the central message of the book: sex is nothing new; it has been enjoyed in generations past—people today should enjoy it as well.
Throughout the book, I saw a couple, beautiful in their natural state, loving each other, embracing, kissing, and holding hands. It teaches that good sex is really, at heart, about good communication: “feeback means the right mixture of stop and go, tough and tender, exertion and affection. This comes by empathy and long mutual knowledge.”
While the spirit of the book is empowering, the text is, admittedly, cumbersome. The text, in parts, is warm and witty, and in others heavy-handed, and even a little pompous and judgmental. Then again, its author, Dr. Alex Comfort, was born in 1920 and studied medicine at Cambridge. So, reading Joy of Sex is at its fundamental level getting bedroom advice from a then 52-year-old White male upper-class English doctor. That, my friends, may not be the ideal image we conjure when imagining an advisor of our most intimate questions. Nonetheless, it’s now widely accepted that Dr. Comfort’s 1972 Joy of Sex set the standard for sex self-help books.
Now, a generation later, a new edition has been released. The new 2008 edition has been rewritten and “reinvented” by relationship psychologist Susan Quilliam, and, apparently, approved by Nicholas Comfort, Dr. Comfort’s son
Hearing this news, I have to admit, my heart sank. All the classic images, the sense of discovery and innocence flooded my memory. And the thought of a classic being “reinvented” felt, I’ll admit, like lossing part of my own coming of age. So of course, I had to learn more. I began to read and watch all the reports, blogs, and reviews of this “New Joy of Sex.”
The online articles point to the areas the new edition revised, focusing almost exclusively on “buttered buns” and “group sex.” “Buttered buns” is basically what some call “sloppy seconds.” Some of the blogs I came across point to the inclusion of “buttered buns” in the original Joy as the author’s endorsement of that act. If you actually read Comfort’s entry, he dismisses the practice as a “carry-over from a fairly general age behavior.” In the entry for “Foursomes and moresomes,” he states from the start that it’s a trend of his time, and that he doesn’t participate. While the idea may seem thrilling, the reality can leave some couples cold. Orgies, he says, “need a hell of a lot of martini-lubrication.” If a couple wants to experiment, he suggests caution and commutation between both partners. In short, he states, it’s not quality sex and even if a couple tires it, they’ll probably tire of it after the first or second session.
Apparently the very minor entries on horse riding and motorcycles have been deleted. In the original, Comfort says that he hasn’t actually tried either. He says that it’s rumored that some women can experience orgasm from riding. And for motorcycle sex, he doesn’t suggest actually fucking while riding, but some form of the female passenger behind on a private, isolated road, doing something as a form of foreplay—perhaps riding topless—not such a bad thing, as any Harley enthusiast knows.
On an ABC News special, Susan Quilliam proudly boasted that one of her additions was updating the original text’s view on “hygiene.” No doubt she was offended by Comfort’s original entry on deodorant. He calls for washing with soap and water, but stated plainly: “A mouthful of aluminum chloride in a girl’s armpit is one of the biggest disappointments bed can afford.” It’s hard to argue with that logic. Phermones, scientists now know, are one of the most powerful forms of sexual attraction. There’s nothing sexier than the slightly salty skin of a lover; few things are unsexier than the chemical taste of deodorant.
Pleading for natural scents to be an important ingredient in sex fits the larger aesthetic of the book. It celebrates a sense of being naked and natural. The couple in the illustrations is not Ken and Barbie, but a fairly average looking couple in their late 20s, early 30s. The woman has average B-cup breasts rather than implants and a triangle of pubic hair rather than a landing strip. Yes, the dude has a beard, and yes, he looks like a guy would have in 1972. But all fashion is cyclical. He also looks like some of the hipsters and idie rockers in the coffee shops I see everyday.
Now, beard dude and his hipster girlfriend are gone. In the 1990s, The Joy of Sex was revised to insert safe sex in the post-AIDS epidemic era. The black and white drawings were replaced by pastel color pencil. Mr. Dude had apparently “gotten a hair cut and a real job.” Gone was the beard. The woman, though, retained her unshaven underarms. In the new edition, gone is any semblance to the hippie and the hipster. Here we find a new dude with close-cropped, semi-spiked hair and his perky gal pal with dyed highlights.
Oh Boomers, can you just leave well enough alone? It’s like George Lucas going back to the original Star Wars and digitally altering Luke Skywalker’s haircut. As if that changes the story, or changes the historic impact of the movie’s 1977 release.
The original Joy of Sex is a classic. Dated, yes. Perfect, no. By today’s standards, it’s text heavy, and somewhat judgmental when pretending to be open-minded. While once breaking middle class barriers, it’s now quaint. Even laughable in places. It is, in a nutshell, reflective of its generation.
Yes, that’s a slam on the Boomers. But that’s my generation’s right to slam my parent’s generation, just as they slammed their 1950s “Leave it to Beaver” parents, just as the Roaring 20s slammed the Victorians….and on and on. Each generation becomes dated to the next. It’s inevitable.
So why update a classic of its era rather than just write a new book? Does the Mona Lisa need a facelift because she’s “dated”? Do we need the “revised” Declaration of Independence? Should we rewrite Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech because he uses the word negro?
Ironically, just last night, when I came home with a documentary on James Dean, my girlfriend said, “Oh I don’t like James Dean, his movies are so dated.” She thought his straight-legged Levis and hair combed back in a pompadour was pretty ridiculous. “I don’t get it,” she said. After watching the documentary, she said, “He’s actually really sexy.”
Yes, Jame’s Dean’s movies are dated. Part of the Technicolor look is exactly its charm. So, too, the shaggy 1970s man making love with his naturally unshaven partner. The pathos of Joy is an acceptance of thing natural, especially sex. Its fundamental thesis is that sex is natural, that we are naked animals and the many ways we can make love can be enjoyable and healthy.
Today’s media-rich generation no longer finds their parent’s Joy of Sex on the bookshelf. They can find anything sexual on the internet. It is far more explicit and extreme than anything that even Comfort could have foreseen.
Today, any kid with an internet connection can pull up 1,000s of images of every type of human sexual act, and every form of pornography. In the barrage, there are also detailed, informed, and clearly-written articles on safe sex, and positive pro-sex education.
It seems that the original Joy of Sex is more relevant today than ever. I think we are well past any danger that anyone would ever take the 1972 original as their sole source of information. Even the original encouraged readers to pick and chose—try one thing, and if you don’t like it, don’t do it. It never claimed to be the definitive source, and plainly stated that people’s individual tastes will vary.
Since there are so many quality sex ed sources available today, why not let people discover the original Joy of Sex? In this age of young women battling eating disorders, and crushing self-esteem issues from media projected body images—in a time when natural bodies are criticized and puffed up botox lips and silicone-inflated breasts are celebrated—wouldn’t it be a nice message to say to the young women of this upcoming generation: you are beautiful as you are, the size of your breasts, the way your hair grows and how it smells is natural. Sex is about love and communication with a committed partner. Sex is about having a loving relationship that is based on trust, respect, and genuine tenderness.
So, dear readers, if you’re now a little curious about what’s between the covers of the original Joy of Sex, then I have given you just a small part of my own adolescent experience. Rather than jump on Amazon for the new edition, I recommend searching your neighborhood used bookstore. Support your local business community, and the adventure of the hunt may be a perfect little weekend spice for you and your partner. And hey, if you don’t like the same parts I like, that’s part of Comfort’s original intent. And, if you read it in bed together, and have a good laugh, perfect. Laughter is in bed is also part of the joy.
WORD OF THE DAY: RUSTY TROMBONE
Rusty trombone is a euphemism for a sexual act in which a man stands while the other partner kneels behind him and performs analingus while reaching up beneath the testicles or around the body to masturbate him, mimicking the motions of a trombone player. The act is defined primarily by the physical orientation of the partners and the combination of analingus with manual penile stimulation; however, other positions and variations are possible. (And encouraged!)
Rusty trombone is a euphemism for a sexual act in which a man stands while the other partner kneels behind him and performs analingus while reaching up beneath the testicles or around the body to masturbate him, mimicking the motions of a trombone player. The act is defined primarily by the physical orientation of the partners and the combination of analingus with manual penile stimulation; however, other positions and variations are possible. (And encouraged!)
TO BOB OR TO PEG?
In 2001, in his popular Savage Love column, Dan Savage noted that there was no common name for the practice of females penetrating heterosexual men with a dildo. The practice was nothing new. In the earliest photographic depictions of Victorians doing the deed, we see examples. Although we’ve inherited these images, the proper term, apparently, has been lost.
Apparently the Showtime series “Weeds” made reference to the practice (Season 2, episode 6). There is a depiction of pegging in the William S. Burroughs novel Naked Lunch. The dildo used in the scene is called a “Steely Dan III.” Apparently, it was the inspiration for the band name Steely Dan. Though no one, to my knowledge, uses the term “Steely Dan” to reference the sexual act of a gal ding her fella with a strap-on.
A popular porn series, “Bend Over Boyfriend” has become the standby name. Sort of like “Kleenex” becoming synonymous with tissue paper and Q-tip with that cotton swab thing you stick in your ear. But “Bend Over Boyfriend” is a mouthful. Some folks shorten it to an acronym, “BOB.”
But what to do with “BOB”? Could it become a verb? As in, “Last night my girlfriend and I were bobbing.” Last night we went bobbing? Last nigh my girlfriend “bobbed” me?
You can see the confusion. So, June 2001, in his column Savage Love, Dan Savage announced the winner of a new name for “Bend Over Boyfriend.”
And the winner….. (drumroll)…..pegging. As in, “Last night my girlfriend pegged me.” Humm…sounds more direct. And sort of dirty, like a pirate. Arrrrr.
Will the name stick? Almost 8 year later, it seems to be gaining some, ummm, traction…
Someone has posted a Pegging Resource page. And perhaps most hilarious of all: a site called Christian Nympho that discusses, in detail, whether pegging is a sin.
Pegging, as a sexual practice, has been given an entry on wikipedia, though, it has not yet gotten into the dictionary.
All in due time.
In 2001, in his popular Savage Love column, Dan Savage noted that there was no common name for the practice of females penetrating heterosexual men with a dildo. The practice was nothing new. In the earliest photographic depictions of Victorians doing the deed, we see examples. Although we’ve inherited these images, the proper term, apparently, has been lost.
Apparently the Showtime series “Weeds” made reference to the practice (Season 2, episode 6). There is a depiction of pegging in the William S. Burroughs novel Naked Lunch. The dildo used in the scene is called a “Steely Dan III.” Apparently, it was the inspiration for the band name Steely Dan. Though no one, to my knowledge, uses the term “Steely Dan” to reference the sexual act of a gal ding her fella with a strap-on.
A popular porn series, “Bend Over Boyfriend” has become the standby name. Sort of like “Kleenex” becoming synonymous with tissue paper and Q-tip with that cotton swab thing you stick in your ear. But “Bend Over Boyfriend” is a mouthful. Some folks shorten it to an acronym, “BOB.”
But what to do with “BOB”? Could it become a verb? As in, “Last night my girlfriend and I were bobbing.” Last night we went bobbing? Last nigh my girlfriend “bobbed” me?
You can see the confusion. So, June 2001, in his column Savage Love, Dan Savage announced the winner of a new name for “Bend Over Boyfriend.”
And the winner….. (drumroll)…..pegging. As in, “Last night my girlfriend pegged me.” Humm…sounds more direct. And sort of dirty, like a pirate. Arrrrr.
Will the name stick? Almost 8 year later, it seems to be gaining some, ummm, traction…
Someone has posted a Pegging Resource page. And perhaps most hilarious of all: a site called Christian Nympho that discusses, in detail, whether pegging is a sin.
Pegging, as a sexual practice, has been given an entry on wikipedia, though, it has not yet gotten into the dictionary.
All in due time.
CABIN FEVER AND THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH
At first, Lydia was furious at her husband Mike for inviting his co-worker James to their cabin. Technically, the cabin belonged to both Lydia and Mike, because they were married, but the cabin had been passed down from Lydia's parents, and as a child she would join her family for summer vacations in the cabin. These were her favorite childhood memories--of long days swimming in the lake, and barbecues, and playing board games on the screen porch by the hiss of a Coleman lantern.
Her dad was a school teacher and an avid fisherman, so for Lydia, the cabin was not just a funky little rustic house built in the 70s beside a lake in upstate Minnesota, but rather a second childhood home. Perhaps, she realized, that was one of the things that attracted her to Mike. When they met, they were both teachers -in-training. Lydia was doing her assistant teaching at the same elementary school where Mike had come to work with the at-risk boys. At first, she thought her attraction to him was their connection to education, his dedication to helping youth. After seven years of marriage, she came to realize that the connection they shared to education was there--but it was a more intellectual bond. They both agreed on the same values and principles, but after that, the similarities were fewer. In fact, although Mike and Lydia had had a happy first couple years as newlyweds and new teachers, they'd settled into routines. Both the excitement and newness of marriage and teaching had worn off. They were both still dedicated teachers, and committed to each other. But the glamour and charge of waking every day to make a difference was gone: both teaching and married, Lydia had concluded, was a daily grind. It was hard work, and with every small advance in the classroom, each year a new batch of kids--the same issues and challenges. It was a wheel of repetition, reset each fall, back to square one. For this reason, her summers meant everything to her. For a few months, she could leave school behind. She could step back, almost in time, to when she was young and carefree. She could put fall out of her mind for a while, and just swim and relax, read the books she wanted to read--trashy summer pulp, and not text books. She wondered, secretly, if she'd jumped into her marriage with Mike because she liked him as an individual, or as a type: a man with a steady job, good benefits, and summers free to let her return to her cabin.
Mike had ruined her plan. He'd invited James.
Lydia and Mike both new James. He taught 5th grade and coached. Mike and James had always gotten along, and played on the same softball team. Lydia had never liked James' wife, and never really got close to either. But now James was divorced (no surprise). The divorce became the excuse Mike used to invite James to join them at the cabin. "Come on, honey," he said to Lydia. "James is going through a rough spot. We can't leave him alone all summer."
Lydia knew the real reason. Sure, maybe James was going through a "rough spot" but it wasn't pity that Mike was feeling for James. Simply, he wanted a buddy up at the cabin to drink beers with and shoot the beer cans off the stump with Dad's old .22 rifle. Basically, Mike wanted a distraction from the marriage that had fallen into a flatness of the day-to-day. The same-old, same-old. Of course he wanted James to come along. They'd be able to hang out and let Lydia do her thing. After seven years, they'd pretty much heard each other's stories. They knew the same "water cooler" talk at work. They loved each other--no question--but they found little to talk about.
It wasn't that they had a bad marriage; Mike would say that things were "fine." Spending a month at the cabin, just the two of them, was fine; but having James along was better. It wasn't like inviting a friend along on a honeymoon--that stage of their lives seemed far away. Somehow the daily sex turned into a few times a week, which turned into weekend sex, which turned into every week or two, or maybe once a month. The sex tapered so slowly over time that it just seemed a natural effect. They still had sex--it never stopped--but even those sessions were more like something they did because it was just part of the entire list of things: do laundry, wash dishes, scrub bathrooms, take out trash. At one time, they'd watched porn together, but not for a year or more. Each Valentines Mike would buy Lydia some sexy lingerie. It'd be worn that night, and then live in her dresser drawer.
Sadly, Lydia was reaching her sexual prime. She'd met Mike when she was 23. By 24 she married. Now, at 32, she felt like she was a totally different woman. She was no longer a college student. She couldn't even remember what it was like to date guys before Mike. Seriously, she tried to recall the sensation of kissing old boyfriends, and see if she could picture the shape, texture, scent of their penises. She could get the image, sort of, but it was more like something she'd read, than experienced. for her, it'd been Mike's body year after year. She knew exactly what it took to bring him off. She'd accepted that she'd have to spend alone time to get off herself. That was fine. Not exactly how she'd imagined married life would be. But, all in all, it was fine. Mike was always there for her. He didn't cheat. He treated her kindly, and, well.... he was her husband, and that was that.
She grumbled, but accepted the fact that James was now going to spend at least 3 or 4 weeks with them at the cabin.
As soon as all three were at the cabin, something changed. The air smelled sweeter, the sun warmer. There was an energy, a buzz that Mike and Lydia had not felt before. It was a youthful energy, a giddy. Lydia was not sure what had changed or why. For James, it was obvious: he loved the cabin, the loved the lake, and the porch overlooking the lake. But more importantly, he'd always had a thing for Lydia. Even when he was married--especially when he was married--he saw Mike and Lydia as the "perfect" couple. She was smart, and sexy at school, but here in the cabin, as she spent her days in shorts and bikini tops, she seemed extraordinarily sexy.
In fact, one afternoon, he'd returned to the cabin to fetch something, and spied Lydia on the porch, sunning and napping. He stood, silently as possible, hidden in the shadow of the inside, peering at her bare skin through the screen. He knew he shouldn't look, but it was also exactly what he'd fantasied about. He was instantly hard, and by instinct, pushed his hand in his pants and began to stroke his cock. In his mind, a scene played out like a porno: he'd step out on the porch, holding his stiff cock. Lydia would look up and blink. And smile. And reach for his cock with her mouth. Then he'd tug aside her bikini. He always wondered if Lydia was shaved. He was certain that she was. She was so hot to him. He'd flip her onto her knees and give it to her. He was now beating his cock hard.
What would happen if he stepped outside? Would Lydia scream? Laugh? Even if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, what would happen if Mike returned? James was already taking too long. No, that would be the worst thing to do to a best friend.
As he stared at Lydia on the deck and beat off, he still imagined her on her knees. He was pumping into her. But now he pictured Mike in the scene. He had his dick in her mouth. Yeah...that was it. He'd always imagined Mike and Lydia going at it. James had never had hot sex with his wife, the "ice queen" called her. So he transferred that passion to idea that Lydia and Mike had perfect, porn star sex. James didn't want to break them up. He didn't want Lydia to himself. He just wanted to join them, to have a small part of that passion. He pictured himself and Mike fucking Lydia. He decided then, that he would do everything he could to make it happen.
What he didn't know was that Lydia wasn't sleeping. He didn't know that she'd been completely aroused since arriving at the cabin. He didn't know that she'd fingered herself at least a dozen times in the few days they'd been there. He didn't know that she'd checked out his package as he walked around in shorts. It never occurred to him that Mike had put on a few pounds over the years and, in fact, had started a middle-aged paunch. Although James' hair was starting to thin, he was still pretty lean. Lydia had noticed. She'd actually been thinking of James as she spread out her beach towel. She removed her bikini top and lay back in the sun. She hoped to be caught. She wanted to be seen. She wanted both men to walk back to the cabin and catch her topless. She'd act surprised. But she hoped it'd make Mike a little jealous, and James a little horny.
She knew it was just a matter of time before the guys returned. The waiting made her more and more excited. She became wet. Is this the seven year itch, she wondered? At age 32, all she wanted was to be taken, ravaged. She wanted to feel a cok inside her. A new cock, with a new shape. She wanted to put it her mouth and taste new skin, new salty cum. As she thought about James' body, she became wet and reached into her bikini and touched herself.
That's when she heard a gasp from inside. Someone had already been watching her. This turned her on even more. Was it her husband, Mike? If so, was he seeing her, finally, as the sexy woman she was? Now fully awaken from her daydreaming her ears strained. She could hear the unmistakable sound of a man jerking off. She knew the sound well. Mike would beat off in the bathroom. He never realized even with the door shut, she could hear. She could her him slapping his meat, and then the grunt as he spurt. Then the flush of the toilet. That was fine. She took her alone time. He deserved his. She never mentioned it. But she was also never aroused by it. Now, she was half naked on the deck of her cabin, listening to the sound of a man beating off. Was it Mike stroking his cock, finally using her as his masturbation fantasy? She liked the idea.
But if it was Mike, he probably would have come outside--either to tell her to get dressed, or to take her into the bedroom for a quickie. She deduced that the man behind the screen, standing in the shadows of the cabin was not her husband, but his best friend James.
This drove her wild. She pushed two fingers into her already soaking vagina. "Oh yes," she gasped. "Give it to me." She imagined a cock bigger that her husband's penetrating her. She imagined her husband looking on, nodding his approval, as she stretched to accommodate a new cock. She knew it was unrealistic, but she was masturbating; she could fantasize however she wanted, right? She never imagined cheating on Mike, or being in love with another man. She just wanted a new cock. A new body to take her, ravage her. Even make her feel like a naughty slut, and not a proper, professional teacher. Having any sexlife beyond the typical, accepted monogamous married life was literally grounds for her to be fired. For seven years, she'd been a teacher, and always aware of sensitivity of keeping one's sex life private. Naked pictures of herself--even pictures drinking and partying could get her fired. Any porn on a computer could be ceased. Even a rental history of DVDs if there was ever any question of her sex life. She understood the reasons, working with kids, and knew the stories and cautionary tales passed down. But secretly, she wondered if she'd somehow missed out. She imagined that lawyers could have naughty sex. If lawyers had a threesome, no one would care. Three teachers, the PTA would have their asses fired.
Of course, the more dangerous something is, the more desirable. The thought of three teachers getting it on seemed especially naughty to Lydia. And even better, it was her Dad's old cabin. The place she grew up, and where she experienced her first sense of sexuality. She touched herself for the first time in a sleeping bag on the porch, listening to the crickets and the lapping of the lake on the shore.
She'd go on long hikes alone, and some times slip off her clothes. She'd walk nude through the forest, wearing only her hiking boots. She knew she'd be in trouble if caught by her parents. She'd been warned that she'd be raped if caught by a stranger. But contrary to the caution, it gave her one of her first fantasies. She knew that real rape was a violent crime, and did not wish it on herself or any woman for real. But in fantasy, her "violators" were always very cute, very sexy, dashing, and polite, like cowboys in the old Westerns.One of her regular fantasies was adapted from the classic Western good guy in white hat vs. bad guy in black. In this story, she was a Native American or a pioneer woman who lived in the woods. Along comes the bad guy, the train robber, dressed in black, with a load of money, escaping the law. He'd take her as a hostage. At his camp, he'd be gruff but a gentleman. She'd cook him a meal and nurse his wounds. He'd tell her she was "pretty flower ready to bloom." He'd say things like, "have you ever touched a man's gun before?" He'd place her hand on his crotch. She'd feel it move and she'd squeal. "Go on," he'd say, "it ain't gonna bite." And then he'd let her hold his cock in her hands, and pet it, and kiss it and then taste it. He'd show her what to do and make her suck him off.
It was less rape, really, than an initiation. Because he was the bad guy, he would deflower her. He would be strong, rough even, but never cruel. He'd have his way with her. First in the front, and then in the back, until she knew how to accept his cock in every way. She'd be his captive and his sex slave. Her favorite image was to be tied to a tree and taken.
Then, she'd hear gunfire. The goodguy was catching up, with his white hat and white horse. There would be a blazing fight while Lydia remained bound, naked, to a tree. The bad guy would ride off in a cloud of dust, never to be seen again. The good guy would ride up, dismount, and untie the poor Lydia. He'd scoop her up, and set her on his horse. He'd wash away all the dirt and blood and semen from her pale white skin. He'd tell her she'd been soiled by evil, but that it wasn't her fault. He'd marry her, and make her an honest woman. And they'd ride off into the sunset.
She found a stack of old porn mags her Dad had hidden. She'd sneak one out to the woods, and look at the images of sexy women, imagining herself in their positions. She'd spread out the pages so she could see several images at once and finger herself.
What a sexual girl she'd been, and now, decades later, that latent energy was boiling back up. On her back, half naked, fingering herself, she thought about the hidden magazines. She thought about the good guy in the woods, and the bad guy. She dipped and flicked her finger, imagining being penetrated--viloated--by the bad guy, as she listened to the unmistakable sound of a man beating off.
She knew it was James, her husband's best friend. He was the bad guy--the forbidden lover of her adolescent fantasy. Her husband, the calm, safe, thoughtful Mike, was the good guy that she had married and would grow old with. She didn't want to marry the outlaw, but she wanted him to teach her, to show her the ways of making love. She began to pitch her hips, pushing her fingers deeper. She could hear James inside, beating off, trying to stifle his moans. She matched her rhythm to his. Although separated by the screen door, they were fucking as if one.
She imagined James fucking her, and her sucking her husband. Or vise versa, James in her mouth, Mike in her ass. James in her ass, Mike offering his cock to her mouth. Maybe she needed both--the good guy, the bad guy. At the same time. That was what had been missing, always missing in her life. She could not have only the good guy, no more than she could settle down with the outlaw.
Her moans became high pitched and she began to cry out, "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," as she shook in a powerful orgasm. At the same time, holding back for this cue, James released a huge load of cum.
Later, they'd all three be together in the cabin. After a big spaghetti dinner and lots of wine, they'd continue drinking and talking, and flirting. James wouldn't be able to take his eyes off of Lydia, repeating the scene of her masturbating on the porch, trying to imagine what she looked like under her bikini, tasted like, felt like. Mike found his wife radiant that night, glowing in a look of sexual bliss. She wore a tight tank top and short skirt, and he could smell the scent of sweat, suntan oil, and her sex. He was seeing her renewed, vital and inviting his stares. He noticed her bending over to pour more wine for each of the men, and James checking out her small, but sexy cleavage. It didn't make him angery, but rather assured him that his wife was sexy. James, his friend, looked at Mike, and Mike nodded, as if to say, "hell yeah, check out those tits." Lydia bent over several times to pick up objects. Mike and James stared at her ass held in by the tight skirt and a peek of white panties, bunched up, revealing a clear outline of her vulva. Lydia found herself staring at James, knowing he'd been hard for her, and had gotten off from the show she'd put on. She knew it was just a matter of starting. Of crossing the line. Once crossed, there would be no holding back. Each of the three sensed it. The more Mike sensed James' desire for his wife, the more he desired her, too. The more Lydia felt the burning stares of the men, the more confident she became of her sexiness, and more eager to feel the two men and their hard cocks at the same time.
The fire was blazing and they were a couple bottles of wine into the evening, good and buzzed, and horny. "Hey, wanna know a secret," asked Lydia.
The two men glanced at each other, and both seemed to nod to say, "yeah, cool."
Lydia stood up, wobbled a little, and made her way toward the bedroom.
The men glanced at each other again. Then they followed. "Have a seat," said Lydia, patting the bed's patchwork quilt. "I want to show you something." The men glanced at each other again. Lydia swayed over to the wall, where she peeled back part of the wood paneling, left over from the 70s. Behind the panelling, she retrieved a couple dusty magazines. She brought them to the bed and hoped on, beside the two men. She flipped one open and they all started to check out the pictures. Page after glossy pages, she felt herself getting hotter and hotter.
She could see the straining bulges in the men's shorts. "You want to know my secret?" she asked. She knew this was the moment that would either break the spell, or set it into action.
She let her hand slip into her panties, and begin to stroke herself. "When I was a teenager, I used to touch myself looking at these magazines. " Bot men stared at her, fixed on her hand, unable to take their eyes off. James glanced at Mike. Mike looked at his wife. She met his gaze and seemed to say, "This is ok, right?"He had never seen his wife so desirable, so completely alive with sexual energy. His look seemed to say, "Oh my god yes!"
"Do you want to know my deepest secret?" asked Lydia, seductively.
Both men nodded slowly.
She gently reached out to each, softly rubbing their strained erections through their shorts, cupping their balls, and tugging at the elastic bands, signaling them that the talking was done and all three getting naked was next.
They'd have all summer to themselves to try each and every combination. And summers to come. At seven years, it would save Lydia and Mike's marriage. It would start a new chapter for them, a renewed sex life. For Lydia, it would fulfill a long-time fantasy, and make her childhood cabin even more fun to look forward to each summer.
EDDIE BAUER
Here's an image you won't find in the Eddie Bauer catalog, but it evokes the spirit of outdoor adventure. Here's to kaki walking pants, flannel shirts, and day hikes in the local nature preserve, and then taking it one step further. What better way to enjoy nature and being outside on a clear winter day. Here's to the sexy-sex definition of "outdoor active."
Here's an image you won't find in the Eddie Bauer catalog, but it evokes the spirit of outdoor adventure. Here's to kaki walking pants, flannel shirts, and day hikes in the local nature preserve, and then taking it one step further. What better way to enjoy nature and being outside on a clear winter day. Here's to the sexy-sex definition of "outdoor active."
