Supply of Fresh Young Males

Lying asleep on a sofa, a skinny student, short curly dark hair, a small beard. The camera panning down his body. Leather thong around his neck, loose teeshirt, open book fallen from his hand, jeans. Barefoot, one of his feet sleepily twitching. The low sound of deep breathing and a slight snore.

The camera turning to the lounge door. Watching the man through her spectacles, a woman in a business suit. The woman sighing, making up her mind, walking across to the sofa, sitting on it. The man stirring but not waking. The woman’s hand stroking his chest, moving down, gently massaging his crotch.

The man blinking awake, his eyes finding focus, looking at the woman, No smile from either, but a feeling of familiarity, as if this is not the first time it’s happened. The sense somehow surfacing that he’s renting space in her house, her husband long departed, she quite likes this new arrangement, a regular supply of fresh young males every year.

Her hands unbuttoning his jeans, pulling down the zip, untangling his underpants. His cock appearing, enlarged but not hard. The woman stroking it, kneeling down, taking it in her mouth. The man closing his eyes. A sense somehow of a past without many blowjobs, now he’s relishing their ready availability.

The woman looking up, surveying the man, a look almost of pride, satisfaction at her own sexual expertise, knowledge that when he moves away he won’t easily find so good again. Pleasure in having an eager student in place of a grumpy husband. Lowering her face, sucking him again.

The man’s hands reaching for her, fumbling inexpertly, pawing at her clothes, gesturing for some desired position. The woman taking control, standing, stripping, pulling his body into the right position, mounting his face, leaning forward, taking his cock back in her mouth.

Large on my screen, her mouth surrounding his cock, fingers stroking it, challenging it to explode. The camera panning round. Portrait of a couple in sixty-nine, his elbows hooked under her kneeling thighs, hands on her buttocks. Then panning round further. His hands stretching her holes wide, the camera zooming into their fleshy hues.

The man pulling his face back to look, inexperienced eyes feasting. Her clitoris and urethra and vagina shining with juices and saliva. His tongue reaching forward, licking, moving upwards, penetrating her sphincter.

A sudden stiffening, the man groaning. The camera quickly moving round to the woman’s face. Her eyes open and slightly fixed, the cock deep in her throat, unmoving. Then withdrawing. His white juices dribbling. The woman sitting up, wiping her mouth, gulping, smiling.

Prim or Wanton

An email from Jane, hi R, thanks for your kind words, you always did make me feel like i’m the most wonderful lover, even from student days words have always been the way to this lady’s heart.

Even better, the words you use make me feel sane. sometimes i take a step back from what i’m doing and think, well, it seems natural, but i know that many people’s faces would screw up in disgust. i don’t think it’s the sex that’s disgusting, the screwed up faces are more a sign of their owners’ rancid brains. but sometimes i start to doubt, it’s good to have someone on my side, R, your words give me peace.

As you say, it’s the schizoid nature of society, express disgust but secretly salivate. and yet i think that the society whereof we speak is nothing but a projection of how we imagine everybody else to be. forget about society, R, even at the personal level, it’s schizoid.

I was in a shop the other day, some man made a lewd comment and i was surprised to discover how affronted i was. so there’s me the unshockable sex-party escort, and it’s the same me who usually chooses clothes that deter, who mostly keeps men at bay, and who finds lewd comments objectionable.

Same with you R, i bet all your clients and colleagues look at you and think, here’s a respectable well-behaved individual we can trust. if they knew what you did with your little escort sweetheart, they’d be dumbstruck. even though they’re probably doing similar.

So here’s my advice to the world, forget about fighting it or moaning about it, you and i and everyone else are sexually schizoid. the schism being between your prim self and your wanton self. they both exist, they’re different sides of the same coin, it’s all fine, it only goes wrong if you fixate on just one, normally the prim.

Okay R, hope you don’t mind the musings, it’s just that like you used to say, you can’t do things without thinking about them, not if you want a full life, and you’re the only one i know that i can share these thoughts with.

I was planning to tell you about the specially naughty thing i did just for you, like you asked, but I must rush, it’ll have to wait until next time. but let me say that it was very naughty and it reminded me of you. Jxxx.

Strange Warm Vibrancy

Walking around the supermarket, wondering what happened to the pretty student on the checkout tills, haven’t seen her in ages, oh, well, that’s the way it goes, especially with students. Turning a corner, seeing her at the bakery section.

My heart lurching. The little things that make her so attractive snapping into focus, her earnest concentration, her vitality, the curve of her neck, her small flat ears and their slightly backward slope, her hair casually held in place with a band. Casting a spell on my whole body, pulse heavy, breathing shallow.

Standing at a discreet distance, positioned so as to be able to see her on looking up. Inspecting stuff on the shelves, not sure what. Taking a quick glance. Extending the moment, memorizing her features. By chance, her own head lifting, looking my way, seeing me, my eyes still fixed on her.

Caught. How do I get out of this? Trying to look abstracted, as if weighing up the stuff on the shelves. But feeling as if having been found out. Before, maybe a slight vibrancy between us. Now, all changed. Weird older man ogling, cringeworthy at best, maybe worse, a stalking risk perhaps.

The next time at the supermarket, seeing her. Wrenching my eyes away, terrified of being caught again. Our paths crossing. My eyes firmly askance, concentrating on the shelves. My heart feeling raw. A vestigial sense however of something passing fleetingly between us, as if she was expecting pleasantries. Or maybe that’s just in my mind.

Same thing next time. Hard work, ignoring that beautiful feminine presence. But doing so. That’s twice now I’ve avoided her. Penance served. If I see her again, I can be normal.

Midweek, needing some missing groceries, nipping into the supermarket. Not expecting to see her, she usually works weekends. Walking fast to the dairy section. My eyes scanning the shelves, suddenly crossing with hers mid-scan, only afterwards registering the scantest flash of something in her expression, what, greeting?, something, don't really know.

Too heavy-handed to do anything about it, just keep shopping. Yet her face during that moment burned into my consciousness, it seemed to be friendly, a smile seemed to be starting, it seemed as if she was about to wave, as to a friend unexpectedly encountered.

Last night, lying in bed, warmed by the thought. How wonderful. No longer the ogler, no longer the dirty old man, no longer the potential stalker, just a man. A man with whom maybe there’s this strange warm vibrancy.

Window Into Secret World

In the corner, a brunette standing naked, hands stretched upwards, legs apart, wrists and ankles knotted in place with silk scarves. A blonde walking up to her, kissing her mouth, fondling her nipples, kneeling, probing her clitoris with her tongue, standing, kissing her mouth again.

A man’s voice barking instructions. The women complying. The blonde undoing the silk knots, leading the brunette to a padded bench. A scaffold frame and studded leather belts standing ready.

The blonde strapping the brunette into place. Adjustments made, positions altered, silk knotted. The brunette on her back, body bent double, knees near her ears, feet pointing upward, straps and silks preventing any movement. Protruding inches over the bench, the brunette’s bottom, the videocamera zooming in, her pussy and sphincter stretched wide, filling my screen.

The camera angle widening again. The blonde walking around, kissing the other’s mouth. Then suddenly, an unscripted moment, both women's faces widening into smiles, breaking the spell, incongruous with the bondage paraphernalia. The moment revealing all. The women merely adopting roles in temporary play, no serious sadomasochism in prospect.

Suddenly, visual clues in the room becoming significant, less a torture basement, more a suburban garage with gadgets unpacked from locked cupboards. The scene on my screen thereby acquiring greater erotic charge, the question arising, who would be lucky enough to persuade two such women to engage in such play?

The man’s voice barking instructions again. The smiles disappearing quickly. The blonde taking a long rubbery dildo, inserting it in the other, moving it around, getting it deeper, finally stepping back, turning round, waiting for orders. The dildo so long as to leave more than half its length protruding.

The man instructing. The blonde climbing astride the first, grasping the dildo’s protruding half, sinking down, guiding it into herself. The camera from behind zooming in again, my screen filling with the dildo curved into each of them, stretched crinkled sphincters close nearby.

The blonde instructed to make the dildo her penis, and pound the brunette. Doing so, using her body angle to lock the dildo in place, trusting it in and out of the other. The motion conveying high athleticism, also experience of having done this before.

More instructions. The dildo discarded. The blonde moving round to sit on the other’s face. The man appearing, erect, inserting himself into the brunette, thrusting hard, telling them, you see, this is how it’s done. The scene continuing to unroll, my computer screen a window into a secret world.

Sexual Schizoia

An email from Jane, hi R, still no response to my last email, hope all’s well and nothing wrong. Jxxx.

Unusual for her to chase, must mean she’s got something on her mind, but wants to keep things balanced, doesn’t want to email until I’ve responded to her last one. Fair enough, she chases so seldom, it doesn’t feel like prodding.

Thinking, also, maybe she needs reassurance, I must be one of the few people she’s told about her party escapades. I wonder if she worries that she’s somehow become cheap. Difficult decisions to make on your own, maybe she’s reaching out for validation.

Emailing, hi J, oops, I should have emailed earlier, blame the delay on my the daydream fantasies I’ve been having about you and your parties, also thinking it through, trying to put my finger on why it seems life-enhancing, rather than tawdry, which these things can sometimes be.

I wonder why that is, sweet Jane, I guess interaction between humans of any sort whatsoever contains the latency to be life-enhancing or tawdry, the mystery is why any particular situation becomes one or the other. I figure, it’s mostly a question of who’s doing it, and also the setting they do it in.

Even more so with sex, people find sex so threatening, in their minds they dress it in tawdry clothes, sweeping aside the its life-enhancement. Maybe it’s unavoidable, a collective schizoid mental state, social organization would unglue if it met with too much sexual solvent, so everyone stays buttoned up, meanwhile secretly pursuing their sexual agendas. Best to just live with it, and, definitely, don’t try to resolve the sexual schizoia.

Well, J, speaking from personal experience and precious memories of you and your naked body and the taste of your womanhood and your amazing blowjobs, I can attest that in matters sexual you are as life-enhancing as it is possible to be, and things you touch lose their tawdriness. An amazing gift. Those men at your parties are lucky to have you.

Actually, I’m sure that the men lie in bed dreaming of their time with you, and beg your friend C to make sure you’re at the next one. And that you and C will find that the parties are well-attended, it must be quite a nice little earner.

Anyway, sweet J, it’s all interesting, isn’t it? Let me know how it goes. Do something especially naughty and tell me about it, and I’ll have something on lonely nights to arouse myself with. Rxxx.

Urgent Business

The blue door swinging open, a woman’s face appearing, blonde curls, round features, pink lipstick. Hi. The woman leading me into a living room. Another woman sitting on a couch reading a magazine, ignoring us.

The apartment’s smells, probably no longer registered by them, noticeable to me. Laundry, hairspray, old flowers, dampness, old carpet. The general run-down feel of a place being let to people who aren’t interested in staying and are interested in not paying too much. Almost universal for escorts passing through London, earning some money, moving on.

The blonde leading me to a bedroom, curtains drawn, a double bed, mattress, thin cover, towel on top. Next to the bed, a table with a small stereo playing dance music from some girl band. Next to the stereo, paraphernalia of an escort’s trade, a bowl of condoms, wet-wipes, tissues, lubricants.

The woman turning to me, half-an-hour or an hour? No spark or smile or slightest twinge of excitement. The thing we’re about to do together, no more than a task.

Thinking quickly. I’ve got to get out of this. Not so much for the money, more because the possible pleasure is too precious to be lightly squandered. Sharing nakedness with this woman would be a permanent stain. A minor stain, sure, but still a stain.

Slipping into a prepared plan. Telling her, half-an-hour would be fine. Reaching in my pocket for the money, trying to seem slightly startled at finding none there, telling her, oh damn, I meant to stop at the cash machine, I forgot, must have been too excited, let me go and draw some money now.

The woman hardly responding at all, merely nodding. Our paths reversing through the living room, passing the other woman on the couch, still ignoring us, to the front door. Traversing the brick balcony, so full of promise on the way in, now containing a staleness. Walking away from the building, putting distance between myself and the whole episode.

Waiting for fifteen minutes, then texting her, sorry baby, while I was getting my cash I got a phonecall, I have to go back to the office, urgent business, see you some other time. Sending the text, betting myself she won’t respond. Checking after fifteen minutes, I was right, she didn’t.

Striding along the rainy pavements, feeling as if after narrow escape from a spiritual trap.

Such Delectable Options

Arriving at the appointed street, phoning for final directions, making my way as instructed. Climbing some communal stairs, walking along a brick balcony, checking the door numbers. Quickly finding the right one, old white numbers screwed to a blue wooden door, paint just starting to crack and peel.

Enjoying the moment. In a second or two I’ll knock, the door will open, a woman will be there, probably in underwear. The sense of being drawn into a vacuum, a new reality unencumbered by familiarity, the woman transforming from photos on an escort profile to physical dimension and motion and facial expression and surrounding milieu.

A moment made more exciting by the possibility of disappointment. Maybe she’s someone who I just don’t find attractive in the flesh, maybe she can’t communicate outside her native tongue, knowing no English. Maybe she just doesn’t find me attractive either, maybe she retreats behind her defenses, goes through the motions, compliant but only for the money. Maybe, maybe. That’s the thrill.

Maybe I should have played safe, gone to Jenny, removed the possibility of disappointment. For some reason, deciding earlier not to, succumbing to the delicious draw of new womanly flesh. Now, half regretting my earlier decision, feeling a twinge of longing, standing there outside another woman’s apartment, thinking about Jenny’s comfortable body, certain of her knowledge of mine.

Thinking, it’s not too late, I could walk away, ring the new woman, make excuses, ring Jenny, call on her. Staring at the blue door, splatters of rain hitting the balcony’s brick balustrade. Knowing well that I won’t walk away, but savoring the fact of having such delectable options. One door about to open, another door far away to stay closed.

Checking the time, I’m still a couple of minutes early. Leaning on the brick, checking out traffic on the street below, shoppers carrying bags, a bus stopping, people getting on, people getting off. The steady pulse of urban life. Of which I am part, as is the new woman I’ll be seeing. As is the transaction we’ll engage in, its absolute normality somehow soothing.

Okay, time, let’s go. Straightening my clothes, smoothing my hair, reaching out my hand, rapping on the blue door.

Sexual Annihilation

A family gathering with friends, altogether about a hundred people, an amateur band playing, people getting up to dance, my wife with her ancient uncle, me with my daughter, groups of women, men standing on the sidelines watching, some couples looking expert.

Looking around, seeing an unknown woman of stunning beauty dancing with a much older man, looks like her grandfather. Wrenching my eyes away, then keeping a lookout for her. Later, bumping into her, inviting her to dance, she agreeing, but strangely, neither reluctant or enthusiastic, as if complying mutely. The dance ending, both of us drifting off our separate ways.

Later, my wife telling me the tale. The unknown woman, daughter of a family friend, never previously been seen because of never being allowed out of a rehabilitation centre. Or hardly ever. At the end of each long rehabilitation, apparent recovery, release, but her old heroin dealers then finding her again, waiting their moment, plying her, ensnaring and enslaving her again.

Before all that, my wife telling me, she was a shining star, a gifted student, a blooming beauty, giving up all other interests to become a ballerina. Maybe some unknown thing went wrong, maybe she found the wrong friends, maybe she just wasn’t quite good enough as a dancer. Anyway, one day, a phonecall to the parents, you’d better come and be with your daughter. Arriving, finding her confined to bed, she’d disappeared for a week, eventually found in nearby woods, naked, confused, needle-punctured, bruises and welts over her whole body.

And apparently used for sex so often as to eradicate the whole idea of sex other than as a means of getting her next fix. The damage apparently permanent and irreversible. Once vibrant, now just a meek, compliant rag doll.

Each episode of rehabilitation, the daughter emerging with stunning looks and ballerina body restored. Soon to be the plaything of dealer gangs. My wife telling me, better enjoy seeing her now, you won’t see her again like this, she’ll either be spaced-out and broken-backed, or she’ll be in rehab again. The process incidentally bankrupting her parents.

Driving home, thinking, hurting. The terrible loss of such a lovely person. Somehow made worse by the sexual annihilation. That precious sexual germ, such a wonderful thing no matter how difficult, no matter how protean, how terrible to have it hollowed out entirely.

The Hardness And The Sperm

An email from Jane waiting in my inbox. Hi R, i finally decided to go ahead in my new life as a sex-party hostess, then had to miss the first one because my period happened, C says that some men actually get turned on by that, or she said i could go along and just do blowjobs, but i didn’t want my first foray to be all complicated so i gave it a miss.

No matter, the next one came quickly and i went, and you know what, R, the strange thing was that it didn’t feel strange at all. there was C and i, and one other woman, and about fifteen men, at first it just felt like a normal party, then we started playing some card game where the penalty was to take off clothes, basically strip poker, then when we were all down to our underwear or naked the game sort of got forgotten about and a whole lot of stroking and kissing and all the other things started.

So before that night my personal record for number of men i’ve been with in a night was a grand total of one, that was probably my record for a month as well. now it’s fifteen, i’m not totally sure that i was with every single man, it all got lost in the blur, but i could have been. C says that men generally like to make sure that they’re with each of the women before they leave, so i probably was.

I was surprised, i thought i’d be nervous, but actually once it got started it was fun, the women look after each other, and everyone’s careful about condoms. but actually, all the men seemed to gravitate to my mouth, perhaps they sensed that that’s the place where i respond most, and you know what R, i really got aroused from the fact that the men were aroused by me.

Thinking about it afterwards, as i have been, a lot, at first it seemed as if i had some deep need because of years of marital neglect, but R, it seems deeper than that, it’s more that it’s connected me to my womanhood, the sense of having the power to attract men, the pleasure in seeing the actual evidence, the hardness and the sperm, i feel rejuvenated.

Now, three days off, then another party, hee-hee, i feel wicked. but when i see you again, R, it’ll be special, and you can have me for free. love Jane xxx.

First Blowjob

Still waiting for the go-ahead on a big new project, feeling fidgety, finding things to do.

Flicking through the porn site and its millions of near-identical videos, searching for the unexpected. Turning to an old standby, the casting interview. A small room with a desk and a woman sitting on a black sofa, the interviewer explaining, do as I say, I’m the male model for the day, we’ll film it, I’ll send off the video, if the producers like it you’ll be paid between one and five thousand a day.

The woman, smartly dressed, brunette, blushing, agreeing. The interviewer asking, so, how old were you when you gave your first blowjob? The woman responding, actually I never have. The interviewer proceeding with the next question, stopping, pausing, hey, let’s rewind a bit here, did you say you’d never given a blowjob, I can’t believe it. The woman embarrassed, sorry, it’s true, it just never came up.

The interviewer rearranging things on his desk, gathering his thoughts. Well, listen, you’re going to have to get used to it, it’s part of the adult industry, it’s standard. You okay with that? The woman still blushing slightly, nodding. Okay, let’s get started.

The interviewer removing his clothes, pointing his cock at the woman, okay, I want you to lick the tip until I go hard and then put it in your mouth. The woman’s hand reaching out tentatively, taking the cock, hesitating, deciding, touching it with her lips, then with her tongue, then letting it into her mouth.

The interviewer handing her the camera, telling her, I want you to film yourself doing that, you can see what you’re videoing on the screen over there. The camera handed over, the picture moving haphazardly, then settling on her face, the woman looking at the screen to get the right angle. Taking the cock back in her mouth, studying herself on the screen, her eyes widening slightly as if surprised.

A slight smile appearing, self-conscious but interested. The interviewer saying, you’re turned on by doing it on camera, aren’t you? The woman nodding, smiling more, becoming less embarrassed. Her hand working the cock, occasionally taking it out of her mouth, licking it, taking it back in, all the while studying herself on the screen. On her face, a sense of growing acceptance, recognition of alluring she looks.

The man’s breathing becoming tighter in the background, oh yes baby, just like that. The woman continuing, mesmerized by the picture of herself. A sudden stillness, the woman’s eyes losing focus, her face stiffening, the man groaning, the camera shaking. Hold it still, baby, hold it still.

The picture steadying on the woman’s face. The cock withdrawing, white juices dribbling. The woman gulping. Looking upward at the man, smiling, ooh well, I guess I’ve just given my first blowjob.