The ol’ switcheroo

“Bear down on it,” he ordered. I was naked and collared, on my hands and knees at the foot of the four-poster bed, around the leg of which he’d used a thigh harness to strap a large, purple phallus at the exact height required for my impalement.

Just kidding. I’m not telling that story yet. I have things I want to say, but the people I want to share these thoughts with are the ones would only get this far into my essay hoping for more of that story.

I’m talking about the people who put up walls and tune out when certain words are uttered. They respond to words like “privilege” and “patriarchy” like I do to words like “prayer” and “God.”

Those are words that make me uncomfortable. They’re the words that expose the bias I have against all organized religion and religious people that’s similar to the bias our current administration has against people who are Muslim or brown in general.

Religious people frighten me because of the atrocious things done in the name of religion throughout humanity’s history. But, I remind myself that #notall religious people are power-hungry, hypocritical, selfish, and hate-filled people. That’s what separates me from this administration and its followers: I wouldn’t kick all religious people out of my country – but I admit that I sometimes fantasize about what this world might be like if nobody had ever invented religion.

So, here I want to share my thoughts on so many of the subjects that would include words like “privilege” and “patriarchy” and “equality” and “marginalized” and “personal agency” and “women,” and I know that the people I want to reach have already bailed.

They don’t want to be made to feel guilty.

But that’s the thing. I’ve found in my own life that digging in at the things that inspire icky feelings like guilt or resentment has been the first step in my moving past those feelings. Similar to how it works in the final stage of mourning, it’s acceptance. Those of us who cling to the #NotAll when we’re feeling lumped in with a group that does bad things need to lean into the discomfort of being seen as #OneOf and make a conscious choice to listen to those who have been affected.

That’s it. Just listen. Don’t argue. Don’t #NotAll. Just hear out the people whose words bring up those yucky feelings and try to empathize. If there’s something you don’t understand, ask the question – respectfully. And if they don’t want to answer it?

Then keep making an effort to listen. Go in search of the answers by others who have already shared their truths with the world. All the answers are out there.

Eventually you might discover that there have been some instances in which you didn’t do all you could to help their cause because it was easier for you not to, and that the only person that’s making you feel guilty is you.

All guilt ever did for me was two things: 1) make me feel resentful, and 2) make me react defensively.

But after I decided to confront that discomfort and take ownership over my part in these things, the guilty feelings started to erode. You don’t have to take the blame for the continued existence of all the isms and the phobias: just recognize the areas where you have inherited an advantage and accepted it without question. Once you do that, you might find yourself able to let go of the guilt and start taking action to help our shared society move past this.

Listen – not everyone’s gonna welcome you as an ally. You just have to do your best to be the best version of a human being you can be. But don’t cut corners – if you are able to tune out the injustices of the world, that’s evidence of your privilege. If you choose to tune it out, then that’s when you are part of the problem.

This from someone who tuned it all out in the wake of her husband’s unexpected death because she couldn’t handle negative information. I recognized my privilege. I know why I did it. I would counsel someone struggling with that degree of trauma to do the same.

But not everybody can. There are people whose lives and livelihoods are constantly under siege and have been for a long, long time. They don’t have the privilege of tuning out injustice, because it is part of their daily lives.

So I won’t tune it out. Not anymore. Not because I feel guilty, but because I feel it’s right.

That’s not the same as disconnecting for a night and focusing on the things that bring me joy for a few hours. That’s self-care. Deciding that I’m just not going to think about, talk about, or pay attention to politics at all, or go pretend I’m still ignorant of the issues facing marginalized groups? That’s tuning it out.

The people who have read this far already grasp this. As soon as this post was not about the time I was ordered on all fours to be fucked from behind by my bedpost while my lover knelt before me and jackhammered his lust into my hungry and willing mouth, the ones I wanted to reach had already tuned out.

But those of you who stuck it out this far, at least get to know how that story ended ūüôā

Weekly Enemas: A Cautionary Tale (with humor)

Heads up – I’mma talk about pooping, not in a sexy way. I’ll try to make it funny, though.

Hello, my name is phi, and I like butt sex.

I have liked butt sex pretty much always. The way it worked with the partners I’d had in the past, including one guy who ONLY was into butt sex (as in, we only had vaginal sex once) and my husband who was a big fan of butt sex, was to let them know on days that I felt pretty good about it and what days I was less likely to be receptive.

‘Cause, also, Hello. My name is phi and I am frequently constipated.

The results of butt sex on the days that I was good to go was that it’d compact whatever was hanging out in the background and I’d have a few days of extreme constipation. Then the shit would eventually pass and we’re all good.

Now, a few years ago, I attended my very first GRUE and I sat in on a discussion about preparing for anal. In it, the lovely woman hosting talked about how she’d use an enema to prepare for a date during which she knew butt sex would or might be happening.

Up to this point, I’d only ever done an enema on two occasions: once when I was instructed to by my doctor prior to a colonoscopy and the second time when I mistook my gall bladder exploding for severe constipation and thought it would help.

I’d never really done this sort of thing as “prep” work.

So, after several years of unfortunate abstinence, the first time my current partner came over and I thought…”hmm, maybe tonight’s the night!” I went to the local drugstore, bought a couple of disposable fleet enemas and prepped.

He didn’t fuck me that night.

A week later, he was coming over again and I got super excited. For sure this time, right? So I used the second one.

He didn’t fuck me that night either.

After this, I decided to have a chat with him. We discussed if and when we would maybe/hopefully be having sex. I was pretty darned sure that the next time he came over, it would definitely happen.

And so it did. And butt sex was involved. Hooray! Bonus – I was able to poop the very next day! This was a revelation!

Anyway, at that point, I started ordering 6-packs then 12-packs of the fleet enemas via Amazon. Seeing as how he came over once a week, I joked that he could tell how invested I was in our relationship via my enema order.

And that was that. It worked pretty well. Every week before he’d come over, I’d clean out and then we’d do the sex and the whole two-days-constipation-post-anal thing stopped happening. It was a win-win!

Until a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago, I was standing in the kitchen washing dishes (thankfully) alone. He’d just left, actually. And I felt the pressure of what I thought was a little gas.

It wasn’t gas.

Not at all.

I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say I had to get undressed in the shower and those panties are in a landfill by now.

After I told him about what had transpired, he mentioned having read or heard about something specific with fleet enemas having such effects.

My google search history is now quite interesting. I will save you the trouble.

One can become dependent on enemas. The fleet ones in particular do have some sort of ingredient that, over time, can cause the projectile response I experienced. Eventually, my research led me to some alternative options – namely, using a warm water “anal” douche, which the internet said one could find easily at any drugstore.

Well, it wasn’t that easy – but I did find it eventually, in the feminine products aisle – not in the butt-stuff aisle where I’d been looking. So, I bought it, threw it in my suitcase and went off to start my weekend.

Well, by the time we got to the hotel Friday night, I was…well, let’s say I was a bit anxious. I’d not had sex ALL YEAR (the year was a week old at this point). So I dispensed with the prep-work and we just….y’know, did our thing.

It was delightful.

But yeah, the whole next day I could sense that my butt would be off limits the following evening, which was kind of sad, ’cause the only thing better than butt stuff is public butt stuff.

So in between the end of the daytime event and the start of the play party, we went back to the hotel where I grabbed the still plastic-wrapped box and went to look at the instructions. In them, it describes this “smart and compact case!” that it comes with. I thought, oh, how delightful!

It’s a white plastic zippered bag.

Anyway, so I open the box and pull out this contraption and….

…it looks familiar.

I’ve seen one of these before.

As a child.

In my parent’s bathroom.

I used to think it was a balloon and that it was fun to blow air in and out of it.

I now understand my mother’s horror.

But, on the bright side, I also now understand the benefit of the smart and compact case!

In the end, (pun intended), it didn’t really work out that well that night; but I think that has more to do with the environment I was in. I was in a hotel with a small bathroom, not my own home, and there wasn’t really a comfortable place to really figure out the best position for this thing to work.

I’ll give it another shot this weekend, but if you have any further ideas….PLEASE feel free to comment below. I want to keep enjoying constipation-free anal sex without the…uh…explosive consequences.

tl;dr: weekly fleet enemas after a about a year can lead to projectile diarrhea and/or dependence. If you need to google this for yourself, the keywords that finally got me where I needed to go were “anal hygiene.”

A different kind of B.B.W (Smut)

You’re led out of the house by a tight fist grabbing hold of your hair. He orders you to get in the car, and while he’s fiddling with the back seats, he tells you to start masturbating.

You’re already wet, of course. You had been for hours. He has that effect on you.

It takes several minutes of driving before he pulls off the dusty road near some rusty metal shack. There are no other cars up here. You can hear the sounds of owls and things that go *buzz* in the night.

“What?” he asks as you glance around with concern.

“No, it’s….I guess that’s the sound of nature.” City girl that you are, not one for roughing¬†it. Not this kind of rough, anyway.

“Get in the backseat,” he orders.

It’s not like you didn’t know this was coming. Hell, you’re the one who told him about the fantasy in the first place.

But this is real.

You spread a blanket across the back. He tells you to get on your back. You instinctively spread your legs. You are, after all, his whore.

He starts with his fingers.

He comments on the state of your cunt. “So wet. You are¬†a whore,” he reminds you.

You nod. “Yes, Sir.”

One orgasm with his fingers on your clit, then another with penetration before he claims your cunt again with his cock. “My whore,” he clarifies.

“Your whore,” your words echo, clinging to the ends of each breath.

You know it’s coming. You bring your feet up to the ceiling. His eyes glow in the moonlight with a flash of excitement and desire.

He enters slowly, his hot flesh claiming its intended target made slick with the come dripping from your used up cunt.

“That’s it, my whore,” he whispers as his thrust intensifies.

You can only moan in response.

“My backseat, backdoor whore,” he adds.

9 things we rarely admit to loving

1. The first shit you take after anal. ¬†Come on.¬† You know it’s true.

2.¬† Peegasms.¬† I’ve mentioned these before and I know not everybody gets it, but for those of us who do – you know, that feeling you get when you gotta pee but you hold it in?¬† It’s like a little orgasm. It’s fucking good, yo.
3. Finally plucking that one stubborn hair. ¬†Whether it’s on your chin (grrrr) or elsewhere, there’s that one that keeps slipping past your tweezers, but you can still FEEL it.¬† Then that moment you get it, finally GET that little fucker….bliss.
4.¬† When your cat tickles your bare back with his tail. You’re laying naked on the sofa, eating out of a jar of peanut butter and watching the latest episode of Dancing With The Stars when your little kitty decides your back, or your butt, or your thigh looks mighty comfortable.¬† It’s a little wiggy at first, ’cause you’re naked and his cat-litter paws are treading directly on your skin.¬† Especially when the kneading starts and those little prickles have you questioning whether your’e a masochist or a moron.¬† But then, the tail swishes.¬† You freeze.¬† Maybe he’ll do it again. ¬†Swish.¬† Oh yeah, baby. Now we’re talking.¬† You try desperately not to disturb His Royal Catness so that he may continue to swish his tail over and over again.¬† Meanwhile, you haven’t even noticed how much cat hair is on your peanut butter spoon.
5.¬† A teensy, tiny hint of gaminess. ¬†Not the full-on, wallpaper-peeling gnarliness from a partner who hasn’t showered in days, but that “I’ve been working all day, but I totally showered this morning” musky aroma (and taste, if you’re lucky) of a partner’s netherbits right up in your face.¬† That’s it.¬† Inhale.¬† Take it all in.¬† Then….yeah.¬† Take it.¬† All.¬† In.
6.¬† Being right. ¬†I think it might be one of my favorite feelings, after orgasms, making someone else feel good, a warm bubble bath, and having my hair played with.¬† Being RIGHT feels so good.¬† Especially when it’s acknowledged by others.¬† It feels so good that I’ve just gone ahead and made it a habit to be right as often as possible.
7.¬† Being lazy. ¬†There’s a framed quote in my house by John Lennon: ¬†“Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.” ¬†But these days it seems like admitting that you love being lazy is frowned upon.¬† Fuck it.¬† I’ve had lofty aspirations of this or that project that I’d do during my time off from work; like set up a garden or clean out the garage, or do the laundry – and you know what I end up doing all day long?¬† See #4.
8. Farting. I mean, we might not like the aromatic effects of it or the acute embarrassment if someone else smelts what we’ve dealt, but when you’ve got a horrid stomach cramp and then all of a sudden, PFFFFPPPPFBBBBBBBFFFFTRRRRTTTT.¬†¬†Ahhhhhhhhh.
9. When you wake up thinking it’s 6am and it’s not yet midnight. ¬†Oh yes.¬† That thing that happens when you wake from sleep thinking you have but minutes before your alarm goes off telling you that you should probably get out of bed (except you don’t for another half hour because you finally got comfy), but when you look over at the clock, it’s still only 11:45pm the night before.¬† WTF! You were just about to get up and go get ready for another dreadful day – but what’s this?¬† EIGHT MORE HOURS OF SLEEP IN THIS COMFY POSITION YOU’VE JUST DISCOVERED?¬† Fuck yeah!

Dinner Party

Author’s Note: ¬†THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.¬† COMPLETELY.¬† Not even a single thing of this is true.¬† Yet.

“Okay, so…if I win, you have no say in anything that happens to you from six o’clock until midnight.”
“Fine., And if I win, I get a whole day of you pampering me wearing nothing but a bow-tie and a leopard print thong.”
“Leopard print? When did that happen?”
“Just now when I realized that pampering me included running your hands all over my body, getting your cock serviced and fucking me until I pass out, so that either way you were going to win.”
“Oh, you noticed that.”
“Yes. I noticed that.¬† I want it to be a little bit painful for you.”
“Fine.¬† Deal.”
“Ok.¬† Ready?”
“Yeah.¬† One….¬† Two…..¬† Three…. CALL IT!”

I know he cheated. I don’t know how he cheated, but I know he cheated.¬† He was way too prepared for the win.
I was sitting naked, bound to the dining chair with my knees spread apart, my wrists behind my back, and a rope gag bound twice around my open mouth.. They’d added that bit when I started complaining about being cold.
They’d also added nipple clamps at that point, as my commenting on the temperature brought their attention to my hardened nipples some time after the appetizer course.
You’d have thought they’d blindfold me, but no.¬† It was a game, not a punishment. He knew I’d like their lecherous stares between bites of baked salmon and and sips of wine.
I’ll back up.¬† At six o’clock on the dot he ordered me stripped and sent me off into the kitchen to prepare a proper dinner for two wearing nothing but an apron and heels. I created a three course meal to his specifications – appetizer, salad, and main course with a side.¬† No dessert.
So I went with things I knew we’d both like.¬† Bacon wrapped dates, a caprese salad with fresh basil, and for the entree: baked salmon with my not-so-secret spice blend and a side of grilled zucchini strips.¬† It smelled pretty amazing, and I set the table for two using the nicer china and fancy silverware.
The doorbell rang at 7:15.¬† He was grinning from ear to ear as I looked over, puzzled. ¬†“Our guest has arrived right on time.¬† Go let him in.”
He didn’t even bother to tell me again.¬† He just gave me a look.
With a sigh, I walked over to the front door.¬† His voice interrupted me. ¬†“Don’t answer the door in that dirty apron.¬† What will our guest think?”
There wasn’t any point in arguing.¬† I took the apron off and hung it on the coat rack by the front door and then took a deep breath.
When I answered the door, I was surprised to see a man standing there that I didn’t know very well.¬† Part of me wanted to hide. I was naked, except for heels, and this guy was just standing there, not making any attempts to hide that he was enjoying the view.¬† Pursed lips, he looked me up and down, letting his gaze linger on my tits.
“Uh.¬† Hi.¬† Welcome,” I said. ¬†“Come on in.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he answered.

Fast forward to 8 PM: I’d finished bringing all the food out to the table and pouring them each a glass of wine while they talked about boring guy things, barely acknowledging my presence. I’d sneak glances at our guest while they were immersed in conversation. He was charming and attractive in his way. I’d met him a few times in our social circle, but listening to them chat about this and that, I realized that I hadn’t known they were that well acquainted. My lover’s comfort with him made me feel comfortable with him.
“Well, it looks like dinner’s ready.¬† Let’s queue up the entertainment.” ¬†I could hear the familiar smirk in his voice and I knew he was talking about me. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d grown weary of being ignored.
Our guest came up behind me and pulled back on my hair, dragging me back and sitting me down on the chair while my lover pulled some rope out from a nearby drawer and started uncoiling it.
That’s how I ended up in the position that I was in at 9 PM. Tied to the chair, gagged and drooling, nipples clamped and watching my lover and his friend finishing up the dinner I thought I’d been preparing for myself, while they talked about me in the third person.
“You want to clear the table while I prepare dessert?” I squirmed in the chair.¬† Our guest cleared the table while my lover started untying me – first removing the gag and replacing the rough jute with his probing, wet tongue. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but they were still restrained behind my back.¬† I did as best I could to lean into the kiss.
Without warning, he pulled the clamps off by the chain and I yelped right into his mouth. “ASSHOLE!” and I thrashed while the burning pain resonated through my nipples.
After several seconds, (and a lot of laughing), he leaned in to kiss me again. ¬†“Your nipples sore, honey?” He was rolling them around lightly in his fingers.
I nodded.  Big eyes. Pouty lip.  It never works, but I do it anyway.
He booped my nose and laughed again. “We’ll be taking care of that, honey.” The way he said it almost sounded like a threat as he leaned in and reached¬†behind me to start unbinding my wrists with my face buried into his chest.¬† Meanwhile, our guest had returned to the table with a large canvas gym bag and a paper supermarket bag.
“Honey,” my lover said, as he continued untying me. ¬†“Our guest was kind enough to offer to prepare our dessert table-side. Isn’t that thoughtful?”
“Yes, Sir.” ¬†I inhaled the scent of him and resisted the urge to bite. I had a feeling I was going to be the main ingredient in whatever “dessert” they were planning to partake in.
“What will you be preparing for us, buddy?” he asked our guest.
They were both looking right at me when he answered. ¬†“My favorite.¬† Triple-Stuffed Slut.”
As he said it he pulled a massive blue dildo out of the gym bag and wiggled it around at me.  My jaw dropped open as my eyes darted back and forth between the dong and my smirking Dom. The guest walked over to me and took advantage to stuff it into my mouth.
“That’s it.¬† Get it nice and wet.¬† We’re gonna stuff it in your cunt to marinade for a while while we prep the rest of you.”
I hadn’t made much eye contact with him yet, but this seemed as good a time as any to try to use my feminine wiles on him.¬† I stuck my tongue out and slathered it all over the fat cock, letting the drool coat it nice and thick while maintaining eye contact with him the entire time.
“Damn.¬† You’re right about having the ripe slut on hand,” he said as my lover freed me from the last of my bindings and took me forcefully by the elbows and stood me up. Together they led me to the now cleared dining room table and laid me down flat, face up on top of it. With a grunt, they positioned my body so that my ass was right at the edge of the table, knees up and spread in the air.
The friend took the dildo out of my mouth and walked around the table’s edge. ¬†“Mind if I taste the marinade before we put this in?” he asked, fingers already rubbing along the slick swollen flesh of my labia.
“Good idea,” was the response.¬† I closed my eyes. I’d finally gotten used to my lover going down on me after years of neglect in that area.¬† Having a near-stranger do it was going to take an actual act of submission. I had a feeling that was by design to try to get me more comfortable with receiving oral.
I felt soft lips on my forehead and realized that I’d had my brow furrowed. “It’s not punishment. It’s supposed to be fun,” he murmured in my ear. ¬†“Are you having fun?” I opened my eyes to meet his gaze and smiled, reaching my hand over to caress the side of his face.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I assured him.¬† Just then I felt the sensation of hot breath against my clit, and I pulled my lover’s lips down toward my own.
It wasn’t bad. I had trouble letting go enough to come, but it still felt pretty good.¬† Especially when he started using his fingers.¬† The whole time, I felt my pussy dripping wet into my asshole and knew that would help later on with the promise of being “triple stuffed.” ¬†I wondered which of them (or the dildo) would be taking that particular hole.
It didn’t take too much longer to find out.
Without warning, the dildo slid into my pussy and the friend started fucking me with it.
“OHMYGOD. OHMYGOD,” I moaned loudly. Did I mention that thing was huge?
“She’s just so noisy,” my lover said to his friend, and clamped his broad palm down over my mouth.¬† In the mean time, he used his other hand to retrieve a bottle of honey and can of whipped cream from the super market bag on the chair by the table.
He flipped the lid top on the honey and I arched my back as the sticky syrup hit my nipple. I felt it dripping down the side of my breasts and closed my eyes, wishing for the warmth of his mouth on them. He knew how sensitive they were, especially after his move with the nipple clamps.
“Sshhh.¬† You’ll wake up the neighbors,” he said as he lifted his hand off my mouth. ¬†“It’s almost 10pm.” He smiled as my body trembled little shockwaves and I nodded obediently.
“Open wide,” he held the whipped cream can over my mouth.¬† I giggled and opened my mouth.¬† He filled it with whipped cream and then kissed my lips closed and I snorted and moaned and laughed all a the same time.
But it was when he put his mouth on my nipple that I went under again.¬† A virtual stranger fucking my pussy with a dildo and my lover’s hot wet mouth on my honey-drizzled tits….whipped cream notwithstanding, it was a recipe for orgasm.
And it worked.
He alternated between the cream and the honey, my right and left nipples, my belly, my neck, my shoulder.  He bit into my shoulder.
When I came, it was epic.  He was rolling my right nipple in his fingers while biting on the left one when it happened.
He came back up and kissed my earlobe, whispering “good girl” into it as the little aftershocks pulsed their way through my body.
“My dick is hard, buddy.” ¬†The friend had pulled the dildo out of my pussy and was now rubbing his cock through his pants, standing there between my legs staring at it.
“Oh.¬† Hang on.¬† Lets flip her over.¬† You’re gonna love this.”
They pulled me up and the guest took a seat in the chair.  My lover positioned me on my hands and knees in front of him and said three simple words to let me know what he wanted.
“Do your thing.”
I smiled.  My turn.
If you’ve never had someone suck your cock like it was their calling in life to do so, then you won’t understand what our guest experienced for the next twenty minutes.¬† And it was only twenty because I was slowing down and making it last that long. If I’d been trying, I’d have had him in five.
In the meantime, my lover had pulled two floggers out of the bag and started going at my ass with them.¬† For a moment, except for the leopard print thong, it felt like I’d won the coin toss.
But about halfway through the blow job, he set the floggers down and knelt behind me. I grunted as his cock took advantage of my already lubricated ass.  I love it when he fucks my ass.
And there I was, like a multi-orgasmic chinese finger trap as we crossed into the 11 o’clock hour. I’d yet to be triple stuffed, and part of me wanted to remind them – but just then, our guest appeared to remember the same thing, and pulled my head off his cock long enough to get up and grab the dildo from the table.
“I think it’s time, man.”
Handing it over, my lover pulled his cock out of my ass and re-inserted the dildo into my pussy, giving it a couple thrusts before shoving it far up inside and ordering me to clench.¬† The friend took his place back on the chair, and just as I resumed “doing my thing,” the cock re-entered my ass.
I’m pretty sure we all woke up the neighbors.
After we all reveled in the afterglow, we went to go wash up.  I took a little extra time to grab a bite of leftovers from the kitchen while they got dressed and chatted about music for a while.
It was almost midnight when our guest said his goodbyes and took off.
“You have ten minutes left, Sir.” I curled up into a ball next to him on the sofa. ¬†“What do you want to do with me now?”
He caressed my back with his hand and leaned over with his head to kiss my forehead again.
“Exactly this.” ¬†By the time Friday rolled into Saturday, we were both dreaming about future adventures.

I’m in a mood

“Oh, shit.¬† It’s going to be one of those days,” I said to mimi this morning in the car on the way to work.

“What?” ¬†She was finishing applying her lipstick in the mirror as I sped along the carpool lane.

“One of those days where all I can think about is anal sex.”

She laughed.  I smiled.  I like making her laugh.

But here’s the thing.¬† It *is* one of those days.¬† Those distractingly horny days when I find it hard to focus on anything other than *want.* ¬†So much *want*.¬† I remember reading it somewhere here – the idea of being “reduced” to an instrument for pleasure.

Yeah, those anal days turn into objectification days quickly.

(Do not attempt to objectify me without my fucking consent, because these types of days very quickly turn into toppy-phi days when I’m angered.)

I had a meeting today…like, my real job kind of meeting.¬† So I’m dressed up a little.¬† It looks sexy, if I do say so myself.¬† I’m wearing a form fitting black sheath dress with beige fishnet textured stockings and heels.¬† I even put on my pretty gold jewelry to go with it.

I like looking at my legs in this dress.  I like the idea of someone getting ever-so-close in the elevator at my office and running his hands up my thighs and under the slightly stretchy material to grab a firm handful of my ass.   I like thinking about him wordlessly pushing the elevator stop button between floors and grabbing my wrists, affixing them to the metal bar that runs across the back of the elevator with a squeeze to let me know that I should not remove them under any circumstances.

I like the thought of him grabbing me by the hips and pulling them away from that back wall, so that I am bent over, ass out.  And how he not-very-delicately or slowly lifts the skirt of my dress up to my waist and pulls the pantyhose down to my thighs, underwear and all.

He reaches around to shove his fingers into my mouth.¬† If I want lubrication, I’m going to have to do it myself.

Of course, I’m wet already, and what he doesn’t get from my mouth he can easily pick up with a couple finger thrusts into my pussy before he circles his rough fingers around my tight puckered hole and preps it for use.

It doesn’t last long.¬† It doesn’t have to.¬† We’re not doing this for me.

With his come slowly seeping from my hole, he pushes the stop button back in and the elevator jolts back to life.  I have only seconds to pull my panties and hose up and my dress back down before the doors slide open and he walks away.

Never having said a word.

Mr. and Mrs. Shameless go to the beach

“What are you doing, Daddy?” She’d just finished re-applying sunblock to her bikini-clad body on the large blanket they’d laid out on the sand. A few feet away, her husband was using a small plastic bucket he’d found to dig a hole.

“I’m digging a hole, pumpkin.” The afternoon sun was bearing down on his back. She leaned back and wiggled her bottom against the soft blanket.

“What for, though?”

“You’ll see,” he responded.

It was a weekday getaway, the kind that retired suburban men with their much younger wives could take without the bother of dealing weekend the crowds and families. There was another couple laying side by side, reading about twenty yards away. In the other direction, a small group of college-aged youngsters were kicking a soccer ball around far enough away that their laughter and cheers blended into the sounds of waves crashing and gulls squawking.

It was almost like having a private beach all to themselves.

A few minutes later, he mopped his brow and looked over at his wife, who was leaning back on her arms, squirming. He smiled through squinted eyes and called her over.

“Give Daddy a kiss,” he murmured as she stepped close to the edge of the hole to look inside. It was large enough for her to lay down in it. With an eyebrow raised, she leaned forward and onto her tip-toes for a kiss. He reached around and pressed his palms against her ass. “You enjoying your new beach toy?” he asked.

“Mmm. Yes, Daddy.” She pushed her butt back against his palm as it wiggled inside her.

“Top off,” he ordered.

She giggled, looking around. The boring couple with their noses in books wouldn’t notice, but as soon as she’d stood up, some of the soccer kids had gotten a little distracted by their public display and were definitely watching.

Turning to face them, she pulled the string behind her back and released her tits to the ocean breeze.

The soccer ball rolled down the slight incline into the water and bounced along the shallow waves, forgotten.

Meanwhile, Simon had produced a pair of alligator nipple clamps from the cooler. “These should be nice and cold now,” he said as he reached around from behind her to fasten them onto her already pert nipples.

He sank his teeth into her neck and she threw her head back with a groan. “Mmm…Daddy…” she mumbled.

“Get in the hole,” he ordered.

She hopped down into the hole and lay in it, all smiles, while Simon waved the small crowd of onlookers over.

“Help me cover her up,” he called out. Three of the guys rushed over, while the two women stayed back and whispered in low tones.

With four sets of arms, it only took a few minutes to bury her up to her neck.

Standing over her, Simon pulled a small remote control out of his pocket. “Let’s see if this works through three feet of sand,” he declared.

By the time each of the guys had had their turn with it, the quietly reading couple had picked up their stuff and moved further down the beach.