Wednesday, October 25, 2006


Stereotypical surfer boy, Sean was bleached-blond, freckled, and tasted of salt. He had beautiful blue eyes with an ever-present mischievous twinkle. Our families had been friends for years, and as I got older, he came around more often. A blossoming master in the art of engagement, I’d flirt with him shamelessly: shy coquette one visit, oblivious exhibitionist the next.

He’d pick me up on his motorcycle, and adrenaline would course through my veins as we’d thread and weave our way through traffic on PCH. We’d camp on windswept bluffs, picnicking on bagged chips and champagne, shyly and hesitatingly brushing each other’s hands, legs, faces with our own.

A gentleman to the last, Sean let me pick my pace, and I chose to move excruciatingly slowly, like Pele’s flow. The great goddess is on one hand benevolent, the other, diabolical. Although there is plenty of warning, and the direction of the flow is clear, the wait is an exquisite torture. I can almost hear the frantic begging for release, and I revel in it. This young, I know where my power is. And I recognize the shrewdness in working to develop it as quickly as possible.

After several months, I’m surprised to find that Sean hasn’t given up. Although I’m sure he’s fucked other girls since we began our dance, he keeps coming back. I don’t mind the others; I’m not a hypocrite. Finally, I decide to let him take me. I’m drunk on the salt water of ocean spray and Mexican beer. He invites me to stay with him. He knows it’s time too.

We lay down together on his living room floor, a ghostly view of the Pacific Ocean visible from the floor-length windows lit by a fat Harvest Moon. We kiss deeply. He touches me gently, carefully, as if I may break. I am impressed with his reserve, as I can sense his urgency playing out beneath his smooth exterior appearance. The usual twinkle in his eyes has been replaced by a hint of unedited lust, the pain of pent-up desire.

He slides me out of my clothes and lays me out before him. My nipples stiffen as I look at him staring thoughtfully at my moonlit nakedness. He runs his fingers from my throat to my belly. I feel exposed. He rolls me over onto my stomach and asks after my comfort. He takes off his shirt and slides it under my cheek. It smells of his strong masculinity and the ocean. I feel my pussy fast becoming slick and starting to twitch. I feel his hot breath on my neck and in my ear.

For the next half hour, he torments me with his tongue. It is everywhere, flicking, tasting, probing, testing. When I try to move, he holds my arms down, still gently, to keep me where he wants me. This is payback for the months I have made him wait. Any sense I had of being in control is now long gone. I realize this, and I smile. I smile, and I moan, shudder, arch, gnash my teeth, and squirm. He has licked and sucked at every part of my neck, shoulders, back, ass cheeks, and legs. The room is growing thick with the scent of my flowing juices, and he hasn’t even gotten to that part yet.

Coming up for air, he asks if I have had enough. “Please…” I gasp, my heart is in my throat. He smiles, and rolls me back onto my back, and my legs, as if on automatic pilot, spread for him, as wide as I can possibly manage. He smiles again, this time at my submission, shakes his head. “No.”

He pushes my legs closed, and then has to hold them there, because like the top end of a clothespin, they attempt to spring back open again. I moan in frustration, form impassioned pleas, find myself speechless. He removes the rest of his clothes, and lies on top of me, kissing me deeply, more urgently, enjoys torturing me.

He props up on one elbow and makes light strokes down my body, causing all of my hair to stand on end, and my nipples further harden under his gaze. I let out a loud sigh of relief when his hand finally moves to gently push open my legs exposing my pussy, and moan appreciatively when his fingers slide over my swollen clit and across my opening.

He dips into me and covers his fingers in my scented juices and breathes them in, tastes them. He offers his fingers to me, and I have to catch my breath before I can greedily lap my own offering off of his hand. He smiles approvingly, then moves down to place himself between my legs. He pops up for a split second to make sure I am watching before he disappears again, and all I can see is blond mophair and the tip of his nose as he expertly slides his thumbs up each side of my slit, spreading it wide, and begins darting his tongue in and out of my streaming cunt and over my engorged and pulsing clit. I grind into his face, thrashing, moaning, begging him to take me, pleading with him to fuck me so we can cum together.

I express undying gratitude when he gets up onto his knees and grabs me by my hips to position his thick hard cock at the opening of my steaming hole. His hands slide down to the tops of my inner thighs, push them down toward the floor so he can see every fold and crevice of my spasming cunt splayed out and stretched as he slowly pushes himself into me. I gasp as I take him in and my back involuntarily arches up off of the floor.

He takes that opportunity to reach around and grab me by the nape of my neck, supporting my weight with that hand while pushing my thigh open and rubbing my clit with the other. My head buzzes with impending climax and I feel every nerve ending activated as I strain to fuck him faster, harder.

He maintains his maddeningly slow and steady rhythm no matter what I try. I beg him to fuck me harder, don’t you want to fuck me harder? Don’t you want me to scream for you? “You already are.” And he’s right, I shudder through orgasm after orgasm, I scream, sob, beg, and moan until I am hoarse. All the while, he maintains his steady slow rhythm while I feel as if I am wobbling around the brink of insanity.

Finally, when the room is spinning, and I feel faint, I feel a change. He knows I am done; in the game of patience, I may have won the long game, but he is certainly savoring his victory in the short battle. He pulls from me and lets go of my hair so I fall back to the floor.

He presents me with his cock, hard and covered in me, with a ring of aerated frothy cunt juice around the base. I bring my eyes to his and take him into my mouth. I hold his gaze as I lick him completely clean. I gently lick and suck each of his balls into my mouth and graze them with my fingernails as I make long wet laps round his thick shaft and then swallow him completely, gagging as he taps the back of my throat.

I feel his orgasm building deep within him, and when he is ready, he pulls his pulsating cock from my mouth and holding me by the nape again, shoots his hot creamy load across my face and over my tits. He lets out a long sigh and shudders briefly as I flick my tongue across the tip and into the opening of his gorgeous prick, coaxing out just a little more cum, and then let it move across my lips and over my face, through the deposit he has already given me.

At that, we decide that there is a time and a place for patience, and that this is not it. It is the beginning of a long weekend designed to make up for lost time, with an eternally memorable kickoff. In the end, I learned that I prefer the fiery and eruptive aspect of Pele over the peaceful and orderly one, and it was the former I have endeavored to cultivate, especially in matters of sex.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Party Girl

It was strange to drift through the party, from room to room, pretending.

I haven’t been to a black tie affair in quite some time, so I decided to go all out. I knew that this was going to be the biggest party of the year, so I took extra time and care with my dress and appearance. By the time I was done, I looked much like a Tango dancer: slender, black, red, haughty, yet all barely-contained sex.

It was one of those parties where everyone who is anyone shows, and an opportunity for the social jostling and posturing that inevitably occurs at these events. I have my own place in this hierarchy, stable grounding thanks to family, and additional prestige, albeit shaky, because of how I’ve built upon my tower. As I wander the rooms with my mother and friend, we three make the requisite air kisses with various presidents of things, politicians, and CEOs that we encounter. It is a mass gathering of the power elite, and I find it intoxicatingly hot.

Over the course of the evening, I see men with whom I am intimately familiar. It is interesting to observe the different ways they respond to my presence at this venue. I see sidelong glances, appraising me on the sly. There are those who steer themselves and their wives out of my course, only to be caught later staring at me from what they think is an unobtrusive vantage point. There are those who feign a cheerful unfamiliarity with me, smiling at me and giving me a fatherly hug as if it had been years since we last met and I was only thistall. I love the ones who while greeting me, thinking no one is looking, take that opportunity to subversively pinch my ass, brush my tit, graze my cunt.

However they choose to play our meeting, I’m game, and bear them no grudges. I’m as invested in the pretense as they. I feign demureness, shyness, meekness. The brief up-look from beneath long lashes. It would not do for your wife to be aware that while she was spending long hours planning this bash or attending those functions, I was in hard labor myself, sweating underneath you or bucking like an unbroken mustang on top of you. Coaxing musk and steely masculinity out from under years of dusty disuse.

I am supposed to be doing other things. Working (but not this kind of working). It would be a horrendous scandal if anyone knew that I was making this frequently decades-younger body available to these men who are hoping that somewhere within the Fountain of Youth springs eternal. Or to feel desirable again. Or to scratch that itch that they find the wife is no longer willing to scratch. That thing that no matter how much money you spend cannot, at the end of the day, be bought.

Here, I am the best kind of fuck. Discretion is virtually guaranteed by both parties. We see each other socially; you are long-time friends of my parents. At the same time, we have struck an arrangement in which I have been made available to be at your beck and call, ready to strip down and get on my back, spread my legs and labia wide, and beg for you to please fuck my hungry pussy, or to grasp you by the nape of your neck and pull your head roughly between my knees and order you to service me well – whichever you like. I am just as willing to let you bind my wrists to my ankles and force-feed me your swollen member as I am to put on my platform slutboots and leathers and flog your naked fleshy ass while you whine about being worthy. Neither of us will say a word, and I will always be safe, because any talk or damage would put into jeopardy our respective places on the social totem.

It is the best kind of deal. We all get what we want – you get the agility, freshness, and eagerness of a young, ready, and willing fucktoy when you want it, and I get my cunt filled as much as I like with a bit of extra reward for the risk. And the security of knowing that due to artifice and arbitrary social rules that govern the more outward parts of our lives, no one but us will ever be any the wiser.

And if my husband’s reaction to my dress at the party was any indication, my dance card will be quite full for quite awhile. I can’t wait to hear from you.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006


I work. A lot.

I would work more if my office wasn't in a recessed corner of a building where there is no one really to know that I'm okay in there. There is the Italian chef at the restaurant a few doors down that is frequently at the window of his restaurant, watching my comings and goings.

When I leave, he comes out and asks me, "Are you going home?"
"Are you done working today?"
"See you tomorrow?"

I don't know whether to feel happy that there is one person who probably knows exactly when I'm in the building, especially since I come and go a lot, seemingly randomly, or just a bit creeped out.

I know I am jaded, and tend to think the worst about people's motivations. This is an occupational hazard in my career, although I was well-suited toward it before the work. That is one of the hazards of doing a lot of drugs:

Trust No Man. (or Woman.)

Hey, if nothing else, I am equal opportunity.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

The Descent - Part II

Even though Kane hates me, he loves me more. I try to use this to my advantage. I try to hurt him with this knowledge and with John. John is fresh from 12 years in the joint and is enjoying cruising around with his shiny new freedom.

John is fucking hot, and on the make. He hasn’t had any sex (with women) in 12 years, and is looking to make up for lost time. I am more than happy to help with this. I fall ridiculously hard, ridiculously fast for this outlaw because unlike Kane, who is also an outlaw, and Drew, and Rico, John is still in his prime, and is gorgeous, and has an incredibly sexy ass. Kane does not really have any ass at all. He does not have back.

I let John pick me up at the bar. I let him take me out to drunken breakfast. I let him fuck me on the floor of his empty house. He is so good, I let him fly me to another state so we can fuck there, loudly, at his friend’s house. All of this against my better judgment because John is a dangerous person. And when I am with him, I am in danger too. More than usual. In my intoxicating desire to burrow underneath the soft smooth unwrinkled skin of this bad man, I throw some of my common sense out of the window. I let it fly forth from me as I work a permanently molten pussy with wild abandon up and down John’s thick shaft under a full moon.

When Kane finds out, he hates me a little more, and loves me a little more. My plan does not work. We are both damaged and more wary of one another. After awhile, Kane becomes less a part of my life, his grip on me has dissipated as I have gotten older and more jaded and more hateful of his abuse.

There is another man who becomes dangerous. Seth stalks and tries to hurt me. I have been stupid and moved in with him thinking that we would be like the younger and hipper Waltons. I did not know at the time that he is crazy. When I kick him out, he appears sometimes at my bed in the middle of the night. I am sleeping with a knife and a mallet. I am not sleeping. I do not want Kane’s help; I can’t afford the price. Instead, I go to Domenico.

Domenico is dark, scattered, a sociopath. I am able to make him my sociopath, though, so I can sleep with only one eye open when I call him to sleep with me, to protect me from the stalker.

The dark man is a passionate man. His kisses make me weak. I feel like a well-fucked languid sleek cat whenever he looks at me. And my pussy automatically begins an impromptu Kegel session. Although I own him, he owns me too. The clothes have not even come off. I continue to hemorrhage common sense.

Now, finally, I have hit bottom for me. At the bottom of the descent, I look back up at these seven through whom I have passed, each of whom has taken a bit from me. (I have given it up myself.) There are no words, they are silent. They even refuse to look at me down here. I am left to look at my own dark self and wonder. I see Ereshkigal in the mirror and she is me and I say, “You had everything you wanted within your reach and yet you still coveted this. Well, now it is yours. Have it.”

I did not know until I arrived there that I did not want it.

I foundered in the hole I made for myself for months, dying a little bit faster than the average Jane. I allowed myself for dead, so inanely cliche. Just one more junkie biker whore bites the dust. No one gets out of Ereshkigal's Underworld. That is the Law.

Then, years after we first met, I ran into Evan. He could just as easily have been any one of the seven. He was a bit of each of them. Something had happened in the intervening years, though. He had gotten out. In an Underworld ridden with outlaws, it is only a matter of time before someone breaks the rule that no one can get out. Evan broke the law, and he got out, I wanted out too, and could see now that there may be a chance.

I begged, pleaded, and fluttered around him until he finally agreed to help me. I promised the world, the world where there is no pain if I could just get out, just give me your hand. He slowly and carefully brought me back through each of the seven gates through which I had passed on my way down.

Now, the gates were unmanned. They had been abandoned, there were only ghosts. As I passed back through, I recovered that which was useful that I had given up, recovered with interest. Evan took care of me, and we nursed each other, damaged goods.

A hopeless cause given up for dead, now I am back. I am alive and stronger than I ever was before. I am a stronger wiser woman, and I hope that the next time that door cracks open, beckoning tantalizingly with its wicked glow, I hope that I remember that I know better. I've been down there and I do not want it.

Monday, October 09, 2006

The Descent – Part I

I have everything I need and most everything I want. I have a respectable man with a respectable job. I have a nice place to live and a decent car. I have a benign degree on deck and respectable job prospects.

Yet I feel sure there is something that I am missing. I am missing out on something better, I think. I decide that I need to look into what that may be. It is not up here, where I am. I will need to travel to find it; I will have to go down. So I leave everything I have to search out what I do not have. I do not worry or mourn as I go. I assume I will be able to go back to what I have when I am ready. I don't know enough to know better that day.

First I find Christopher. I enjoy his good looks and youthful arrogance. I love his big hands, crooked grin, and battery-bunny accessibility. I smoke a little weed, but that has never really been my bag. The goal here is to have fun and to not think too hard about tomorrow. It is a very temporary and in-the-moment existence. I lose some inhibitions and I have a good time. But I am not through looking. I feel that there is more.

Somehow I find Rico. I am appalled at myself when I wake up next to him. I am even more appalled by the fact that he is not properly proportioned in terms of anatomy. I lose some face and quickly continue on my way.

I move on to Drew. I enjoy his velvety-smooth cock and am taught to worship it properly. I love the way he presses me into his service: pushing my limits but never breaking through them completely. I lose more of my inhibitions and learn to enjoy anal sex. I try some coke, but am left rather flat. I learn about trying to hide fear and how that never really works, so I become turned-off by the fear that I smell on him when we are around men who are stronger and he knows it. I am not interested in a fear-based existence – I can get that anywhere with anyone. So I move on.

Then comes Kane. He is one of the men who causes a fear smell in Drew. He enjoys using me as a cum receptacle whenever he wants. He even enjoys calling me that: his cum receptacle. He loves knowing that I feel degraded when he slaps me across the face with his cock and then grabs me by the nape of my neck to force his way into my mouth for a few strokes before he tit-fucks me. And then when he moves down and starts making half-thrusts at my pussy, which is red-poker-hot and dripping for him despite my humiliation, I can't keep from begging him to please, please, fuck me! please... He basks in my inability to exercise self-control because it means that I have given it to him.

He likes it when I'm moaning and writhing beneath him as he fucks me relentlessly, working orgasm after orgasm out of me. I pant and gasp for air. I scream and shudder, bucking and arching as I come again, and yet he does not stop until we are both exhausted. Then he likes to pull out and while kneeling on my arms so I can't move, he smirks as he releases his hot stream of cum all over my face, into my hair, onto my tits. He uses his still semi-hard cock to rub his seed into my skin, under my skin, where it will grow into me. I feel dirty. He knows that. He also knows that I like it.

He knows that every time I beg for his cock, plead to be fucked, desire to be used, get down on my knees, it is easier for him to bend me to his will. I know that the more I come to enjoy being his personal fuck-toy the more unsure I beome about Who Am I? And it becomes easier to let him figure that out for me than to take the time and effort to work it out for myself.

I learn how to manipulate as I am manipulated, and how easy it is to submit without conscious awareness. I am easy to keep in line because not only am I happy to service him whenever he wants me, he is also supplying me with a new love, a new need. I begin to confuse my love for the sex and dope with love for Kane. He knows this and unsurprisingly takes full advantage of it in working to keep me.

He tells me that there are safehouses all over town with women in them who have to fuck whoever shows up at the door or they will be severely beaten. There is a not-so-veiled threat in this, and I am lucky. He beats me in an alley and leaves me there. I lose more self-respect, most of it. Despite my attempts to move on and away, he is in and out of my journey for a long time, like a dark and dangerous spectre, just waiting for my soul.

Thursday, October 05, 2006


After having visited several times as a guest of D., Jesse became a friend to me. A friend in the sense that he always asked me how I was and then actually listened to the answer, responding appropriately. There are no friends in this world, only so-called friends.

More and more he was looking me in the eye, I have a face. He began a playful flirtation, like an old man playing with a young girl. It was just that, actually. Often I am the young lady surrounded by older men. My function is to amuse them. I am good at what I do. I can be quite charming. I insinuated myself more and more into Jesse's life and home - this is my way out of D. I would show up and cook for everyone. I would bring beer.

I am the only girl and soon I am there every day. I greet visitors, I play the hostess. I never asked for anything; I took everything that was offered. I became part of the inner sanctum. I provided and took sanctuary. There is Jesse, his son Jay, an older cousin, and another hangabout Brett.

Jesse makes me laugh. He threatens to do bad things to people who have hurt me, waving his cane and jabbing it into the air to punctuate his points. He never lets me go without. He threatens me with marriage, to "save" me from the others or more likely, from myself. He is serious about this but says it with forced humor and a sidelong glance to hide the truth and protect himself from "no". No one likes pain; that is why we are all here.

Jay hits on me constantly, writing me cute notes. I wake up more than once to find Brett touching me. Often I would pretend to be asleep while he caressed me, sometimes with his hands, other times with his lips and tongue. I let him (I let them all) smooth my hair away from my face and make big lazy strokes down my back and over my ass. I feel the gentleness of his touch on my throat and breasts. I moan and sigh to encourage him. Everyone needs someone to hold on to, even if it is a big lie.

Months pass. I am trusted. I give of myself to everyone and to no one because it is not me; it is the mirage of me. I give myself to none, just within reach, yet untouchable. It is a delicate balancing act. It is hard work. I have intoxicated the four, and Jesse has become especially inebriated on this facet of me.

Now, I know where the stash is, where it comes from, and where the money is. I know who to let in and who to blow off. I know what I can get away with and with whom. I've asked for nothing and been given the power. Because, as any junkie knows:

Who Controls the Dope has the Power.