Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Loud

All she could hear was the music. A deep, pulsing beat. Coming from the back of the house. The room was dark, a tinge of light coming from an open door down the hall.

The chair was wooden, high-backed. She wore black lace panties and a matching bra and nothing else. Her hands were tied tightly behind her back and fastened to the chair. Her ankles were knotted to the legs of the chair.

And all she could hear was the music.

She remembered him tying her up, then walking away. Then the music started.

She didn't know how long he'd been gone. Thirty minutes, maybe an hour.

The music didn't stop. Loud. Pulsing. Beating. Like her heart.

She felt beads of sweat on her head. The anticipation of what was next made her wet between her legs.

She didn't hear as he walked behind her, but she saw more light from the candle he carried.

He placed the candle on a table behind her chair. She saw his shadow to the side of her.

He was in front of her now. No shirt, only a well-fitting pair of boxer briefs. His body lean and hungry.

She watched as he massaged his cock through his briefs. Watched the way his eyes took all of her in. Watched as the cotton grew tighter around his stiffening member. Watched as pre-cum stained through the dark shorts. All the while, the music continued. Loud. Relentless. Her desire building.

She watched as his shorts dropped to the floor. Admired the strong, hard, pulsing cock as he stroked it. He let it go, let her see the full length and thickness of him.

He walked behind her, grabbed her throat, and brought her lips to his, taking an angry, hungry kiss -- taking her breath away. His hands wandered, down to her breasts, down to her aching pussy. His fingers beneath lace, teasing moist folds, opening her. A finger pressed in, a second joined. He stroked her, teased her clit, and she moaned in expectant delight.

One hand on her neck, his pussy-soaked fingers in her mouth as she licked every single drop of her desire.

He was in front of her now, his cock even stiffer than before.

He grabbed the back of her head, a handful of her hair. Shoved his cock over her lips, into her mouth, into her throat. Held it there as her eyes began to water. Pulled it out a bit... rubbed it on her lips, rubbed between her breasts. Then back into her mouth. In and out. Fucking her face, taking what he wanted.

His grip on her hair grew tighter and his cock moved faster. Over her lips, on her tongue, to her throat. Sometimes slipping completely out, then shoved back in. He was lost in the pleasure of her.

He pulled her down, all the way down his shaft, held her there and she felt the pulsing, the throbbing. His explosion was exquisite. He grunted, moaned her name. Thick, hot semen filled her throat and she took all she could.

He pulled back, his cock still semi-hard. He took her in, noticed the tears down her face, the cum dripping from her used mouth. Warm drops forming on her bra and breasts.

He walked behind her, whispered to her. She just smiled.

The music. Pulsing. Loud.

Her body aching. Hungry. Wanting more.


Monday, September 25, 2017

Black and Grey

She was often like this. No makeup, a simple grey tank top. A black hat to keep her dark hair under control.

Her face was beautiful. Glowing with youth and promise. This new, simple life was anything but simple. Still, she loved it. Loved him. Loved them together.

She heard him at the computer, typing. His words coming quickly, his keystrokes loud, aggressive.

She knew he'd been up quite early.

She walked into the office and sat in the chair across from his desk.

Simple shorts, the grey tank, the black cap. Bare feet.

He didn't look up. He kept writing. This is what he did.

She wanted to see him, to watch him work. To watch the thoughts in his mind go to the page.

After a moment, he noticed her. Noticed her scent. Though she wore no makeup, she was wearing her signature scent. A simple, enchanting scent that always got his attention.

He looked up. His eyes met hers. She glanced down as he took all of her in. Admired the simple, pure beauty of her face. Craved another glimpse of her dark, mysterious eyes. Smiled as he took in the way her ample breasts gave shape to the grey top. Enjoyed the site of her flesh creating a heavenly valley. The curves of her ass gave way to shapely legs and nice ankles and pleasant feet.

His writing would wait.

He got up from his chair and walked to her, knelt in front of her. His lips brush hers, then enveloped them. Her mouth responded with hunger. The simple, pure face turned into a burning fire of passion.

His hands on her waist, then her ass.. pushing her up, standing -- the two of them nearly the same height. Their lips in a dance of pure hunger. His hands beneath the grey tank top, fingers teasing aroused nipples..

His mouth on her neck, her shoulders... working down to the lush valley of her breasts.

His hands pushing down her shorts. Exposing the firmness of her flesh.

As their lips meet again, she reaches into his pants, strokes his rock hard cock through his cotton boxer briefs. She notices the pre-cum, the effect she's had on him.

Hand under waistband, fingers caressing the throbbing head of his hot cock.

He looks into her eyes and pulls away from their kiss.

Tells her to get to the floor.

She's on all fours, her head against the chair where she just sat. He pulls her shorts over her feet, tosses them away. His finger traces a line from the small of her back, down her ass, to the wet warmth of her aching pussy.

He puts his finger in his mouth, wets it... then teases her clit, her pussy.

She hears the sound of his pants unzipping. Hears him stroke the length of his cock.

His breath is on her neck, his lips graze her ear.

She is his lover forever, he says. The weight of him against her pushes her knees against the hardwood floor. The feel of his cock, resting against her ass, causes her desire to grow stronger.

He pulls her tank top over her head and kisses her down the length of one arm, the tip of his cock against her back.

He bites at her shoulder, licks and sucks and kisses her back.

His tongue traces down her spine and back up.

She feels the pulsing head of his angry cock against her ass, then lower, then inside her. He pushes in and she moans in delight.

He finds a rhythm and his hands cup her breasts, his body one with hers now.

He pushes himself in as deep as he can go and then holds himself there, bends over, kisses her neck, turns her head, and they kiss as their bodies relish the sweet pleasure.

He leans back, pulls her hair as her back arches to him. Her hand on her clit now, fingers teasing his balls as he fucks her.

He feels her grow warmer, pulse, she tightens around him and he slows a bit. She screams in pure bliss and he thrusts hard, harder, deep. He groans and then whispers her name. His body wet with sweat and hers sticky beneath him. His hot cum deep inside, a drop or two dripping as his cock leaves her body.

He collapses to the floor, pulls her to him. Admires the thin layer of sweat on her perfect breasts. They kiss and laugh and enjoy just being there. The day is ahead of them, but it has started well.

There is no secret to their unlikely love, just together. Every day.




Thursday, August 24, 2017

53

I can see it. Can see 53. I walked around the corner in the house I've now been in for 10 years and I can see 53.

I can see it.

I can see the aging cats, soft and even more tired.

I can see the floors, clean but needing attention of some sort.

I can see the room, the empty room. And across the hall, another empty room. One was always empty, the other held a life that by the time I'm 53 will be entering a new, exciting phase.

At 23 I couldn't see 53. I could barely see 30.

Now, I see 53. See the days, each essentially a repeat of the last. The years, moving ever faster toward an end.

I see 53. The same home for 20 years. Paid for, by then.

I see 53. I hear the alarm clock, take the shower, brew the coffee. Just like today. And yesterday. And last year.

At 33 I couldn't see 53. I was mainly thinking about 30. Sometimes, at 33, I thought of being 23. Of all the new starts and fresh experiences. I dreamed then of going back to a college campus, far away. Of being a student again.

Those dreams are gone. Silly, I think. When you can see 53, you don't want to go back to 23. Not really. Not in the sense of no money and all the anxiety.

I see 53. I see the stairs. In the evening, I'll take them up, watch a show.

I also know that between now and 53, much will happen. Much of it will seem significant. And that's if everything goes according to plan. Of course, there could be a major disturbance of some kind. Still, I see 53. Hot coffee by morning, an early dinner on the deck.

I see 53. I know I'll not go to Seattle -- the place where I experienced an awakening at 30. Too much time has passed. At 30, I wasn't ready to act on what I knew then. Now, too many entanglements prevent a return.

I see 53.

I see what 53 might have been. See the culmination of other paths, those not taken or those I know I won't take now. I see that decision at 23 made things change. Opened some paths, closed others. I see clearly where one path would have me now. Even then, on that path, perhaps I'd be seeing 53. Wondering about THIS path, the one I foreclosed.

I remember the conversation. I remember thinking about how interesting the opportunity was. But also thinking: I know where I'm going.

Of course, I didn't.

Still, I casually and quickly decided the opportunity wasn't for me. Looking back, it's amazing how in a matter of moments, 30 years of your life can be decided. The path to 53 would have been different. But also the same. Energy, excitement, opportunity and fun -- possibly well past 30. Then, one day, I would have looked up and thought: I see 53. I see the next 10, 11, 12 years and more.

I see 53.

I see what's next.

And what's after that.

I see what might have been and I see what will be.





Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Next to you

The sunlight barely peeks in as the buzzing of my alarm clock sounds. I'm next to you in our bed, but you barely move. Your breathing is deep, measured, comfortable. I can feel your contentment, can see your smile even as you sleep. Your hair is dark and vibrant and alive. You are facing me, you are covered but have one leg on top of the comforter.

I look at you in wonder. My eyes taking you in, admiring your beautiful face. I smile as I glance at the curve of your ass over the covers, follow your leg down to your ankle, take in the arch of your foot, the tenderness of your toes.

You've taught me to proudly sleep naked, as you do. To embrace the glorious sensations of our bodies. Sleeping naked, being naked around our home, as we often are, has inspired me to pay more attention to my own body. To take my body seriously. To learn, even as I sneak past 40, that my body responds to me and I can control much of what it does and how it looks.

I've learned a lot about control through our time together.

Now, though, I am next to you. I'm in awe. Of your beauty, yes. But also of how we came to be. Of how that post on that site caused you to respond. How you showed up just as promised. How I desired your kiss more than anything almost upon seeing you. How I restrained myself, then regretted it. How I prided my self on control, but couldn't take exactly what I wanted then.

Time works wonders. Our paths would continue to cross. I'd often imagine you as my lover. I'd even say those words: "I love you" during the many times I pleasured myself while thinking of you. Silly, perhaps. But I couldn't deny the response you created inside me.

Next to you, I notice our differences. Your body is long and marked with ink that tells a story. Standing naked, side by side, we are roughly the same height. Though in the heels I enjoy seeing you wear, you are often taller.

I'm thinner now, more fit than when we first met. And of course, always 15 years more experienced than you. My daily routine means a suit, a crisp shirt, cuff links.

Your work is hands-on, dirty, necessary. You love what you do and you've built a business doing it.

When I come back to our home from my days in meetings, or writing, or traveling - you greet me. Always in the way I desire. No matter what has gone on or what's happening that day, we make time for this.

You wear high black heels and thigh-high stockings with a garter belt, black lace panties, and a matching bra. The black leather collar complements your olive skin.

Your hand on my neck, we kiss. Then, you kneel and unzip my suit pants. I'm always aroused in your presence, and you reach in and pull my hard cock out of those pants. Your eyes look into mine as you stroke me, then tease me with your tongue. Almost instantly, we are both lost, both giving in to our desire.

Standing over you, my cock in your mouth, I cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, zip me up, and smile. As you stand, we kiss again. And then I'm off to shower. This one thing -- this routine -- is but one piece in the puzzle of our bliss.

Over dinner, we share our stories of the day. Go over what's happening the rest of the week. We laugh and smile and celebrate each other. I wear only a robe and you remain in your lingerie.

Sometimes, we can't wait until we are in our bedroom, and we make love in the kitchen, even right at the table. Often, after we've eaten and before the dishes have been cleaned, you're in my lap and our bodies are seemingly inseparable. There have been days I've pushed you against the refrigerator and placed my mouth on your aching pussy, licking, sucking, devouring you as if the meal had not been enough, as if your essence is all I need to survive. Even on those nights, we meet again in bed, completely naked, and make love. Quiet, calm, simply together.

This morning, as I'm next to you, I think of those things. Of the path we've been on together. Of our bodies together mere hours before.

I know I must go.

But I know I must have you, too. Seeing that black collar on your neck only serves to heighten my arousal. My hand grabs your exposed ass and you move a bit in response, but remain in foggy sleep.

I'm behind you now, my lips on your ass, my hand pulling the covers down, and you are waking. As my tongue dances on your ass, teases and flicks and pushes against your anus, you squirm in response.

I reach up with my hand and grab your ample breast, hold it. Your body has always amazed me and I'm still in awe that you are mine. You move up onto all fours and I taste the sweetness of your pussy, the mixture of your cum and mine from last night. I can't stop, I must have you. In your sleepy, relaxed state, you cum rather quickly. And now, now I'm inside you. Pumping hard and fast and thinking only of you. I bend over you, cock buried deep, and bite your neck, kiss your ear. I can't get close enough to you and I can't stop. Our lips meet and now my hand is around your neck.

You feel my cock pulsing, bursting, exploding inside you. My breath on your neck, your ear. And I say to you: "I'm glad you're mine."

Showered, shaved, dressed and at the door. You stand there, naked. Kiss me on the cheek. As you wave bye, I see the trickle of my semen on your leg, see the evidence that just moments ago, our bodies were intertwined.

I smile -- a smile happier and brighter than ever.

This is our life. This me. Next to you.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Take the Stairs

There was a time when life was sometimes smooth, gliding forward. Then, the escalator was down for repair. And up again. And back down.

He wondered if he'd be permanently down. Wondered if once the escalator went down, it ever worked again.

Now, he had an answer.

The escalator that sometimes worked, but most often did not, was gone. For about six months, there was nothing. A big, empty hole. A void where his dreams and hopes and future had once been. With each day the escalator had been down, he moved further and further from a bright future.

He settled in. The hole became the norm. The black spot in his heart meant he rarely cried and rarely smiled. True happiness was not the same. Not as it had been at 17 or 23. Or even for a moment at 37, just before the first crash of the escalator.

The thing is, after six months of a hole in your heart, your life is never the same. The hole never gets completely refilled. Or, maybe at some point, at 75 or 90, you reach a stage of contentment. But the possibilities that once were, that had been so clear and so possible, drifted away.

After six months, he walked into the library on his way to where he'd once had an office.

The escalator was completely gone. So was the hole. The blackness lifted.

He had settled in to a new pattern. He'd assembled two part-time jobs that gave him a full-time salary. He worked side projects. He was making more money than he ever had. Sure, some of that money was paying off the debt he'd incurred during the darkest time, but he had cash now. He could buy a coffee once a week at Starbucks. He could go on trips and order a nice shirt from his favorite store.

The thing is, he was never done. On a vacation, he worked three to five hours a day. On the weekends, he tended to the quiet, lonely work that ensured the money kept coming in. And he worried. A lot. So much that he lost five pounds, then five more.

He looked much better in the slim fit shirts he preferred. He had his suits taken in and people told him he looked strong, fierce.

Mainly he was just hungry and tired.

At night, his last thoughts before bed were about how he would make money the next day. In the morning, as the hot steam of a shower poured over his head, he thought of what that day would bring. What can he do to make five more dollars today? Could he get $100? If he got the extra money, which debt should get priority?

He'd leave from the steamy escape and go to his phone. Then his computer. News and projects and a plan.

He'd take a call. Send some emails. A long, slow slog.

Because of the nature of his work, some type of money came in at least once a week. On those days, he'd be calm. Maybe eat lunch at a restaurant, even order a cocktail. He kept bourbon at home so he could have a glass before bed. Just one drink coaxed him to sleep, kept the thoughts of the next days trials away.

Each day was like the one before. He longed for the security of one job, of one employer. Of going home at 5:30 or 6 and having time on the weekends to tend to a garden or just watch a ballgame.

Instead, the days ran into each other. Nevertheless, he kept moving forward. Coffee. Shirts. Bourbon. The tiny bright spots in what once had seemed an endlessly glittering future. And he saw that in 10 years, 20 -- it would be the same.

In place of the escalator, in place of the hopeless hole, stairs had been installed. Steady, sure, safe. Much more difficult when you started from the bottom. But taking the stairs meant moving forward, even if more effort had to be applied. There was now no illusion of a potential smooth escalator ride. No hope of a few days of relaxation. But there was the security of the stairs. Of the promise that with effort, you will move forward, upward, one day...one day, you'll move out.

Take the stairs.

Always take the stairs.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Go-To Bourbon

Here's a great article on what bartenders like to drink -- you know, the people who are professionals at crafting drinks for your pleasure. What do they like in a bourbon? Because, they know what they're talking about -- so, it's worth a try.

Of the seven mentioned, here's my favorite:

Gene Samuel, bartender at Gordon Ramsay Pub & Grill
“I truly enjoy Old Forester Birthday Bourbon. It has the viscosity I look for in a combo pot-stilled whiskey balanced with the crisp finish you tend to get from a column still. The price point (about $80) is phenomenal—depending on vintage. And with it being 100 proof, you just can’t go wrong: traditional vanilla-cream notes, warming sugar aromatics, orange blossom on the finish.”

I have to say I'm a fan of Old Forester. It's a good staple bourbon, and the Birthday expression is ... well, fabulous.

READ MORE about the bourbons bartenders drink.
What do you like?


Tuesday, August 8, 2017

My Bourbon Cabinet

I'm a fan of a good bourbon. I know, I know. It's "trending" now. But, I've always enjoyed a bourbon.

I was probably first exposed to bourbon as a cough remedy as a kid. YUCK! But, as I got older, I enjoyed it as a beverage. I first had a proper bourbon drink in a cocktail -- an Old Fashioned. YUM!

Now, I keep my cabinet stocked with several bourbon choices I enjoy or enjoy sharing with friends.

Here's what's in my cabinet now and a little more about each from some reviewers I trust:

The Special

There are a few bourbons which run into the "special" category. These are typically on the higher end of the price range and for good reason. To me, these are the bourbons I like best, but wouldn't necessarily drink every day. Cost being one reason and another being I like to have that something special to enjoy - maybe on a very special occasion or when a good friend I haven't seen in a while drops by.

My current "special" is Woodford Reserve Double Oaked.

Almost anyone who has had more than a couple bourbon drinks has had Woodford Reserve. It's fairly ubiquitous and a good entry bourbon. I like it straight and it is great for mixing in a cocktail.

The Double Oaked expression is on a whole different (higher) level.

The pour is dark, the nose is rich vanilla and caramel, and the taste is both smooth and memorable.

Here's more from Breaking Bourbon:

Woodford Reserve Double Oaked ends up delivering the flavor profile that is missing from their standard expression. While it’s not breaking any new boundaries in the bourbon world, it also doesn’t deliver a drastically different flavor profile like so many other barrel finished whiskeys tend to do. However unlike Distillers Select, it is quite enjoyable and complex enough for me to actively reach for a glass to appreciate the flavors it contains. If Distiller’s Select is what you grab to make a cocktail, there is no doubt this is what you’ll want to grab to enjoy a glass of bourbon neat. For everyone else who may ignore this line from Brown-Forman, Woodford Reserve Double Oaked is worth a try for its surprisingly easy-to-enjoy flavor profile.

Everyday

While traditional Woodford Reserve is a normal everyday bourbon for me, the last time I was at my favorite liquor store, I saw a rather large bottle of Larceny and quickly searched for a few reviews. Basically, they told this story: A solid bourbon at a great price.

That's what I found. I have a nice size bottle of Larceny -- it's a decent pour, I've enjoyed it neat and over ice, and find it to be pleasant, relatively smooth, and good for cocktails.

Here's more from The Whiskey Jug:

Larceny Bourbon is a decent sipping bourbon. It’s full of flavor and has a bit of an oaky kick to it that pairs well with the sweetness. It’s a robust whiskey that pulls off the wheated softness without becoming weak and spineless. It’s a whisky I could drink any time and not get bored with and the 92 proof makes it a prime candidate for cocktails. If you’re looking for a good bourbon at a decent price then you should definitely give Larceny Bourbon a try.

Surprise

I enjoy trying new bourbons and whiskeys and discovering what I like -- even some surprises. So, I always have a bottle of something "surprising" around.

This time, it's Slow and Low Rock and Rye.

It's styled as America's first cocktail in a bottle. And it is delicious.

Basically, it's Rye whiskey, oranges, and sugar. An old fashioned, kind of.

Poured neat, it's sweet, orange-forward, and delicious. Over ice, it's easy to drink, but not quite as tasty/sweet.

Warning: This is 84 proof, so not a light whiskey -- but, because of the orange and honey flavors, it's super smooth and easy to drink -- so, be careful. This is great for a Friday night on the porch when you aren't going anywhere.

Here's more from Serious Eats:

Served neat, the sweet scent of honey mingles well with the bitter citrus and rye spices, and the horehound gives it a touch of earthiness. The sugar and honey dominate the citrus and rye spices a bit, but the heat of the whiskey helps it to finish clean and dry.

So, there you have it. My bourbon cabinet. These are all worth a try. I've seen the price of Double Oaked creep up a bit lately, but it's certainly worth it as a special bourbon. The other two are both very reasonably priced and can be tried out without putting forth too much cash. I predict you'll want them in your rotation.