Blistered Lips

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you on her dotted line
signed, sealed, delivered
your signature, her hand
done deal

used up and faded blue
the new you
(after all)

after all:
buckled down and tied up
your twisted tongue and caught breath
searching for sonnets

searching for sonnets
on hobbled limbs
and always bended knee
to sing, to plead, to offer alms
to your silent siren
who never listens, never speaks
who only hears her own measure

it’s the bitch in her
that keeps you here and keeps you hers:
her cheap fetish
her pygmy romeo
her corrupt fuck

it’s the bitch in her
that’s taken you down
rubbed you raw
cut you clean
wiped you out
bled you, bled you, bled you

it’s the bitch in her
that fucks with you
fucks you up
fucks you over
and doesn’t give
a flying fuck about any of it

it’s the bitch in her
that has your attention
your cock, your devotion, your heart

it’s the bitch in her
that makes you her bitch

“Never underestimate the power of your cunt,” Martin had said to Addison not so many years ago.   And he’d meant it.  From the bottom of his heart.

And Addison, being smart and a bit on the wicked side, took his words to heart. It was easy to put two and two together–his words and his ongoing fascination with her pussy. The attention he directed to the V at the top of her thighs was different from what she’d experienced with other guys. They liked it, they liked it a lot. But Martin was absolutely obsessed. And it was this obsession that was his downfall. It made him stupid and weak, and easily manipulated.

So it didn’t take long–a matter of weeks perhaps–until Addison had Martin exactly where she wanted him: On his knees, cum-denied and at her service. It wasn’t the relationship she’d envisioned as a little girl dreaming of prince charming. It was, in fact much better in that she was most certainly a princess. A spoiled princess. Martin’s princess.

Tonight Addison was conducting a scent training session. Martin knelt before her, naked and eager, an obedient puppy moaning and mewling every time she tugged on his cock leash. “What do you want Puppy Martin? What do you want from Princess Addison?” Giving Martin’s cockleash two quick tugs, she widened the gap of her already spread legs, feeling the rose-print panties stretching tight into the slit of her cunt.

“Ooooh! Those panties feel so good against my clit, Martin. I may have to have you lick me tonight instead of just smelling.”

“Yes. Yes, please Princess Addison. I will lick your cunt. I will lick you cunt and make you cum so good. Please Princess. Please let me.”

“Don’t think for a minute that if I DO let you lick this cunt that I will let you cum. You get lazy and inattentive once you cum and I am not in the mood for such silliness. Do you understand, Puppy Martin?”

“Yes, Princess.” I will be good.. I promise to be soooo good for Princess.”

Addison giggled. During their entire exchange, Martins eyes had been ogling her panty-covered cunt, while at the same time his cock was jerking and twitching and a long, pearly string of precum was now dangling from its head.

“Oh, Martin. You are just too cute. I don’t dare let you lick my Princess cunt. You just might lose control. But we will continue with the scent training. Would you like that?”

She tugged on his cock leash three times and saw the gooseflesh rising all over his naked flesh as he whimpered. “Crawl over here between my legs. That’s it. Now rest your head against this thigh and watch as I pull these panties into my slit and get them all wet with Princess juices.”

Sliding her tailbone to the edge of the chair and spreading her legs even wider, Addison grinded her clit and vulva into the panty crotch, feeling the wetness there spread. Martin groaned and she could actually see his nostrils flaring.

“Can you smell it, Martin? Can you smell your Princess’s cunt?”

Martin groaned again, this time louder and longer.

“Let’s proceed with the training then.”

With that, Addison put her hands and the back of Martin’s head, pulling his face into her crotch.

“Smell, Puppy Martin. Smell my Princess Cunt until I tell you to stop.”

Wrapping her left leg around his neck, Addison picked up the book from the chairside table and began reading.

Martin began his breathing lesson with gusto.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the Library: My 451 on Freedom of Speech, Libraries, The First Amendment and Banned Books.

A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy. ~Edward P. Morgan

In a perfect world, those who screw with The First Amendment would be sentenced to careers-without-parole as testers in ball gag factories. And why not? Why not let them see what it feels like for a change. Just a thought. Or maybe they want to take that away from us too?

Sadly, when it comes to Freedom of Speech, sometimes the last place we’ve been able to find it is in our libraries.

Which seems kind of weird, don’t you think? Shouldn’t at least The Library be hallowed ground? A quasi-church for those of us who actually know how to think on our feet and our knees? And even in between? For those of us who believe that truth is earned, truth is fluid, truth is personal? For those of us who believe that truth is found in life’s freely-given gift of perpetual learning? For those of us who know we will bleed more than we will ever learn, yet pick up the gauntlet anyway?

Because we know that apprenticed truth is the very marrow of all that makes us human? That suffraged truth is ours to keep forever? And that these self-learned truths are what truly sanctify us, make us whole, make us real? Because we know that human-ness and sanctification are one and the same?

Because we know that you can’t borrow truth: It just won’t stick to you. Or inside of you. Or up for you.

But some people try to do just that, over and over again. Unable to find the path, unwilling pay the price, looking for an easier, softer way — and missing the irony of their very own actions — they cling to their cookbooks, their bibles, their leaflets, their doctrines, their scrolls, their index cards, their cheat sheets.

Forsaking the wisdom of their very own hearts, ignoring the axiom No Guts, No Glory, they take the easy way out (instead of the harder way inside), looking to some Petrarchan authority to tell them what to think, what to believe, how to act. And they know they are right: Because they’ve got the rules now. They’ve got the rules and, by golly, everybody else better start living by them or else.

And so they set about the business of minding everybody else’s business. What else can you do when you’ve finally got the rules? What else can you do when you know better than everybody else? What else can you do when you’ve been, born again in the stagnate waters of vainglorious superiority, carved anew from the petrified rock of pseudo-enlightenment?

And the dirty little rat bastids just won’t leave our books alone. Forgetting that the very reason they know they are right and we are wrong is because they read it somewhere and that makes it true, imagining some knighted prerogative to “go forth and cleanse,” they slither into our libraries unannounced (but always invited) to bite the hand that originally fed them.

I’m just kind of sick of it. Books of all types, sizes, shapes and subject matter have repeatedly disappeared from the hallowed shelves on this most-American of institutions time and again. Thanks to the blessed and all-knowing storm troopers, we have to repeatedly fight for the right to read.

So let me ask you this: If someone takes a book away from me, do I get to take one away from them? Do I get to decide for them, like they want to do for me, what they shall read? Because I am the moral conscience for the world? Because I know better than you and them and him and her? And do we do this—tit for tat—until there are no books left? None to be found anywhere, every last shelf picked clean?

Just something to think about as Banned Books Week draws to a close. And I do hope you think about it. Think about it all year round. Think about a world stunted by intellectual pygmies who want to steal every idea ever found in a book, because they’ve never had an original one of their own, and it scares the hell out of them.

Think about a world without music, without poetry and even without prayer, because original thought is original sin…and we can’t have that, now, can we?

Think of a world, of all the worlds, contained inside the covers of each and every single book.

Think about all of this when…

…you walk into a library and your heart thrills at all the possibilities.

…you smell the musty books in your grandfather’s den and remember his smile.

…read a Shakespearian sonnet to her and see the look of love in her eyes.

…you grieve the ending of the best book ever as a last chapter looms ahead.

…you run across an old school book and remember how autumn always smelled so new.

Think about it.

he teaches me

and i listen

i learn

because a man on his knees

brings wisdom

brings honor

brings so much more

than most would hope to get

and i can still not believe

i am given

 

and so I listen

i watch your mouth
pure-boy rubicund
sweet-boy sugared
not kissed enough, not nearly enough
to my way of thinking
not nearly fucking enough

your lips

let me eat them
gnaw on them
spit on them
then lick it back off
then swallow it
our spit, our mouth-cum

suck on them
swallow them
bite them
fuck them with my cunt-mouth
rubicund too, rabid with need

then kiss them
kiss you
kiss me

with my real mouth
my girl mouth
my carnivore-mouth
my bitch-cannibal mouth
my slut-succubus mouth

kiss me

She never knew. You wanted her to. At least sometimes you thought you did.

You were her friend, her buddy, her “best buddy,” she always said. And you always agreed. Grinned your simple grin and kept your secrets.

You liked it when she called you that. Best buddy, bosom buddy. The buddy left alone when she was out with Karl or Jacob or Michael, or one of so many others. It’s not that you ever loved her; she never broke your heart after all. You knew even then that you can’t break a heart that doesn’t love. It was always that simple and that fucked up.

You never fooled yourself, not even at first. Because it was never love–not even lust or reverence. It was deification. Yes, you fantasized about her, masturbated thinking about her. Thinking about her with them–all of them. You thought about her face, her dewy flesh, her gray-green eyes, her auburn hair–long and always freshly shampooed. But it wasn’t her beauty that caught you’re imagination. It was her cunt. It was the thought of her cunt that got you crazy-hot. You wanted to worship the cunt that all of that beauty implied. To be the rutting pig, the filthy whore-boy, the degenerate cunt-slut. To be a slave to the magnificent snatch that the Karls and Jacobs and Michaels–loved and ate and fingered and fucked.

Even now you don’t remember the first time. The first time you had to have more. The first time you stole her panties, sniffed them, jerked off in them. And finally wore them: Her cum and their cum, all those men’s cum, wet against your cock, spunk-soaked satin and lace. A dirty betrayal. A profane gesture. You knew it, but you did it anyway, time and again–even your guilt a twisted aphrodisiac that you fed upon.

That was long ago, back then, back there. You both moved on. She–to three states, two marriages and, now, two divorces. You–just to a different apartment, one town over. Always single, always remembering.

But she’s found you in the here and now.

Sitting on your sofa, drinking single malt whiskey instead of iced tea, wearing stilettos instead of sandals, smoking a cigarette instead of chewing gum–she is staring at you. Silence. Taking a drag off of her cigarette, exhaling slowly, never losing eye contact. Finally she butts the cigarette on the dish you’ve brought her in lieu of an ashtray.

“It’s going to be different this time.”

“What?”

“You know what. You know exactly what I mean. And this time you’re going to do it my way.”

She slowly uncrosses her long, silky legs and lights another cigarette. You attempt the silly grin, your old standby. But you’re out of practice. Nervous. Your lips tremble. And you don’t quite pull it off; know you look timid, stupid, probably even frightened. Because that is exactly how you feel.

She takes another drag of the cigarette, this time a long, deep one. Stands up. Begins walking toward you, her heels digging into the drab, grey linoleum. Standing in front of you she lets the cigarette hang from the corner of her over-glossed lips and starts slowly pulling up the sides of her dress.

“I was a busy girl before I got here tonight. You remember those days, the old days?  When I was a busy girl? A very busy girl all the time?” Her dress is sliding over the tops of her stockings. You push your back into your chair, gripping its arms.

“Funny thing is…I never had to clean a pair of panties. No matter how many men, how many cocks, how many fucks. No panties to wash. In fact, no panties–period. No panties at all. All of those nasty, dirty panties–gone, poof, nowhere to be found.”

Her dress is at her waist now, and she is reaching out with one hand, pulling you by the neck, pulling your face between her legs. With her other hand she runs her fingers through your hair, enamel nails lightly scratching your scalp.

“We’re going to get it right this time,” she says, pushing your cheeks against the inside of her thighs. The hem of her skirt catches at your brow as she presses your face against her crotch. Inhaling the scent, remembering the scent, you open your mouth and press your tongue into the soaked, pungent, satiny crevices. As she starts to grind her pelvis, you hear her murmuring above you.

“I knew. I always knew.”

Your eyes have always held me. Lashes longer than a boy’s should ever be. Yet the beauty of all that you are is captured in their shadow.

So I watch those eyes, your cheek sweet against my thigh, so close that I know you can smell me. My hands, their shyness conquered by your unbridled ferver, move down my belly and to my cunt.

One hand would have been enough. You wouldn’t have asked for more.

But now I want you to see, need you to see: The way I pull the lips of my cunt wide, extending a finger, just one finger, running it along the roseate slickness to press the tumescent ruby of my clit.

It’s for you. Only for you. Now watch me cum. Watch me make myself cum only for you.

Anybody who believes that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne

Was it Mrs. Gump who said Vanilla is as Vanilla does?

What I am proposing with this simple little entry is that quite probably the term vanilla (when applied to sexuality) just might be on the verge of vernacular extinction.

Case in point: I was recently discussing said topic with a college student I am tutoring (yes, he does flirt and yes, I do tease) when he told me that, “These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird.” I got such a kick out of that, as you might imagine. Particularly since this certainly wasn’t the case only a few years ago when I, myself, was a student!

But you have to admit that my little friend could very well be onto something here. And it emphasizes my rather vague—but nonetheless valid—suggestion that, just perhaps, when it comes to the difference between vanilla and kink we might just be splitting hairs.

His comment got my admittedly little (but always industrious) brain to pondering upon the glorious games boys and girls have forever played. (The problem for the boys is that nobody has ever told them that the girls always win. They—aching members in hand—go directly to jail and do not pass go, while we—oblivious and sexy in our nylons and heels—are busy buying Park Place and building little red hotels.)

Another gentleman recently regaled me with stories of his search for a Mistress throughout the 1960s and early 1970s, when even finding reference to such things was next to impossible. Yet search he did, eventually exchanging long-distance missives with a number of “incognito” Pro-Dommes.

So maybe things weren’t always as vanilla as we’ve supposed? Perhaps kink is all a matter of one’s particular perspective? Could it be that the only difference between then and now is that rather than hiding or burying our sexual proclivities, we embrace them?

Wasn’t it Janis Joplin that said, “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose?”

Anyway…just some food for thought.

 

i think of you:

your warrior’s heart
its toughened blister
-but not for me
-not ever for me

has served you well:

keeper of your flame
it’s kept your secrets
kept your seasoned wit
kept your quiet expectations
kept your easy wisdom

kept you for me
everything for me
all of you for me
always for me
forever for me

just waiting for me:

to untether its strings
puncture its wound
untangle its weave

and I am here:

so that we shall fold
this rare metal
this precious metal
this noble metal
this keeper of your heart
this weathered chain mail

and keep it safe
as it has kept you

You are thinking you are just about the luckiest guy in the world tonight. The sexiest girl in the hotel bar, every man was watching her, yet she chose you. Now in your hotel room, she is undressing you, stopping to touch, kiss, lick every bit of flesh as it becomes exposed. Everytime you reach for her, she pushes your arms back. “No, no, no,” she whispers, “I want you to take. I want to give.”

Kneeling in front of you, she runs her long, red nails over the the bulge of the erection straining against your crotch. “Are you hot, baby? Are you hot for me? You know I want to fuck you, baby? You know that, don’t you?” You groan reaching down to run your fingers through her blonde hair.

“You’re so beautiful, Cherie” you whisper when she looks up at you. “You’re so hard,” she answers, tugging at your zipper. You both watch as she pulls your cock through the open fly. “Oh, fuck, this is the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen,” she says then brushes her open, moist lips down the throbbing shaft, her tip of her tongue weaving across it’s engorged throbbing veins.

Abruptly, still holding onto your cock with her hand, she stands up. When you go to grab her, she again grabs your arms. “No, honey, this is your night. You get it all and I’m the one that’s going to give it to you.” Still holding your arms she pulls you to the bed.

“I want to go down on you,” you tell her as she begins undressing you. She is tugging at the legs of your pants, when you reach down and grab her ample breasts. She shivers, but still pushes your hand away. “Now what did I tell you, lover? Be a good boy.”

Once you are naked, she pushes you back against the pillows. She climbs on top of your belly, her red dress pulling tight against her open thighs. You can see the top of her hose and garters, the smoothness of the thighs above them. Grasping your hands, she laces her fingers through yours, gripping tightly. Then leans over, her yellow hair a halo around both of you, and looks deep into you eyes.

“Are you really sure you want to go down on me?”

“More than anything.”

“You’re absolutely positive?” She licks your mouth, then runs her tongue down your neck to your right nipple and bites it. You moan and try to untangle your fingers, but she clenches tighter and starts moving up your belly.

“I have a suprise for you,” Cherie says as slides her shins over your upper arms, pinning them to the bed. As her crotch looms over your face, she finally releases your hands and reaches behind her, grabbing your cock and stroking it again.

And then she is pushing her thighs against your cheeks, shoving the crotch of her black, lace panties against your face. Something rock hard is grinding against your chin, your nose, your mouth.

“I told you I wanted to give,” Cherie pants as she rocks faster against your face. “I’m giving you my cock.” At first you try to push up, push her off of you, but she bears down and tightens her thighs. “You said you wanted to go down on me.” With her free hand she pulls her panties down so that her dick pops out over the top. She grabs it and rubs it all over your face, then, matching the rhythm of the hand around your dick, begins jerking it against your slack mouth.

“Open up, honey. Open up and take this hard piece of meat in your mouth.”

Watching her stroke her cock and feeling her stroke yours at the same time, you open your mouth. “That’s a good boy. Pretty Cherie has a nice cock, doesn’t she? That’s it, wrap those pretty lips around it”

And you start sucking and you want her cum more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

Groaning, Cherie starts riding your mouth. “You want it? You want my load? You want to swallow my cream, cocksucker? I got a lot of cum for you, baby.”

She thrusts forward and you feel her cock jerking and sliding off the back of your tongue and into your throat. She starts stroking your cock hard and fast. “Cum with me, baby,” she screams, “do it.” And then you are riding the wave together, you’re bucking your hips, fucking her hand as hard as she is fucking your mouth.

Then she is filling your mouth, your throat. And you are spewing yours all over, wherever. And it is the hottest sex you’ve ever had and you know that you will want this again and again.

Cherie slides her cock out of your mouth and moves down to stretch across your chest, her lips at your ear. She kisses your cheek then whispers, “Let’s rest a little bit, then go for round two. Remember what I promised you, what I said?” Catching your breath, feeling the sticky sensation of her cum still on your teeth, you try to remember.

“What?”

“I said I was going to fuck you, honey.”