(Poem) The Truth of Vikings by Donna Snyder.



HARRY: STORY FIVE – An Erotic Love Story

I love harry’s penis when it lies there, small and vulnerable. 


While it is still small, I sometimes take it in my mouth and see how much I can hold in there without choking – and laughing – as it grows.  After sex, when it is growing small, I sometimes fall asleep holding it, like a favorite comforting blankie.


Harry’s cock, erect, is textbook perfect.  It is just that beautiful.  It has the requisite veiny, throbby, purply, thick characteristics of the very best penises.


There is no point on my body at which harry could touch my with his cock which would not cause me a frisson of delighted anticipation.


I love harry’s cock.  I love it soft nestled comfortably in the crook of his groin or the palm of my hand or tucked into my mouth – waiting to grow up. I love it rock hard, powerful, commanding, demanding, pointing skywards, thick, veiny, splotchy-engorged, purple-knobbed, possessive, frantic and desperate.


I love watching it become transformed from one state into the other, and then back.


Last night Harry gave me what I think of as the come-as-you-are orgasm.  The orgasm it provides may just be the most soul-satisfying one there is.  It starts deep within, in the very center of body and soul and it doesn’t travel far from there.  It is intensely and absolutely satisfying.


Harry placed under my hips a pillow made to elevate me to such an angle that he makes maximum contact with my vulva when we fuck – he gets all of the tender spots, which means my clit, my swollen, pulsating, shiny clit, my oh-god-harry-make-me-come clit.


Harry told me to lie down, legs spread, and positioned himself on top of me, supporting most of his own weight.  He gently lowered himself and kissed me deeply in what I have described elsewhere as a kiss which is a sex act in itself.  Harry’s kiss alone has brought me so close to orgasm that I believe that it will take only patience for it to someday make me actually come.  Yes, Harry’s kiss is that good.


As Harry and I mouth fucked, harry pressed his hard cock into my belly.  I urged my pelvis up towards him, wrapped my legs around him, squirmed, indicating ever more frantically that he should just please please please fuck me fuck me already.  From deep in my throat, I moaned helplessly.


Still mouth-fucking me, Harry lifted his body slightly and lowered a hand to put his cock to where my need was so great that nothing else mattered.  When Harry’s knob touched my cunt, I broke away from the kiss and cried out.  He entered me slowly, despite my frantic urging – I believe I even pounded his shoulders oh just fuck me fuck me hard now now now.


When he was deep in me, pressed hard into me, Harry held the pressure for seconds and pulled back.  The sticky-friction-feel on my labia and clit made me gasp. Harry oh yes!  Now I was going to climb the mountain and I belonged to Harry for this journey. 


Harry began the slow inexorable journey of this most incredible of fucks.  I hold on to Harry for dear life as he performs the movements which will stimulate every inch of my cunt using his cock and the flesh between his legs.  This is a long, slow fuck and during it I am perhaps more intensely aroused than at any other time – it is intense for Harry, too.  I am unable to speak, even to moan.  Harry is silent, too.  Harry may sense where I am by the urgency of my breathing or the tensing of my muscles.  I cannot describe cries, moans, words of passion – there is none of that.  I am simply one mass of trembling need to come.  Silent and desperate.  Orgasm.  Orgasm.  Just make me come.


Harry knows when I have come by the spasming of my cunt.  He continues to fuck through the spasms and only relaxes when my body does the same.


I love to come this way. It leaves me energized. The aftermath is different from the wipeout orgasms. I wouldn’t give up either.


Harry.  Harry was tired but desperate to come.  He was so full of need that he hurt.  I was full of energy and mischief and I was going to rouse Harry to weeping frenzy before I made him roar with completion.


I was going to give Harry a wipeout orgasm.


My turn.


I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to do for Harry, so I decide to be selfish and do a few of the things I like best.


I order him to kneel on the bed, supporting himself on his forearms on pillows.  When he takes too long to get into position, I smack him sharply on his ass cheeks which reddens them only very slightly.  I ask him if he needs additional punishment.  He tells me to give him whatever he deserves.  Oh, I will.


I form a whip with my hair and I swish my head over Harry’s ass cheeks.  I spread his ass and let my hair run along his ass crack.  I use a finger to push my silky hair into his asshole and he cries out as I withdraw it.  At the same time, I cup his big, heavy balls and squeeze and swat them.


My hunger for Harry is vast now and I bury my face deeply within his ass crack, tonguing, licking, eating as I go.  When the tip of my tongue finds Harry’s delectable hole my moan echoes his.  I nibble and suck and chew on the rim – Harry is calling me the names like cunt and darling that turn me on – I press my tongue inside and insert a finger alongside so I can get my tongue in deeper.


I move so fast that Harry doesn’t have time to react when I flip over on my back and slide beneath him so his heavy balls are positioned over my mouth.


I reach up and grip his ass cheeks and pull him down, down, down.  His balls meet my waiting mouth.  I cannot take Harry’s balls in my mouth all at once so I begin to nuzzle, lick and suck.  I hold his heavy balls in both hands and I squeeze and prod and eat and suck and hum into these big heavy hairy balls which makes Harry beg and I love this so much and Harry needs to come I know he needs to come but he will wait a little longer because I need to feed at his balls.


And I need to bring a hand down to my clit – oh god – and when I come I cry out into Harry’s balls and he needs to come so bad he weeps oh baby please please please.


I am merciful.  I reach my cunt-clit-wet hand up for Harry’s straining cock and hand-fuck every throbbing inch until Harry explodes, screaming, with shudders and spasms which seem to rend his soul.



(sequel to HARRY: A Trilogy)

An erotic love story


It isn’t the fucking.  I write about the fucking, sure, but let me say at the very start that Harry is the love of my life, the love of my soul.


I don’t know how to write about stuff like that, so I write about the sex.


Harry and I have lived together for a few years.  If you want to know more, you can darn well take the time to read the Harry trilogy which tells the backstory.  Otherwise, don’t complain and take what you get.


There are four of us:  Lily, Harry’s fifteen-year-old dog, and Simon Rattle the Cat (yes, named for Sir Simon) who is nearly seventeen, and of course we two humans.


Harry is an artist.  I am a writer.  Harry has a studio in Soho and I have an office at home.  We live in a three-bedroom condo on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.


I am a vegan.  Harry is a vegan at home.


We do a lot of things, separately and together, so don’t go thinking that fucking is all we do.


On the occasion I’m about to describe, Harry and I had decided to arouse and satisfy one another using only water as a device.  The handheld shower with the adjustment panel of a fighter jet figured prominently in our plans, but if one or the other of us came up with an additional creative use of water, then that would be admissible.


We decided this in the morning as we prepared to launch into our individual days.  This amounted to some fourteen hours of virtual foreplay.


We parted early to go our own ways.  Our schedules change because we work for ourselves and we are in and out of one another’s ways at odd times but on this day we didn’t expect to see each other until early evening.  Harry was heading to his studio and the course of his day usually led to visits to galleries and museums all over town – he was becoming known and respected, and it was heady stuff.  I was working on deadline on a piece for a majorly major magazine, on special assignment if you please, and I intended to work through until it was finished.  Since I worked at home, I’d be there for Lily.  Lily is Harry’s (and now our) beloved elderly black medium-sized mixed-breed dog.  She has her own bathroom accommodations, but the vet says she needs a twice-a-day once-around-the-block swing for the exercise.  This is no problem for me because I love this dog as if I had known her all her life.  When I’m not with Lily, she hangs with Simon Rattle the Cat.


Harry’s key in the door at 7pm-ish brought Lily and Simon to the door where a lingering three-way greeting took place.  I watched from the open bar between the kitchen and the living room because this ritual gives me so much pleasure.


The four of us puttered around the kitchen, only the cat and the dog digging into their meals, with the humans merely grazing and touching and caressing one another as we pretended that it was dinnertime.  The hours of anticipation worked: we were acutely in the mood.


Simultaneously, we rose from the kitchen table and moved to the bedroom.  I was naked by the time we got there since I was clad only in my around-house sweat shorts and tank top.

Harry was without clothes only seconds after I.


We headed for the bathroom.  We didn’t touch.  Remember, this was Water Night.


We got under the regular shower and soaped each other’s bodies and hair with the excellent vegan melon and cucumber body wash we both love which leaves us smelling so fresh. 

We did not stimulate one another because the rule was water only.

The fact of avoiding exciting one another made us just about frantic by the time we turned off the overhead shower and commandeered the dashboard of the handheld power shower.


The first target of the jet was my nipples.  The spray was already sharp and the initial tingle of the water jet made me gasp.  Harry moved the spray around, touching me with nothing other than the water spray, making adjustments to the spray intensity until I indicated that it was perfect. 


I wanted to reach for Harry, but it was against the rules.  I reached for his hand holding the shower to push it downwards, but Harry pulled back his hand.  No touching.  I pointed.  Please? 


I sat on a small bench I use when I shave my legs and I opened my legs to give Harry access to my clit and my labia which he approached with enthusiasm and lots of water.  He adjusted for a sharp needle spray with an intensity which was almost more than I could bear.  My labia and my clit were engorged and throbbing and I was close to orgasm with only the touch of the water.


Harry brought the jet spray in close to my clit and moved it over the surface until my cries let him know that he had it right.  My water orgasm broke the surface and I cried out Harry’s name.


Harry’s neck, back, shoulders, ass, armpits are sensitive, so I ran the needle spray over these areas, as he writhed with pleasure.  I let him spread his ass cheeks and I sprayed his ass crack and hole which made him moan and rotate his hips with pleasure.


I worked his balls, beginning at the base, thoroughly.  Harry’s balls are large and heavy and both of us love them very much.  The needle jet spray was exquisitely tormenting and Harry was making the motions of fucking, his erect veiny cock doing a stiff dance in front of us.


At last it was time to get down to business.  Don’t get me wrong.  I adore Harry’s cock.  Literally.  Not for nothing do I call him a sex god.


But I really didn’t know if I was going to be able to bring this off.  So to speak.  I mean a real, live gloppy orgasm.  With a handheld shower.


But I love a challenge and I love Harry and I love Harry’s penis, so I was game.


I started at the base and moved the spray around, up, down – watching Harry’s face for reaction.  I moved the spray around the circumference, then up and down, sides, back, front – always watching for reaction, listening for intensity of moans, shortness of breath, gasps, shudders.


I was gratified by the presence of all of the above reactions, including a few unscheduled whimpers.


God, this man is hot.


Harry was beginning to beg.  So appealing in a man.  I decided it was time.  I broke the only-water rule to grab the thick veiny, pulsating shank of my lover’s adorable “member,” while I directed the water-needles at the tender purple knob which was glistening hopefully through the spray.


As I tormented Harry’s most sensitive spot, I worked his cock shank briskly and it took seconds for Harry to rear and buck and shudder and spasm into an orgasm which I bent to take into my mouth.  (In case you were wondering:  two calories, nutritional value of egg white.  Sole exception to my vegan diet.)


Harry and I slept deeply.


The next morning, water entered our lives again.  When we woke up, it was pouring torrentially.  The sound of the rain was so loud that the thunder sounded far, far off.


Harry had to drive to Long Island.  He bent to kiss me goodbye and I grunted.


I stayed in bed for a couple of hours after Harry left, cuddling lavishly with Simon and Lily, who would not go out in this rain, and who was delighted to miss her exercise.


I was just about to embark on the writing of a piece for which I was nowhere close to having an inspiration so I decided to take the day off to listen to the rain and maybe take a walk all rubberized so I could feel the rain pound on me which is something I love.


I typically get my news online – we have one television in the bedroom which is rarely used, but three computers – which I did while I had my Starbucks Kenya.


At about 4pm, I got a phone call from the Long Island gallery owner with whom Harry had been meeting.  Had I heard from Harry?  Why, no…


I was about to find out that water had come into our lives again.


With no visibility and slick conditions – the gallery owner who was also a close friend told me – there had been a massive vehicle pileup on Interstate 495, more famously known as the Long Island Expressway, the road Harry would have had to take – had in fact taken – to get back to Lily, Simon and me.


Eighteen people were known to have been killed outright.  The fate of literally hundreds of others was not known.  The site was a place of mayhem.


Harry’s name, my name and that of our Long Island friend had some recognition – and our friend had put in a number of calls, bandying about all three of our names.


Our friend and I were talking in the hushed, reverent tones of the bereaved and I was casting a benevolent eye on Lily vowing with aching heart that I would love her as my own for the remainder of her life, when there was a key-click, a knob-twist, a door-turn and in walked Harry, not the least bit dead.


I stifled, What are you doing here?  I said, He’s here, and hung up on our friend.  And joined the cat and dog around Harry.  Only I was surprised.


What accident?  Harry asked.


Harry had missed the accident and gone to his studio.  Heard sirens.  Lots and lots of ‘em.  New York City.


A tragedy that day.  But not ours.




Harry: A Trilogy – An Erotic Love Story by the Narrator of the Sex Toy Quartet

Part 1

I guess you could say that I had broken my own heart.

Still in love, I had sent him away.  In love, he had gone.

I nursed my broken heart in my luxury apartment on a posh block on Manhattan’s posh Upper East Side.

I am a writer – successful – large amounts of money there.  Jewish.   A vegan. 

He is a lawyer in the music industry – vast amounts of money there.

I’ll call him L:  Kind, funny, gentle, vegan when he was with me, never saw him eat animal products, thoughtful, considerate, generous, knew location and purpose of g- and deep-spots, had a strong tongue, would send his penis anyplace it was needed (which, ironically, turned out to be precisely the problem).

L is a sex addict.

By remaining with him, I made his disease my own.

So, I let him go.  Rather, I let go of him.  He is in his own hands.  I do not know whether or not he sought to recover from his condition.  It is none of my business.

This isn’t his story.  It is mine.

The broken heart?  Here’s the funny part:  Sure, I wallowed in it for a while.  Shed the obligatory onion-peeling-style tears, sogged-up the pillow cases, sported the sunglasses over glamorously grief-swollen eyes.  Suffered poignantly and magnificently.

It was marvelously dreadful.  My girlfriends were the perfect supporting cast, by turns gentle, sarcastic, loving, sympathetic, tough-loving and understanding.

But then “healthy” kicked in.  I was not sick with His Disease anymore and it felt good.  I began to feel clean and whole and renewed and free.  Hallelujah.

Before long, emo bloodletting lost its charm.  I found myself looking at men, first out of the corners of my eyes, and then straight on.  Flirtatiously, even.

I know.  You’re waiting for sex. We both know that’s why you’re here.

Sex was a long time coming.  (Oh, shut up – It won’t be a long time coming here: this is a story, for crying out loud.)

I went to dinners, openings, art exhibitions with men.  I went to the opera and philharmonic and ballet and poetry readings with men introduced to me by friends.

I kissed.  Squeezed a few balls.  Pressed against a few cocks.  Just the obligatory meaningless crap.  To tell you the truth, I was not once even marginally aroused.  The companionship was fun – these were accomplished, smart, funny men, but they could have been accomplished, smart, funny avocados for all the sexual interest they held for me.

About a year after I dispatched L from my life, I ran into Harry, an artist, at a Soho gallery opening.  No one introduced us.  I literally ran into him.

Entering the unisex bathroom at tea-fueled breakneck speed, I smacked fully frontally into Harry, exiting the unisex bathroom at pee-relieved normal speed.

My very first words to Harry, as I thrust him harshly aside, were, he eventually told me: “Move, pee.”

No, he wasn’t waiting for me, the madcap but lovable woman with whom he had fallen irrevocably in love at first sight, outside the unisex bathroom.  But he was, in fact, asking our host, the gallery owner, who and what I was.

When Harry approached me, I didn’t have any idea who he was until he spoke his first words: “You OK for the bathroom for a few minutes?”

Sex yet?????  Well, no.

Harry and I were like two old shoes right away.  Like two big kids who had grown up next door to one another.  It was uncanny.  We became best friends really quickly.  We e-mailed, IM-ed like teenagers.

Sex???  Wait.

Did Harry and I touch one another?  Only constantly.  I touched his arm.  He placed his hand on the back of my neck.  I kneaded his shoulders.  He stroked my hair.  I reflexologied or whatever it’s called his feet and he did mine.  He put his arm around my shoulders.  I hugged him.  We kissed, closed-mouth.

For months.  And months.

Secretly, I bought condoms, and kept them with me. (Lubed, ribbed.  So you know.)  (All right, let’s get this out of the way:  no partners since L; tested twice; negative; used condoms with L – so do shut up.)

I found out later that Harry, too, had bought and was carrying…but this is my story, so maybe I’ll say more about that and maybe I won’t.

Is it sex yet?  Almost.

H speaks real English.  As in United Kingdom English.  Not like my American New York Jew’s facsimile.  H’s accent excites me.  It has from the moment I heard his first words making sure that I did not have an immediate need to pee.  I love hearing Harry speak.

H loves hearing my voice when he is agitated – he is probably the only human on the planet who finds my tones soothing and comforting.

Harry and I love to touch and be touched by each other: even though our contact has not, in over a year of friendship, been overtly sexual, we cannot, by the time of our first lovemaking, keep our hands off of one another.

Is it sex yet?  Well, yes.

We were intimate.  We were best friends.  We had touched, stroked, massaged one another.  We had seen much of one another without clothes, although in bits and pieces.

It started as an ordinary day.  It turned out to be the day that Harry and I would acknowledge that our love for one another had different ramifications than we had mutually admitted.

Honestly, it wasn’t spontaneous.  I had been gathering courage for this.  We got to my house from a long bird-watching ramble in Central Park and while Harry headed for the coffee maker, I muttered something about a shower and headed for the bathroom.

No, Harry did not surprise me and ravish me in the shower.  He had no idea that things between us were about to change –- he would not have dreamed of doing such a thing.

I took a frantic and soapy shower.  I was not going to smell like a real human woman for this encounter if I could help it.

I made sure there was not an extraneous hair on my body.  It did not occur to me that I might end up looking like nothing so much as a giant slug.

I used copious antiperspirant – my armpits were going to smell like Juniperberry if it killed me.

When I walked into the kitchen clad in shorts and tank top, in a cloud of fragrance, the coffee was made.  Harry was sitting at the counter that divided my kitchen from my living room, a mug of coffee and the New York Times in front of him.  He rose to get me a cup of coffee and asked me if I wanted to order dinner in, go out or do something else.

I realized that I didn’t have a plan.  Should I take his hand and lead him to the bed, push him down and hurl myself on top of him?

I got hit by reality.  I was all gussied up for the sex of our lives and Harry did not have a clue that our lives were about to change.

I hadn’t thought this far ahead.  I was a trembling, aching, throbbing lover.  Harry was a guy thinking about dinner with his best friend.  Gee whiz.

I realized immediately that this situation called for a sophisticated, witty yet elegant, brazen yet entrancing tactic.  But I couldn’t come up with one.

I walked over to Harry, pushed away his coffee mug and the Times, took his face between my hands, bent my face to meet his raised one, kissed him with, for the first time ever, my tongue firmly, deeply and lingeringly in his mouth.

Well.  There you go.

I have to say this for Harry.  He was surprised.  But he was on it.  He stood up, taking me with him, still and always kissing.  Now I was really annoyed.  Harry could kiss like this and he had let me go all this time without it?!  Fuck that.  Instead of just enjoying that loveliest of kisses, I fumed about the lost time while other women out there knew what I was only just finding out.

It was almost painful when Harry broke away.  “More” was what I said.  “All night, if you want” and he took me to bed. On top of the bed.  I in shorts and tank top.  Harry down to shorts – so fast I didn’t see it happen.

No frenzy.  No ripping at stuff.  Harry took over.  All I wanted was that kiss.  The most earth-shatteringly skillful kiss I had ever known.

I lay on top of my bed, immobilized by my need for Harry’s mouth.  Then, Harry was there, dressed only in his shorts, and he was kissing me –- we were kissing.

There were other days and nights, and there will be more still to come.  And I will be telling you all about them.  Harry and I have learned together to bring one another to states of ecstasy that are often unintelligible from pain, but which result in such explosions of gratification that we are left weak with gratitude and love for one another.

But that night there was that kiss-to-end-all-kisses.  So let me finish that story.

We seemed to tacitly mutually decide to see where the kiss would take us.  By some sort of soul communication we did not touch except where our mouths met.  I was aware that his shorts were bulging and he had to be aware that my hips were making the movements of sex.  We were moaning in our throats.

Our tongues fucked one another’s mouths until our need for release became unbearable.  I worked off my shorts using a combination of my toes and my fingers in a contortionist’s maneuver which must have looked pretty strange.  I broke the mouth kiss to push Harry’s head down to continue his kiss on my clit which by now was engorged, pulsating and all but screaming with need.  Now, my clit was the tongue in Harry’s mouth and his plunging, swirling tongue and lovely cunt kiss made me cry out his name as I spasmed against his mouth.

Now it was my turn to turn my kiss into the instrument of Harry’s torment and, finally, relief.  I pushed him onto his back and took off his shorts.  His rock-hard cock popped up and pointed straight up at the ceiling.

I did for the glans of Harry’s cock what he did for my clit.  The poor guy was going not-so-quietly out of his mind.  I wanted him to beg for his orgasm.  I told him so.  And he did.  “Please.  Oh, please.”

Enough torture for the first time, right?  Right.

I had to cheat because I couldn’t get Harry’s entire cock in my mouth.  So, while I sucked and kissed the tip, I lubed my hand between my legs with my cunt juice and wanked Harry’s shaft fast and hard, base to where my mouth worked, until he exploded, roaring, into my mouth and down my throat.

After, suddenly stunned silent at our change of status, Harry and I slid into one another’s arms, where we lay without speaking until we fell asleep.

That’s how the sex between us started.  The rest of what happened is a good story, too.  But we both know that you’re here for the sex.  So that’s what you’ll get.

I will try to make it as good for you as it is for us.

You will be the third to know.  Only you. 


Part 2

I love to fuck.  But it’s not the most important thing. No, really, it’s not.  It’s just that I know that that’s why you’re here.  And I’m a writer, which means that I’m nothing without you.

Harry is an artist.  We met at a Soho gallery opening.  It was very glamorous:  we collided going in (I) and out (he) of a unisex bathroom.

 He speaks real United Kingdom English, but fortunately he is not much more naturally courteous than I.

We instantly connected and became inseparable – best friends for nearly eighteen months, with subliminal barely expressed physical attraction, until the night I seduced Harry as he drank coffee and read the New York Times seated at the counter which separates my kitchen from my living room.

Since that day, some eight months ago, Harry and I have become closer than each of us has ever been with another human person.  Best friends, lovers, siblings of a sort.  Soulmates?  Maybe.  Pretty scary.

We share interests and we share, equally, mutual disinterest.  Some stuff we do together:  art galleries, museums, opera, philharmonic, booksellers, poetry readings, bird watching, hiking, camping and cave exploration.  Stuff we do separately:  Starbucks chats, ballet, writing, grassroots political activism for me;  Painting, green-market shopping (he hunts them down with the diligence of Hercule Poirot), vegan cooking (he excels!); jazz recitals.

We maintain separate apartments, but we stay together in one or the other of them every night.  Usually mine, because his dog travels and my cat doesn’t.  My cat looks at me funny if I walk in at 8am after a night away, so I have pretty much given up on that.  Any minute now, Harry is going to move his stuff to my house (which is bigger and posher).

Our kids –- cat and dog –- accept one another.  We –- woman and man –- love one another.  This should work.

Where’s the sex, right?  Patience.  We have sex a lot, so there’ll be plenty for you.  I want to set the scene and I am in charge.

 So, on this day, we were at my house.  I forgot to mention that my house had the hand-held power shower whose powerful sharp spray can give me a clit orgasm and can bring Harry pretty close to orgasm, himself, but I’ll tell you about that some other time.

I write in the morning from 8 to 10.  Six days a week. It is my scheduled time and I stick to it as if I were going to an office.  Writing is my job and I approach it with the discipline I’d need for any job.  I sit at my desk and open my mind – and stab away as thoughts come and go.  Some days are more productive than others.  Writing is real hard work – much harder than most people realize – and at the end of two hours I can feel either exhilarated or drained.

It was Sunday. Harry came in from solo bird watching at about 8-ish.  I was writing.  Harry showered and went to his studio where he was painting the portrait (well, it paid the bills) of an upper west side prep-school boy who was coming to sit, resplendent in prep-school blazer. 

I wrote until nearly 10:30.  I got a mug of icky coffee dregs – Harry is the gourmet; I need only to dilute the blood in my caffeine stream.

I drank my “coffee” and picked up the Times Book Review, but I was asleep, Book Review draped over my chest, before I read a word.

 Next thing I knew, Harry called to me from the front door – he always calls out so I won’t be alarmed.  This may be some atavistic protective impulse.  I think it is sweet.  Actually, I’m glad he does it: I would jump if I heard only the key-doorknob action with no voice.

In seconds, Harry was looking down at me.  He smelled outdoors-crisp.  He gave off an autumn-apple aura.  He in fact carrieds a crackly brown sack of red apples (I’m a city girl: apples are red, reddish, yellow and green) and another of muffins from the vegan bakery.

 Harry bent over and gave me an autumn-crisp kiss on the tip of my nose, deposited the paper sacks in the kitchen, went in the direction of the bedroom and emerged with 14-year-old Lily for her slow walk around the block which she didn’t want to take (she is trained to use special pads in the bathroom) but which the vet said she needs to take twice a day.

 When Harry and Lily left, I headed for the shower.  I smelled like a working writer who had just taken a nap – not the worst smell in the world, but well, we were about to have sex and I wanted to be fresh.  Now, how did I know this?  Well, you ninny, of course, I didn’t know this when I stepped into the shower.  I’m writing this after the fact.  When I stepped into the shower, I merely wanted not to smell like a working writer who had just taken a nap.

I was getting out of the shower/shaving-leg/shampoo dealie when I heard Lily and Harry talking in the hall.  Harry was talking, Lily was using body language.

I put on my usual around-the-house tank top and sweat shorts and slippers and went to the kitchen to find Harry making a fresh pot of coffee – Starbucks Kenya.  When he got it going, he offhandedly said, “Shower,” and went in that direction.

 I got plates and muffins and applies and grapes set out for brunch on the counter that separates my kitchen and living room.  I thought: a quiet day.  A walk, maybe dinner with friends.  Sex was not in the air.

Harry in shorts, sans erection, joined me at the aounter and reached for a muffin.  Apricot ginger.  Lily slept soundlessly on the couch, Simon, my sixteen-year-old cat, dozing in the crook of her leg.  I raised my mug of Starbucks Kenya to my mouth and took a hefty pull.

And then it happened.

How to describe it?  Was it a sound?  Was it a force?  Was it an impact?  Was it an explosion?

The universe shook.  The sound enveloped us.  It came from everywhere.  The very atmosphere seemed to compress and smack into us.  It was too big to be called “a noise.”  The echo went on and on – as big as the skies.  Eventually, ordinary New York City sounds took over.

What had happened?  The world hadn’t ended: there was still stuff outside my window.

My building took on the atmosphere of a dormitory:  doors opened, TVs on, people clad every-which-way, hallways filled with humans, dogs and cats and a parrot named Humberto who sang “How Much is That Doggie in the Window.”

As usual, it was our weekend daytime doorman, Anatoly, who solved the mystery, which turned out to be the explosion of a Con Edison plant about two miles away from our building.

It looked as if the furor would go on for some time, but Harry, Lily, Simon and I retreated to 15 E.

The four of us looked at each other.  Lily and Simon yawned hugely and went off to resume their nap. 

Harry and I – more shaken than we’d realized – were suddenly in one another’s arms.  We clung tightly for minutes.  I felt reassured by how tightly we were pressed together.  And then I felt his erection.  I returned its pressure.  And still we clung to one another.

The large windows in my bedroom look out in the general direction of the exploded plant, a pretty scary view at the moment.  I don’t know if Harry would have minded, but he sensed that I would and he carried me, actually trembling, to my smaller room on the other side of the apartment where I write and where I have a bed so I can sleep and write as needed during the night without disturbing Harry when I’m on deadline.

Harry placed me on this bed, lay beside me and lowered his mouth to kiss me, all the time stroking my goose-pimpled right arm with his free left arm.  I have to tell you about Harry’s kiss.  Harry’s kiss is a sex act all on its own.  Before Harry, I never knew that so much could be done with a kiss, that so many love stories could be told with a kiss.

I believe that the day will come when I will reach orgasm simply with Harry’s kiss.

Harry lifted his mouth only to slide my tank top over my head and to wet my nipples with his tongue.  My nipples being directly wired to my cunt, this got my attention.  Harry didn’t stop orgasm-kissing me but reached back for the water-soluble lube we keep on the night table.  The fucker put a dollop of this miracle shit on each nipple and teased and tormented my poor hard nipples until, between that and the mouth-fuck, my pelvis was fuck-dancing all on its own and I was practically kicking the air in need.

I was so close, I felt like I could shut my legs tight and hump and come, but the bastard left off the mouth-fuck and the nipple-torment and positioned himself between my legs.  Please.  Please. O, god.

He reached up and over me for the lube.  He warmed some in his hands. Fuck, he had a lot of the stuff in his hands.  Harry began to caress and stroke my labia, never entering my cunt and never touching my clit.  He also exerted and released pressure on my pelvis as I raised and lowered it.

Then he stopped. He lay beside me and began his incredible orgasm-kiss while his right hand reached downward.  His fingers stroked and prodded the engorged walls of my cunt and when he saw my desperation he settled on his his first swollen, hard, strawberry-textured quarry with his middle fingers and his second quarry, my pulsating clit, with his thumb and he caressed and stroked and I flew roaring over my cliff, shaking and spasming all control gone.  But we were not done, my Harry and I.  My shattered, wracked body at Harry’s mercy, his middle finger sought yet the final quarry which would send me over the last cliff.

Here is where sex was no longer pleasure.  Here is where it was all.  Here is where it consumed a woman.  Here is where sex became terror.

Harry’s middle finger was inexorable stroking its way up my cunt and I knew that there would be no mercy.  He was going to make me have this orgasm.  This most fearsome orgasm which most will never know.

My head was thrown back.  My back arched.  My knees raised.  I belonged to Harry in this instant.

Harry stroked and prodded the area around my Deep Spot, the most sensitive area on a woman’s body.  I shuddered.  He reached the spot, leaned the pad of his finger into it, tapped and pulled down gently.

What happened?  You do not describe such an orgasm.  You survive it.

I splintered into a million pieces.  I shattered.  I screamed.  I trembled.  I spasmed.  I roared.

Yes. No. Maybe.

You do not describe such an orgasm.  You live through it and get to have another one.

Harry actually came from the force of watching me.  This does not always happen.  Since I barely knew what day it was, I was glad that it happened this way.

Try this at home.


Part 3

I don’t remember exactly when – or even why – I began recording certain of my lovemaking episodes.

I am a Jewish vegan.  I live on a posh block on Manhattan’s posh Upper East Side.  I am a reasonably successful writer.  I have an eighteen-year-old cat named Simon Rattle.  Yes, named to honor Sir Simon, himself, whom I revere.

I live with Harry, a reasonably – and increasingly – successful artist with a studio in Soho.  He has a sixteen-year-old dog named Lily.

 Harry and I met three years ago, became lovers about eighteen months into that time and have been living under the same roof for ten of the eighteen months during which we have been lovers. It’s not nearly is complicated as that sentence makes it seem.  Work it out.

Lily, Simon, Harry and I are a successful blended twelve-legged family

There.  Now that the details of our lives are out of the way we can get to the sex.  Which is why you’re here.

I don’t write it down every time we have sex.  The last sex I described was on the day the Con Edison plant exploded two miles from our building.

How often do Harry and I have sex?  Here’s the deal with us.  We don’t really care.  We are busy people: if we’re home at the same time – and we ignite, that’s great.  If we’re exhausted, we don’t have to perform.  If we pass in the night for a week or more – that’s ok, too.

The point is, our sex is so perfectly gratifying, our sex together so stupendous, that we can work around scheduling issues without a second thought, with the knowledge that when we have it, it will blow us away.

Do we masturbate when need overpowers us and we don’t have access to one another:  yep. And sometimes we share our fantasies, so we end up making an intimate moment even out of that.

What makes me decide to journal one sexual encounter rather than another?  Sometimes there is something, like the explosion of the Con Edison plant, which sets the occasion apart.  Sometimes it is a new technique we’ve tried with a spectacular outcome.  Sometimes something memorable has distinguished the occasion.

A friend invited us to use his country cabin for a couple of days.  Harry, Lily and I set off, leaving Simon to the ministration of our three-catted next-door neighbor.

This cabin is not exactly rough country living: there is a huge sheltered semi-outdoor hot tub in which Harry and I plunged ourselves about thirty minutes after getting to the place. We were in it side by side, we hadn’t fucked for two days and we were crazy hot.

I cupped Harry’s balls, which are large, heavy and hairy beauties– a balls-lover’s paradise – and batting them around gently and then less so in the warm water. Harry wanted more, but I was not about to do stuff in this guy’s tub that I wouldn’t want done in mine.  I wanted more, too, but the enforced wait made both of us hurt with need.

When we left the tub we washed with the jet-spray that when it hit Harry’s cock and his balls and his asshole made him moan and when it hit my cunt and my clit nearly made me come but not yet, not yet.

We went to our sleeping bags that we have combined, because this is what we wanted – to fuck outdoors with the sky as the roof and the air on our bodies. There was no luxury – Harry simply put a cushion under me to raise my cunt and he went to work on me and he ate and he ate and he ate and he was everywhere and I was fucking his face and first wrapping my legs now around his neck then loosening them to open wide to give him greater access, my feet stabbing the air now begging please please please oh Harry. And he licked and cajoled and teased. And it went on and on and on and on. Oh, god, Harry, I need to come so bad. Oh, please. I pulled his hair, his ears. I pounded his shoulders. Harry, harry, harry.

And then. Then. Oh, god, yes, now, now…the trees, the sky, the very stars heard my cry, my scream…

My miraculous lover ate through my come, through my thrusts, through my spasms. Then he lifted his cunt-wet face to kiss me deeply and to tongue-fuck my mouth with my own juices on his lips, as he moaned with need.

I was satisfied yet I still had a hunger. I pushed Harry over onto his belly, spread your asscheeks straightaway and dove right in there and begin simply to eat him alive with my tongue and my mouth on the rim and inside of his beautiful asshole.

Harry cried out and it didn’t take long for him to beg to come.  Fuck that, you fucker.  I’m not going to make it that easy for you, I told him.  You will weep with need, before I am through.

I lifted my face from his wonderful ass and I told him: I will suck and lick and I will find your man deep-spot-prostate with my tongue because it can’t hide from me and you will be crazy hot and I will cup your balls all the time and you will be frantic wild desperate to come little harry and I will say beg and oh yes you will beg please please make me come.

It won’t be good, baby, I tell him. It will be pure raw need. It will be desperation. You will hate me.  You will feel as if you will die without me.

I told him these things.  And as I said these words, I caressed and kneaded Harry’s heavy, engorged and massively aching balls.

And my lover’s face was a study in desperation, desire, passion and need.

I told Harry to lie on his back.  I straddled him facing his feet so I could ride his cock backwards.  Harry loves watching my ass bounce up and down and sometimes he puts a finger in me and slowly fucks my ass in rhythm with my movement.

Let me take a break in the action to tell you about my narrow ass-fuck-vibrator that is made like a stiff row of anal beads.  Its use at orgasm should require the precertification of a cardiologist.

I had this ass-wand with me – sure, we were camping, but, let’s not get carried away with “roughing it” –  and it took a second to slip on a lubed condom.  Harry didn’t know what was coming when I reached over and slid it into his asshole, fucked him for thirty seconds and then settled in on his man deep-spot.  I could almost hear Harry’s eyes  roll back in his head, the fucker, and Harry, who always has a glib and ready answer, was able only to roar and shudder and spasm and shake and on and on and on.

 More to come…











Part 3

Sex Toy is my lover.  Sex Toy is his name, a sort of demotion from L, which is the name on his birth certificate and by which I’d called him until learning, some weeks ago, that my L was in fact a sex addict — I mean Sex Addict, the real deal, the whole megillah — which means that, far from being “my” L, he was pretty much free-for-the-asking-just-stand-in-line L.

I’ve seen Sex Toy since the day I found out, but I wasn’t ready to talk about the big day, the day L was outed as Sex Toy.  So here goes.  This sucks the big one.  In a bad way.

How did I “find out?”  I’m pretty sharp.  You can’t get much past me.  It took only about a year for me to began to realize that L’s 6,000 provocatively posed photographs, many not even bothering to show L’s face — a usual feature of personal photos. in addition to the masturbatory videos which were charming renditions of L’s hand and L’s penis, with a glimpse of stomach and testicle — and, at the end, an eye-popping stream of white creamy stuff which in sheer volume seemed to have a life of its own – it took only about a year to begin to realize that this wealth of images of L’s nether regions and gallons of creamy white stuff might be a sign that there was something going on that I probably should know about.  The thing is,  L shared this with me; nothing was hidden; nothing was secret. Well, at least among these things, nothing was secret.

But there was a secret.  L himself.

Oy.  Wait.

So I asked L straight out: “Are you a sex addict?”  The fucker said: “Yes, I am.”  Open, disarming.  Well, fuck you, you fucking fucker.  (I am less calm and disarming than he at the best of times, which this was so not.)

I read up on sex addiction and I found the most stringent, diseased, dysfunctional description of sex addiction I could find, presented it to L and asked him, unpleasantly:  ” Is this what you are?”

He accepted the document·  Not too much time went by before L — who had become the most annoying man on the planet — returned to me the document I’d given to him.  That lying creep had calmly and precisely annotated the clinical text, indicating which of the elements of the disease applied to him and which did not.  Most of them did — I noticed that the two which he repudiated had to do with acts of violence.  I allowed a smug: “Well, look what he disavows!  What a surprise!”

At this point, L is calm, open, breezy and comfortable with life.

At this point, I am a steaming runaway train, hatred and disgust overpowering even the blood in my bloodstream.

I will make it short now, so we can get to the fucking, which is why you are here, right?  So while I’ve got your attention, I’ve gone in for a little talk therapy.  So sue me.

I make a quick decision, which is that I have to buy time because I can’t make a quick decision.

“Get the fuck out.”  Forceful.  Passionate.  Dignified.  Eyes flashing.

“Shall I come back later, this evening?”  Calm, poised, gentle.  Yech!

“Eight.”  There goes forceful, passionate, dignified.  Also departed: eyes flashing, since I’m now crying, and my eyes are gooey wet. Oh, charming.

It is 3pm.  I’ve got five hours to make A Plan.

If you’ve read other stories I wrote about L, you pretty much know what my plan turned out to be, so here’s the short form:

Since addicts are liars, unreliable manipulators, untrustworthy confidants, disloyal associates, the best thing is not to have them in your life.  If the situation exists that for some reason you find yourself having, for any reason, to retain an addict in your life, you must dehumanize dehumanize dehumanize. 

From now on, I will refer to L as Sex Toy.  I will not discuss personal matters, nor will I set up future plans, make promises or demonstrate effection.  The same rules bind Sex Toy.  I can at least try to make L as miserable as I.  Benefit:  I won’t have to wonder if every word out of his mouth is a lie if no words are coming out of his mouth.

I will tell L that I’m keeping him around for the phenomenal sex until a non-addict truth-teller signs on.  This is the story I tell myself, too.  Myself, however, knows that the deal is a tad more complicated than that.

 Eight pm.  L is prompt.  Always.  Infuriating.  He doesn’t know the new rules yet, so he has brought me grilled root veggies from a vegan place I love (I’m a vegan – L is a vegan when he is with me, but maybe he won’t be, with the new rules.)

We aren’t hungry.  For food.  But I move away from L and it isn’t difficult for me to remain cold while I give “instructions” because I’ve had hours to become cold with fury.

L, now Sex Toy, is placid as he unquestioningly accepts every stipulation.  I had hoped that he would cry.  But I had known that he would not.

I want him so badly that I am trembling.  I despise myself for this.  But there it is.  Sex Toy (ST, okay?) is hard as a rock -– his jeans bulge –- and his arms have gooseflesh.  I want to call him L, not Sex Toy, and, for this night only, I will.

The space between us vanishes and we are pressed as tightly against each other and kissing as deeply as it possible to kiss without our cells’ merging into a single being.

What is wrong with us?  Me, anyway.  I should want him to be at a million miles’ distance.  And just look at me.  Sheesh.

L and I just can’t separate even long enough to undress –- we simply cannot pull apart.  We have turned into veritable magnets.  I am coming unglued but I am turning into a magnet.

After a decade or so, L and I pull apart enough to one-handedly tear off stuff which puddles on the floor.  We help one another so there are essentially two hands for every task.

Eventually, we are naked.  L is wearing socks.  I bought these socks for him.  They are Mickey Mouse socks and he has underpants to match.  My lover is so virile and hot that in these Mickey Mouse duds he is simply the cutest most fuckable man on the planet.  I swear.

We make it to bed in a New York Minute, which is a lot shorter than sixty seconds, which if you have been to New York City you know.

There is nothing tender and premeditated going on here.  It is all rough and tumble.  Two people who are going to do what needs to be done to come as hard as possible.  Any which way.

So we fall onto the bed and we go right past subtle.  I place my hand on L’s head and push it downwards. “Now.”  L understands immediately.  Before descending, he takes the bottle of lube from the nightstand.

When L gives head (do you say that for a man?), he’s a take-no-prisoners kind of guy.  L’s tongue is strong and tireless. (Is there a gym for sex addicts or is sex addiction itself a do-it-yourself gym?  A need-to-know thing which I do not need to know.)  He laps fervently from asshole through clit until I am squirming in frustration.  It is fantastic/awful.

Now, L is everywhere at once.  Here is what I believe is happening:  A magically lubed finger which I guess is L’s left pinky is up my ass, fucking it slowly and gently.  What I take to be L’s left thumb is stroking between my asshole and my labia.  The fingers of L’s right hand open my engorged clit to his mouth and now he does this special thing that I feel sorry for every woman in the world who has not had this thing happen to her, except if she had it happen with L –- which is pretty likely –- in which case I want her off of the planet.

So here’s L’s clit thing.  He kisses it.  Actually embraces it with his mouth and kisses it with his tongue and all exactly as if it were a mouth kiss.  He does it gently, teasingly, erotically, slowly, deeply, quickly, dancingly and, when he’s ready to allow me to orgasm, firmly and strongly.  It doesn’t do to beg.  Oh, I beg, because it arouses us.  But I will come precisely when L decides that it is time.  Yes, he is that good.

The orgasm spills over me like molten metal.  My cunt spasms.  It is wonderful.  But not the shattering, full-body explosions which are yet to come.  I don’t have to wait long.  While I am still engorged, tender and throbbing, L exits briefly and quickly to thoroughly clean both hands (his scrupulous cleanliness and thorough consideration of me are two of his sexiest qualities).  Then he is back and copiously lubing his fingers.  We have not been talking.  The new sex-toy status, the new rules, the new constraints have affected us, and we have given over the night to sex without companionability or chattiness.  For me, it is painful.  For L, I have no idea.  I certainly hope that he is profoundly miserable.

L approaches me.  I open my legs wider.  He lies beside me.  We have not kissed since coming to bed.  He kisses me now.  I remain somewhat passive to his kiss –- it feels right, and, sure enough, it excites us.  L’s strokes my labia and slowly inserts fingers into my cunt, finger-fucking me and stroking the sensitive and aching walls of my cunt.  He passes over the g-spot, I gasp, but L moves on, ignoring my: “L, please?” spoken through the kiss into his mouth.

L strokes, presses, teases –- the whole circumference of my cunt which by now is so sensitive to his touch that each stroke draws a sob –- only stopping to graze, but not settle on, my g-spot, so that I can feel an orgasm building but can’t get there.

L moves upwards, still stroking, touching, caressing, patting.  He has left the neighborhood of the g-spot and is now agitating and exciting the upper walls of my cunt. I can actually feel the throb of my need, which is so intense that it feels like a series of small, painful spasms.  My cunt is fairly begging, crying out, screaming for release.

Only L’s middle finger is in me by now and he has reached base camp for my deep spot.  He is giving the surrounding region the same treatment he gave the rest of my cunt.  By now, I am nearly delirious. The point I love/hate.  Beyond pleasure.  Only need.

L approaches and lightly taps my deep spot.  I cry out.  But then he withdraws his fingers, covers me with his body, lifts my legs to his shoulders and proceeds to fuck me so hard and fast that I grab and hold on to his shoulders.

I am still alive to tell the tale.

This is the big one.  Here’s the deal.  Let me tell you so you can try this at home:

L has thoroughly, patiently, gently, lovingly (there’s that word), expertly “prepared” me – brought me, and my cunt, to the highest possible state of arousal. My g-spot and deep-spot are good to go.

Then he covers me with his body and I can see his face – his eyes – and he replaces his fingers with his actual cock, like which there is nothing else for fucking.  When L’s cock meets the walls of my vagina and my g-spot and my deep spot, well, the word “cataclysm” springs to mind before the word “orgasm.” I scream –- I flat-out scream.  (It sounds hoarse and scratchy and flat to my ears, but later L tells me I screamed “to wake the dead.”  Charming.)  I ejaculate –- profusely — I can feel it ooze between L and me, and I spasm and shudder and twitch and spasm some more. L keeps right on fucking me throughout my prolonged “orgasm”-cum-earthquake –- he does not stop until it is finished, and I sag limply and mutter: “No more. I can’t…”  (He does not come.  He expects more – and he will get it.) Only then does he excuse himself – he actually says “Excuse me,” the fucker –- to go take a shower –- for me, to be fresh and sweet for me. (If you think that this is the description of The Perfect Man, let me remind you:  “sex addict.”)

L’s shower is my nap time.  I will shower with him after his…turn.

L returns to bed all fresh and clean and smelling of my melon and cucumber soap.  His penis is limp, but not despondent.

I sit at the edge of the bed and take his divine cock in my mouth.  I love to feel it grow large and hard in my mouth – it’s like a magic trick:  put it in water and watch it grow to three times the size in thirty seconds or less!  Amazing real-life phenomenon!

When the real-life phenomenon has occurred, I pull L onto the bed.  From now on, he will do as I say.  He will come when I say he can come.  Yes, I am that good.

L’s ears are exquisitely responsive to my mouth, my tongue and my breath.  Licking, nibbling, suctioning a vacuum, breathing, moaning into first L’s right and then his left ear leaves him hot enough to urge me downward, but I’m not finished with the upper body.  L’s nipples – as sensitive as mine – are erect and taught: I cannot possibly ignore them. I take a handful of my trusty lube, which turns nipple play orgasmic, and go to work on L’s nipples.  Nothing outlandish: the usual stoke, light pinch, friction – you know the drill – but L’s eyes roll back into his head.  This man is hot.  Did my heart good to see it.  I almost giggled.

It won’t take much to make L come –- and I am glad, because my monster orgasm is catching up to me and I am suddenly exhausted.  I give myself a few minutes to relax by latching onto and sucking his balls.  Two benefits: L adores this; I get a rest.
During this time, I do nothing else.  I close my eyes. L is really into it –- has no idea that I’m having a doze.

“Hey,”  wakes me.  I have fallen asleep with L’s testicles in my mouth.  When he realizes, he laughs and strokes my hair. He is fundamentally such a good man. (Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.)

I decide to make him come hard and fast:  my mind is already in the sweet, comforting shower and then back in bed.  But my heart is wholly in making this man as wildly, desperately hot as he has made me.

I put pillows under L’s hips and separate his legs. I watch his face.  I know that in a moment it will be distorted in ecstasy, anguish, need and orgasm.

I lube my hands –- and I mean heavily. I insert my left index finger into L’s rectum and finger-fuck him lightly. With my lubed right hand, I lightly slap his balls and then begin to work his cock, base to tip, lightly, then firmly –- up, then back down –- slowly, then faster –- up, around and over the glans.

Simultaneously, my left index finger finds, strokes, pats and teases L’s prostate and my right hand works his rock-hard cock hard and fast and unhesitatingly base to tip, and back.

L’s back arches, his head thrown back as far as he can go, and he roars.  No words, just a huge sound which issues from his soul and seems to reverberate for hours –- which I will think I hear for days.

Sometimes I take L in my mouth as he comes: it gives him pleasure, it saves on cleanup and is low in calories (5-7 calories per teaspoon).

This time, I was stunned by the sudden force of L’s orgasm and I was overtired.  We tidied up, took a slow, sweet, fragrant, steamy shower and came back to bed to a sweet sleep (Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  I dare never forget.  What on earth am I going to do?)

Part 4

My lover does it like no other man on the planet.  In the Milky Way, probably.  He is, flat-out, super-fuck.

 What makes it worse is that I love him.  Right down deep from where my soul is hiding out spreading out to the ends of the nerves which populate my epidermis.

 What’s so bad about this is not that I am suffering the pangs of unrequited love, or anything gothic like that, because my love gives every appearance of loving me, too. 

 If you’ve been keeping up with my stories where I’ve been pouring my heart out about my travails with my lover, then you know what the problem is.

 My love, L, is a sex addict.  Self-admitted.  After I sussed it out and confronted him.  After over a year together.  

 Why have I continued to “see” L in the 40-ish days since he confirmed his condition?

 In no special order ; Confusion.  Inertia.  Denial.  Hope.  Fear.  Love.  Sexual need.  Terror.  Insecurity.  Sloth.  Anxiety.  Dread.

Oh, I took steps to assuage the damage to my self-esteem (this was HIS condition, right, so why did it feel as if it somehow reflected on ME?  I knew that it did not, but I felt as if it did.  What the fuck was up with that?  Self-immolation, anyone?)

What were the steps I took?  I forsook “L” and took to calling him “Sex Toy,” in an effort to dehumanize him (I hated it more than he –- he thought it was funny).  Taking as my premise that the only reliable attribute of an addict is never telling the truth, I forbade Sex Toy to talk to me about anything except the moment we were in –- no tales of the office or his day, no promises, no commitments, no future plans –- nothing that could be “broken” or turn out to be a lie.

It didn’t really assuage anything.  It simply highlighted my misery.

The sex was –- the words out of this world, spectacular, explosive get close to describing it.  I hate to be a bore about this, but my stories about L and me really did go into this in a lot of detail, so it’s all out there. ( I really recommend reading them because you can even learn stuff because L and I are really good at this stuff.)

But the thing of it was that underlying it was always this dread, this fear, this sense of loss of safety.  Knockout sex with an underlay of pain.

L was coping better than I.  Was he a selfish, unfeeling, psychotic, sadistic fuck? Maybe he was, but that’s not what was going on now.

After all, he had known all along what was going on here.  The surprise was mine alone.  He had had time to prepare himself for whatever I might throw his way.  I was so disoriented that it actually took me a month to see that there was a vast difference in our preparedness. 

So, yes, I continued to “see” L.  I continued to “see” L’s entire body right down to the hairs which remained unshaven on his balls and down to the very opening of his asshole.  Yes, I did.

And L continued to see the same things on me.  Well, not the hairs on my balls, but you get my drift.

I had sex with Sex Toy –- I’m going to go back to calling him L any minute now –- about twenty times since I “found out.”  Twenty times in thirty-something days.  Normal for us.  Which shows you just how deep my denial ran.  Scary, right?  It wasn’t always sex –- sometimes L dropped in to say hi, but mostly we fucked because we just had to.

I told you about three times we fucked.  When you’ve heard about three, you’ve heard about thirty-three.  But I’m going to tell you about one more.  The final fuck.

I can hear you:  He’ll be back.  Just wait.  Yada, yada, yada.

Well, let me tell you about the Final Fuck as I need to call it.

This time, only I –- and not he –- knew what was coming.  This was a singularly minor — and very bitter — triumph.

Final Fuck was on a Saturday. Sex Toy –- I’m back to calling him L –- arrived at 8-ish.    We never sit down for a meal.  We nosh.  He brought some grilled portobello mushrooms and grilled sunchokes from a gourmet Italian place (I’m a vegan and L eats vegan when he’s with me –- I have no idea what he eats when we’re apart) –- I’ve always got a fridge full of interesting stuff to graze.  That’s what we do:  we graze off of the food and each other.

So, L arrived on Final Fuck night, but, as I’ve said, only I knew what night it was. As I put out the food, I thought:  Neener neener neener.  It was a mournful little neener neener neener.

I put the food on the counter which is a partition between the kitchen and the living room: dishes of olives, grilled veggies, hummous, eggplant salad, sesame paste, salad, pickled veggies, pita, plates, mugs, napkins.  L made Turkish coffee with cardamom.  We grazed and cuddled and cuddled and grazed and belched.

We hadn’t not eaten very much before cuddling became the main activity.  

I became aware that I was naked.  Not a big deal, since all I’d had on were sweat shorts, panties and a tank top –- and scuffs, which I was still wearing.  My three articles of clothing were on the large kitchen table in the middle of my kitchen. L’s work, clearly, since I’d have thrown them on the floor.  And I’d have remembered shedding them.  Maybe.

L got naked around this time and put his clothes somewhere –- maybe he tossed them over the divider onto the living room couch.  He bent me over the kitchen table, brandished the bottle of lube (huh?), which he used liberally, and penetrated and deep-fucked my ass while I held on to the edge of the table.  He reached around my pelvis, spread my legs, possessed my clit, which he teased and stroked with his right hand, until I moaned with a need that was painful. 

With his left hand, L stroked my labia until I begged him to finger-fuck me. Only when he was ready did he insert his fingers and began to caress the walls of my cunt. When my hips began to fuck his hands, he began to caress my clit and finger-fuck me regularly, firmly, calling me his bitch.  Oh, please, make me come, make me come. You’ll come when I say you can, bitch.  Always deep fucking my ass, slowly, steadily, background music, in time with my thrusting hips.

And then when I couldn’t stand any more his hands, his incredible hands, gave me an orgasm that made me throw back my head and cry out — just a wave of sound — and then, as I convulsed and spasmed and thrust and his hands kept working throughout, from deep in my throat: oh, god, oh, L.

When he knew that I had finished he didn’t let me rest.  He seized my hips and he plunged his cock — which had all this time been fucking my ass lightly and gently — hard and fast. His balls pressed my ass cheeks. Out and in again. He was fucking to come now. 

He didn’t care if he split me in two. He was so hot he was moaning and grunting. I had to hold on hard to the table. He pounded me. He was nothing but his need to come. I didn’t exist.  He trembled with need.  His entire body shook.  

And then he got there.  He reached the edge of his cliff and he went over.  The roar that came from his as he exploded was savage and frightening.  He came and he came and he came.  Then he sagged and draped himself over me and we both sagged wearily over the kitchen table.  We nearly dozed.  It was some minutes before we could drag ourselves to the shower and then to bed where, all clean and fragrant, we fell asleep naked pressed into one another.

And I hadn’t said a word.

We woke several hours later, ravenous.  We fell on the food, room temperature now, but still delicious to our hungry selves.  L made more coffee and I steeled myself to talk.

But how to open?  “By the way, remember the matter of your sex addiction?”  “I was just giving some thought to your sex addiction.”  “I’ve been thinking about this whole sex-addiction thing…”  “What are your thoughts on the sex-addiction situation?”  “Are you going to see a psychiatrist?”  “Are you fucking other women?”  “How many?”  “Who?”


“L, I’ve been doing some serious thinking…”  Oh, yay, me.  Strong opening.

L was facing away from me, making coffee.  He didn’t turn around.  But he heard something in my tone.  He got still.  He didn’t turn, he just stopped moving, his hands resting on the counter.  When I began to speak, he flinched slightly, as if he were expecting a blow.

It all came out:  This is not verbatim but it captures the spirit of incoherence, fear, stress, incomprehension, relief, misery, pain, regret, guilt, confusion, ignorance.

“I’m not a psychiatrist..I don’t fully understand…I can’t handle the doubts and uncertainties and lack of trust.  I know that this is not a matter of fault and blame but I understand that I am powerless over it and that all I can do is to take care of myself and leave you to take care of yourself and so that it is what I am going to do and I love you but I am going to let go of you because your condition hurts me.”

When I stopped talking, L still had not turned to face me.

When he turned around, he looked as if he had aged ten years.

I wanted to go to the movies and come home to find him gone.  It was about 4 am Sunday.  L had belongings all over my apartment.  Shit and doubleshit.  We looked wretchedly at one another.  Neener neener neener was gone.  I knew that I’d donned the same additional ten years.  Two haggard, weary, bereft, lost, confused, sick people.  

“I have never cheated on you.” His voice, unexpected, fell into the silence like an explosion.  “It was a struggle because my sickness wanted conquests.”


I wanted to tell him to stay.  That we would make it work.  I knew that I had to let him go.  That we could not make it work –- that it was a disease and that it would control us before we would control it.

I got into sweats and took the Sunday Times first to the twenty-four-hour coffee shop and then to Starbucks.  I dressed and left in a daze.  L was in a daze, too.  I asked him how much time he would need.  I guessed three or four trips would get everything down to his car –- anyway, it wasn’t my problem.  I knew it would hurt later.  Thank god, I was numb right then.  L said two hours.  I figured more like four.  My local Starbucks has a lovely clean bathroom, so that’s okay, and the vegan bakery opens at 8.

So off I went.  Caffeine-bound, bad news tucked under my arm, more bad news back in my apartment.

I spent about 5 to 9 am that Sunday morning reading the Times, drinking coffee, eating vegan ginger-apricot scones, peeing, talking to friends and their dogs.  When I got home, L was gone.

Sex Toy was gone, taking his sex addiction with him.

He is in his own hands.

I am free of the disease of sex addiction.

I am free.

Everything beckons.  Come with me.

Erotic love story

SEX TOY – An Erotic Love Story in Four Parts

by Leeza Coleman

Part 1

Guess what?  When I came home from Starbucks last night after a great evening of talk and laughter with friends, who was waiting for me, but my human sex toy.

He was waiting in my bed, one of the few places he belongs, the others being the bathtub, the floor, the toilet, the big reclining chair or anyplace it strikes my fancy to drape him for access to his ass or his cock and his balls or his nipples or his feet or whichever body part I wish to tease, luck, suck, rub against, stroke, eat, blow on, torment.

He is my favorite sex toy because I can make him moan.  I can make him whimper and cry with need.  I can make him beg.  I can make him cry out.  I can make him scream.  I can cause him to shudder and spasm and twitch.

I can make him forget everything in the universe except his need to come.

There are no toys like this at F.A.O. Schwarz.

And there is something else my sex toy can do that more, well, plastic sex toys can’t: mine can possess my body – my ass, my nipples, my cunt – with his tongue and mouth, his fingers and hands, his cock so that I am completely helpless and for that time belong to him utterly.  He can make me come so hard from deep within me, and spreading through my full body to every nerve ending, that I feel as if I am going to shatter as wave upon wave of personal monsoon wash over me.

My vibrators vibrate; my human sex toy does not.  But he wields the vibrating toys on me – as I do on him – in ways that the vibrators themselves could never think up on their own.

So, as I said:  I came home to find Human Sex Toy on my bed, reading the New York Times.  This is allowed.

Conversation is not allowed.  The only permitted verbal outpouring is that related to the sexual activity at hand.  We may refer to past or future sexual activity as long as there are no statements of intent, mentions of other individuals, anything that could be construed as a promise or commitment, anything that could be interpreted as a demonstration of affection.

Perhaps I should explain. No, there is no “perhaps” about it. An explanation is called for, and right about here seems to be the perfect place.

My human sex toy was in disguise as a funny, smart human person called L…. who told me all sorts of interesting stuff about his life, his job, his interests.  He evidenced affection for me.  He was fun and hot.  Great combo, right?  Sure is. That is, when it, in fact, exists.

It turns out that the L…-person was the well-executed facade behind which skulked a sex addict.

Yes, I said sex addict.  Go look it up.

“Sex” is not the deal in the devolution of the L…-person to Human Sex Toy.  “Addict” is.

Maybe this little joke will give you an idea of what I’m reaching for here:

Question: How do you know an addict is lying?

Answer:   His (her) lips are moving.

Are you eager to hear loads of stuff that you know are lies? Do you want promises that you know won’t be kept because this is not an actual choice an addict can make?

Or would you rather hear nothing at all?

I chose nothing at all.

When Sex Toy (hereafter, I will refer to him as ST) becomes useless to me as a sex toy, he will be shown the door without even a spanking to make him hot.

Now, my sex toy is still reliable for rendering me suffused with hot desire and shattered by gale-force orgasm.

If he decides to leave – I will get a new sex toy.  Maybe I will also get one I can trust as a friend.  So, back to fucking the erstwhile-L…-person, now reborn as ST.

ST has brought me a gift.  Wow.  How touching.  It will fit without sizing, it is something I have never before owned and it is a classic, so it will never go out of style.

It is an enema kit.

My welcome home was to be my first enema, after which ST would get his very own enema – also my first – to perform.  Virgin enemas all around – at least for me.  I did not ask ST, of course.  If he had told me that he had had, oh, 700 sex-connected enemas, how would I have known if that meant, really, a mere 500, or if he was shielding me from knowledge that he had had some 6,000 of the things?  (I am far too delicate for that kind of information.)

ST explained that he would see that this felt pleasant and that after our enemas our ass sex might be hotter. He was very gentle. I was nervous but I was hot.

This is how ST did my very first enema. I liked him very much after he did this, but I did not tell him.  You do not tell toys that you like them. And this is one of the things we were not going to do: expressions of affection.

I am not a liar.  But Mr. Sex-Addict-erstwhile-L…-person is, so he is not getting the truth while I get lies which is clearly about as unfair as it gets. (If you’re reading this, Sex Toy, shut up.)

So I go naked into the bathtub where there is a long soft comfy bath pillow and ST has put a kind of rubber sheet (another present!) on top.  I lie down on my left side.  ST strokes my nipples but I am nervous. I want to go ahead and get it done. He warms the nozzle under warm water in the sink and puts lots of warm lube so maybe I will get hot.  He fucks my ass with the nozzle. He fucks my ass until I moan a little even though I am scared.

He tells me the water is coming but it will be gentle.  It is. He puts more water.  I do not like it and ST stops immediately.  We always use condoms to protect our insides and because we do not care about touching each other’s body substances on the outside and because we like to bathe together after, the subject of enemas has never come up.

To help the rest of what is in my ass to come out, ST covers my biggest vibrator with a lubed condom and thoroughly fucks my ass as i lie in the tub.  Then he helps me to the toilet to let everything out.  While I am shitting he strokes my clit to orgasm. I hold him around the neck to keep from falling over.

It is ST’s turn for an enema at my hands.  He says not to worry. He has rinsed and turned, but not sanitized, the rubber sheet – I told you we are not bothered by what comes from each other’s bodies – the condoms are not because of revulsion.

I put the nozzle which I washed in hydrogen peroxide and I do not think ST even noticed in ST’s ass, no trumpet fanfare. He wriggled, sighed, got comfy and took the water like a champ.  He made it to the toilet. His cock was hard but I did not sit on it because it was too soon for him to come.  Also he would not let me.

On Enema Day, I had known for about four days that my L…. was in fact anybody’s L….

I was in a certain amount of pain over this.

No.  He is the liar, not I.  I was in a deep doo-doo-trough of pain.

As soon as I stop finding ST the hottest man in the Milky Way, I will send him on his way.  I promise.  This cannot possibly take longer than three decades.

The stuff in the tub soaking in a tub of peroxide solution – ST’s idea – I wanted to toss ’em on the floor and fuck, so he is useful for something – we took a shower.

I love when ST soaps me all over and washes my hair and rinses me all over with the high-power hand shower.   He soaped my ass, twice, I begged because it was so good, and held myself open while he directed the hard spray at my asshole.  I was crazy by the time he finished.  He directed the spray at my nipples which I love but right now I was so hot that it was cunt or die.

When that spray hit my labia and clit, my knees folded.  I mean, my legs simply buckled right under me. I would have dropped to the bottom of the tub if ST had not caught my arms.  I told him that I needed to wash him and get out of the tub.

I soaped him as he had soaped me. The powerful shower spray on his asshole and his balls and the shaft of his cock made him as desperate as I to get to where we could go to work on each other.

We were still wet when ST pushed me face down, spread my ass, buried his face in me and began to tongue-fuck me within an inch of my life, moaning and nearly crying as he did so.  I slid a pillow under my hips so he could finger-fuck me and push my g-spot into orgasm, but his hands were not quite in the right position for this.  I thrust my pelvis trying to find his fingers, weeping and begging for relief. “Make me come, please, oh, god.” I was too wild to realize what the problem was, but then ST got it. He lifted his body slightly and turned his hand palm up.

And suddenly, he was cupping, patting, stroking my g-spot – while eating my ass – a shudder of such intense ecstasy swept over me that I would have liked to wait to come but I had already fallen over this cliff. I arched my hips toward ST, threw back my head, screamed the hoarse inarticulate call which was the only sound of which I was capable, as he ate my ass and manipulated my g-spot throughout my long orgasm.

I asked ST for a few minutes to recover.  He thought I was joking. Complimenting him for the intensity of the orgasm.   Fact is, he had obliterated me.

I dozed for about ten minutes, I guess, when I felt ST eating my ear and fingering a nipple, both of which arouse me deeply.

My appetite for ST is huge.  I told him that if he’d let me have his ass (shame to waste the enema) and his balls for breakfast. I’d see what I could do about arranging an orgasm for him.

I went straight for the balls, which I sucked on for a while. This is soothing.  I think it’s the same kind of soothing a man might get from a woman’s nipple.  I don’t know.  I just know that I love latching on to testicles.

Then I ate some ass.  ST is always fun to eat. He was fun to eat after the enema.  But an enema is not needed to make eating his ass drive me crazy.

I was still shaken and weak, but I felt that I could manage a small clit orgasm.

I told ST, who by then needed rather badly to come, clit first, then cock.

ST dispatched the clit requirement with his tongue and threw in a little g-spot surprise which shook me to the core.

I was so shaken, in fact, that I looked at ST, shook my head, and said, fuck you, buddy, just do it.

I poked my ass in the air so everything was out in the open, I rested on my elbows and I said to ST:

I am yours.  Choose your hole.  Fuck me six ways to Sunday.

And he did.

Part 2

Let me tell you, it’s a no-win situation dealing with an addict, unless the attributes you’re looking for in a friend are lying, sneaking, conniving, cheating, stealing, bamboozling, manipulating, unreliability, deceitfulness, untrustworthiness, disloyalty. If these are what you cherish in a friend, an addict is the way to go.

As for me, these are the personal characteristics whose promises of unending joy send me screaming into the night.

Why am I telling you this?  Did you stop by to read about sociology?  Psychology? Addiction pathology?  Of course not.

You stopped by to read about sex.

The connection is that my lover is an addict. A sex addict.

Is this cute and madcap, or what?

Now, I know that the addict-friendship capability capacity is negative. Then, I tell you that my lover is an addict.  A sex addict.  But I have told you that he is my lover.  My addict lover.  My lover addict.

What gives?

Here’s the thing of it.

L wasn’t always a sex addict.  Well, no, I mean, he was always a sex addict, it’s just that I didn’t always know that L was a sex addict.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I learned that, instead of being my always-hot lover, L was in fact anybody’s always-hot lover.

How did I find out?  Well, I had an inkling.  I asked.  And, suddenly honest for the first time in his life, L told me.

This might have destroyed a lesser woman.

Here’s what the greater woman did:

I considered ordering L off of the planet.

Then I remembered that I have needs and that L just might be the best lover on that very planet.  I didn’t have even an understudy, let alone someone ready to take on the role of Always-Available Ass.

But I was going to hold on to my dignity with both hands.  Okay, with one hand.

I took steps:

a)  I changed L’s name to Sex Toy, Human Sex Toy for formal occasions.

b)  I forbade conversation about anything other than the sex at hand (this usage is rhetorical).

c)  I forbade L to tell me tales of home, the office, life; to make future commitments or promises; to make any type of demonstration of affection.

Why?  I thereby dehumanized L, shielded myself from the shame and ignominy of having to pretend to believe probable lies, gave myself a measure of control over a situation in which I was, in fact, absolutely powerless.

The good news:  I believe that Sex Toy did not realize precisely the extent of the devastation.  I could keep having sex with a man whose body and touch turned my knees to jelly and my body into an aching mass of need – and, from there, into a tsunami of total-body shuddering orgasm – without his being aware of my inner feeling of having relinquished my self-respect.

Got the picture?

Good.  Then maybe you’ll tell me what the fuck I’m doing.

I’m now going to tell you about our latest fuck.

But first let me mention that the L-to-Sex Toy switch doesn’t always come off quite as planned.  During intense sexual arousal and in orgasm, it has not felt right to cry out: “Oh, Sex Toy, please don’t stop. Make me come!” or “Now, Sex Toy!  Yes!”  So L gets used then.

Back to sex.  The thing for which, with Sex Toy (who henceforth will be ST for fewer key strokes), I am willing to put up with so much.  (You should see this man’s ass.  Edible, I tell you.)

I’m home.  Online.  Blogging.  I do politics.  I get a phone call.  It’s ST: can he come over? I kind of expected him, but the new rule is no commitments, no promises for future.  The deal is he calls if he wants to come over and I say yes or no.  If I am out or busy that’s the luck of the draw, tough titties.  [ST accepted, without question, all of my conditions.  Either he likes me more than I think (least credible); has been down on his luck pimping himself recently (pretty credible); thinks I am the best fuck he has ever had (actually, very credible – little pat on the back)].

Sure, come over, I say.  Takes about 30 minutes.  He comes right up – doorman has instructions.   I let him in and when I see that he has broken our rules Big Time I scowl.  I mean it.  I am not delighted.  ST, trying hopelessly to become L for the night, is carrying a bunch of gerbera daisies, which I adore.  I grab them out of his hand and without a word stalk into the kitchen to make them comfortable in a pretty vase. They match my kitchen – it is for this room that temporary-L has meant them.

I’m still scowling and snarling when ST puts his arms around me – still wearing his coat, cold against my light T-shirt, shorts and bare arms and legs – and pulls me to him for a long, slow, hot kiss that would be too short if it went on for thirty minutes.

When he pulls away, to take off his coat, I am left standing there, empty arms raised and open, unable to speak, needing his body, his mouth, his cock, his hands – and his gorgeous ass of which I am never able to overeat.

ST is naked and I am still standing, unmoving.   I am standing in the kitchen entrance where ST kissed me – ST has been moving around the living room, as I watched, removing and placing his clothes on the couch.

He takes my hand leads me to my bathroom where he strips me naked, pushes me down on to the toilet and tells me to evacuate whatever I have inside.

I obey.  ST prepares the loveliest balsam pine bubble bath.  After I have gone to the bathroom, ST does, telling me to climb into the bubbles.

I obey once more.  The bath feels and smells wonderful.  I soap myself, even though we will do it again for the hand shower, because the soap, too, smells like pine and I love it.

Then, ST is in the tub.  He has moved me, so that I lie on top of him.  His pine-soapy hands are working my breasts and nipples, my belly and my pubis.  My hips are moving as if we were fucking and I am moaning.  ST is speaking softly in my ear and breaking the rules again about expressing affection.

I feel his hard cock drifting between my legs. I beg him to put it in.  Not yet.

The bath is cooling and we rise clumsily to our feet.  As we say bye-bye to the pine forest, ST is setting the power hand shower to the sharp needle spray that can actually bring me to orgasm on my clit.

We soap and rinse.  It is erotic, but this is not going to be where the earthquakes are going to happen tonight.  The only communication I now trust with ST is the sex we are doing right now – in this, our communication is infallible.  This is more dangerous than it sounds.  Unless, maybe, if you are a psychiatrist, then you totally get it.

We dry off separately and move to my bed without touching.  I am dying for the touch and taste of him.  And the feel of him touching and tasting me.  And then he is. Touching and tasting me, I mean.  My breasts.   Everywhere on my breasts. Except my nipples.  He strokes in concentric circles with the palm of his hand, stopping short of the nipples.  The friction makes the skin of my breasts nearly as responsive as my nipples and I am starting to thrust my hips, moan and beg him to take my nipples.

ST touches me nowhere but my breasts and here he is relentless.  He never stops. And I can actually feel the orgasmic sensations building inside me.  Then he stops and he begins gently to work my nipples as if they were clits.  At the first touch of his palms on my nipples, I yelp and shudder.  As he strokes, rubs, then licks, teases and sucks my nipples I feel such frantic need between my legs that I beg almost in tears for him to take me where I need to go.

Suddenly, ST is gone.  He has touched me nowhere except my breasts and now he is touching me nowhere at all.  Then I feel his hands gently raising my knees, sliding a firm pillow under my hips and urging my legs open as wide as they can go.

For seconds I feel nothing except air on my exposed cunt.  But I know that ST is doing something.  I feel what can only be my tiny vibrator against my asshole, and then it is inside, oh, maybe an inch.  It is set on low. Think background music.

Then his finger – one finger – is stroking and teasing my labia. There’s extra lube which turns pleasure into screaming ecstasy.  ST is stroking the walls of my cunt, already sensitive, engorged and throbbing.

ST licks my clit: lightly, firmly.  I am dying.  A hoarse drawn-out sob my only form of communication.  ST removes the vibrator from my ass.  I know that this is to increase the intensity of what is to come now – something most woman will never in their lifetimes feel.

ST’s finger – I know now that it is his middle finger – has stroked its way up my pussy walls and is now circling my deep-spot – he is working the most sensitive zones outside of the deep-spot that a woman possess.

I feel nothing except the need to come. There is nothing else in the universe.  I feel no pleasure.  I do not like ST.  Just fucking make me come already.  Or I will die.

As ST’s finger settles on the deep-spot and begins to execute the special stroking motion which will shatter me, he licks my clit strongly and firmly with the flat of his tongue.  Then the deep-spot…o, god, o, god, o, god, o, god…

While I am still spasming and twitching and full into “o, god,” ST mounts me and fucks my cunt hard.  My cunt is still engorged and aroused and I might come again…it is sure I could have come again with his finger, but he knows that it excites me to know that his cock is doing this to me.

I tell him I’m not going to get it again, but I am wiped out, I am fine, but will he hold off coming for a minute and he says he’ll try.  ST groans when he sees what I am going to do.

I had bought this giant dildo, partly as a joke, partly to see how ST would react.  (I think that Mr. Monster Dildo is terrifying.)  It made him hot as hell – it doesn’t go all the way in, of course, which would mean internal injury, emergency room, surgery, yada, yada, yada, but sometimes we fool around with the tip, heavily lubed.

Mr. Monster Dildo is what I grab now. I need its length what with my arms having to reach all the way around ST and all.

I lube it heavily heavily heavily.  I reach around ST poking for the hole.  I want to giggle, but ST is too aroused to appreciate the humor. He reaches around and helps me find the hole and arches his back for the ass-fuck.

When Mr. Monster Dildo is inside just the right amount, ST moans, “Yes.”  I fuck him – sort of gently because an accidental high-force blow could mean having to invite my doorman to the gathering.

Now, I  say, “Fuck my cunt the way you need to do it.  Fuck me hard”

And he does.

When he comes and lurches and spasms, Mr. Monster Dildo flies right out of his ass, out of my hands and across the room.

This time, I giggle out loud.  We both do.

Parts 3 and 4 to come…