Archive for June, 2009


[Meg, guest writer of "Meg and TD" is back with another juicy story and hot photos that can only be seen here.  Enjoy.  --SSF]

I ran across some pictures and was reminded I never told you the story that put my nipple clamp love into overdrive.  It just might change your mind about them.  I know I’ve told you about the boss. There are many stories of us fucking in the rolling bookshelves that would be great scripts for any boss/employee-type porn, but this isn’t a story about that.

However, this was more momentous than getting fucked back in the bookshelves where we could’ve been caught so very easily, with the noise I make I’m surprised we never were.  This happened after his wife found a string of texts that were very explicit and after she had decided she wanted to fuck me too. I can’t remember if we’d all fucked together yet or not at the point of this event.

Regardless, I was in the habit of carrying around my clamps in my purse at the time … and wearing short skirts to work. As a matter of fact, that particular day I had on the same skirt I’ve seen your face under. The boss knew I had the clamps with me. (I’m sure I told him, knowing the horny little slut I was being.) Both of our desks could be viewed by any passersby who cared to look in so he took me back to the bookshelves and he put the clamps on me. He told me I couldn’t take them off until he said so. Him telling me what to do turned me on even more.

They don’t really hurt so much when you first put them on so I bounced back to my desk pain free. Our desks were about 3 feet from each other. I’m sure he was asking me about them, if they hurt, etc., when a co-worker who was always especially fond of my outfits and antics came back to chit chat. (It was a Friday and we were all killing time till time to go.) He mentioned how he liked my get-up and I murmured a thank you of some sort because by this time those little fuckers on my nipples were all I could think of. Mostly because they were starting to hurt, but having someone else in there made them all the naughtier, I felt like he could see right through me. And the boss had this grin on his face that only I knew what from. He could see me squirming and knew I was going to explode. So, of course, he kept the co-worker back there longer than I would’ve liked. Watching me squirm was half the fun.

I’ve never had a hard time with pain and have found that I actually enjoy it. That’s been the source of my fascination with bdsm. I haven’t dipped too much into it besides in my head, with this couple, and with the porn I favor. It excites me and I think I’d love to have someone abuse me in all those ways but really only in my imagination is where all of that is usually played out. There was some point, in night two, you had my legs spread more than they should have been able to be spread and it was making my hamstrings burn and hurt and you were fucking me hard. That moment reminded me of the nipple clamps and that mix of pain and pleasure is something I keep chasing. I wanted you to spread them more, make it hurt more and fuck me harder. I felt like a ragdoll then. I loved it.

DSC07195So the boss was watching me squirm. I tried to hang out in the conversation, but I couldn’t. I turned back around to my machine and pretended to be working. I was trying to apply pressure to my throbbing nipples to relieve them some; I desperately wanted to wait and let the boss take the clamps off. I’d think there was no way I could wait longer, then I’d wait longer. All the while, they were sitting about about 5 feet behind me. My squirms had to be apparent. And I was horny which makes me not sit like a lady and not care. So I waited longer. I don’t even remember what they were yakking about–I’m sure some tv show or football or other boy shit.

My entire body was on fire at that point. I couldn’t stand it any longer. So I went back and took them off. Holy shit, the feelings that rushed through my body at that moment were amazing. And all of it was pulsating from my nipples through the rest of me. Needless to say, my tiny panties were soaked through. So I trotted back out with a look on my face that said to the boss, “Get him the fuck out of here and get back here.”

The co-worker was gone in minutes. The boss took me back to the bookshelves. I had my tits out before I could think and told him to suck them. If you can somehow come from your nipples with nothing touching your pussy then I did then. My entire body went limp. And he sucked and sucked then went to the other one and did the same. He had to hold me up. My nipples had not brought me that much pleasure in years. It was fantastic. My body was on fire and tingly from head to toe. All over. I wanted my tits sucked forever right then.

After he did that, I dropped to my knees and sucked him off–I wanted a dick in my mouth and I didn’t really care if that’s what he wanted or not. He, of course, didn’t mind. I sucked him until he shot his load in my mouth and then I sucked him dry, licking it all up. My body was still humming, my eyes half rolled in the back of my head but I was coherent enough by this point and it was close enough to quitting time that we just bolted.

(That night we were to all three go out. I was very naughty that night; I’m pretty sure strangers may have inadvertently seen my slutty little vagina that night. I had on a short skirt, platform wedges and had taken my panties off and put them in my purse early on in the night. Squatting down to look at something with my knees spread wide gave many quite the view. We were at some hipster art gallery with naked girls on suspended rings, so I fit the scene nicely I’m sure.)

But I’m not done with our Friday afternoon antics. So we walked out to our cars, which were in full view of our office on the 12th floor, if anyone was looking down our way. Once we were there we realized he never spanked me during all of this. He liked to spank me and I’m very fond of that, so it was surprising that it never happened.

However, we couldn’t much do it there, we were too much on display. We found an open stairwell. It was dirty and stinky and didn’t have doors or anything, just open. We went down a flight until we were in the middle of the floors and I put my hands against the cold dirty concrete, sightly bent over. He flipped my skirt up and spanked my ass hard. It echoed in the stairwell, my screams did too. We would’ve been heard easily if anyone was in earshot.

He continued to spank me. He slapped my ass harder than he ever had before and probably harder than I’d ever received. It fucking hurt and I loved it. I knew my skin had to be red as hell; it was on fire. It was wearing me out, all of the endorphins that were being released, mixed with pleasure and combined with the dirty sluttiness of being spanked in a dirty stairwell. And my nipples were still throbbing. I was loud as I wanted to be because I didn’t give a shit, so he hit me harder because he was getting off on the echo and my noises.

We finally calmed down and I took my hot, red, bare ass and rubbed it up against his hard dick through his jeans; they were scratching my worn-out ass and that felt fucking awesome too. We regained some composure and walked back to our cars and went our separate ways to get ready for the evening. I never came (vaginally) during the whole afternoon. But that night, in my living room, with my ass high in the air I was fucked in the ass by a rather large dildo being administered by his wife while he watched, and I came and came.

And now I’m horny as fuck and I want you to ream my ass.

When I was nineteen I took my first–and so far only–trip to New York City.

Through school I had a romantic idea of New York.  When my fifth grade class did reports on cities throughout the world, I chose New York.  When I was in junior high I had a poster of the Manhattan skyline on my bedroom wall.  When I was in high school and thought going to college immediately was an option I sent away for brochures from colleges in New York City.  I must have watched too many movies that made New York look like the greatest city on earth.

Now I know the truth, San Francisco is the best city, ever.

When I was nineteen I lived in South Pasadena and worked in Arcadia, at the Santa Anita Fashion Park, a suburban mall that, at the time, had JC Penny’s and Robinson’s as the anchor stores.  I worked in a B. Dalton Books (the precursor to Barnes & Noble).  It was my first “real” job, meaning I got paid more than minimum wage and I had benefits.  The benefits came in handy when I got my wisdom teeth out.

As a mall B. Dalton we catered to a pretty straight-laced crowd.  We sold a lot of romance novels.  It was during this time that John Grisham burst on the scene.  I read an advance copy of The Firm and wasn’t all that impressed, so later when we received the hardcovers, I was surprised when we repeatedly sold out.

We did have some “edgy” books as well.  It was working there that I read about S&M for the first time.  (Looking at the pictures in my mother’s S&M books didn’t count.)  We got the Madonna Sex book, two copies of which I still own.  We carried The Satanic Verses and American Psycho, but kept them behind the counter so as to avoid “controversy.”

The customers were primarily suburban family folk.  Every once in a while someone interesting would come in.  My friend and coworker, Beth, was lucky enough to find her first boyfriend amongst the customers.  He was a married heroin addict, so he didn’t fit the usual boring mold of the Arcadia shopper.  I don’t think it was possible for Beth to have found someone worse for her, but she found him at B. Dalton Books, not wherever the hell married heroin addicts usually troll for virginal girlfriends.

I’m still in contact with two of my B. Dalton coworkers.  Laura still lives in Southern California and works as a kindergarten teacher.  We’ve been good friends for years, and worked at a total of three different jobs together.  LeUyen lives in the Castro and works as a children’s book illustrator.  She recently found me through Facebook.  It is a complete coincidence that we both now live in San Francisco.

It was during this time I was got the bulk of my tattoos, and because of B. Dalton’s permissive dress code for women (but not men–they had to wear shirts and ties) I got away with wearing clothes that showed my tattoos.  Back in the early 1990s in suburban malls seeing young ladies with tattoos was a novelty (NOT that I was cutting-edge in any way, only that I placed my non-conservative self in conservative situations).  I also had my nose pierced and a bash haircut (head shaved with clippers, leaving only bangs and “sideburns”) [I don't know if "bash" is the proper term for this 'do, but my research into "skinhead" hairstyles turned up some bigoted shit I'd rather not read; my high-school girlfriend, Erica, about whom I've written in my 1989 diary entries, and who originally cut my hair in the style, called it a "bash" so I do, too.], so I did not look like the typical mall employee of the day.

My appearance invited inquiry, mostly of the stupid variety.  “Did getting that tattoo hurt?” or, “What do your parents think about your nose being pierced?” or, “What are you going to do later when you want to get a real job?”

Being in the customer service game I tried to be polite, but sometimes I gave them the whole truth, which they usually did not appreciate: “Yes, tattoos hurt, a lot” or, “My parents have nothing to do with my life so I don’t really care what they think of my pierced nose, or anything else” or, “I’ll probably figure out how to wear shirts with sleeves if I think my tattoos will affect my employment detrimentally.”

Sometimes I met people who were fascinated by me.  Not because I was all that fascinating, but because I wasn’t ashamed of how I looked, I guess.  One such gentleman gave me his business card.  He told me he was a lawyer, which is why he had “Esq.” following his name on the card.

We talked and it came out that he wanted me to play a dominatrix in a movie he was producing.  I had NO acting aspirations, but I was intensely interested in exploring my desire for power play.  He told me he lived in Manhattan and I would need to go there to audition for him.

He said he’d fly me to him for the audition, but in the mean time I needed to lose weight.  He offered to pay me $10 per pound I lost.  I began jogging nightly.  Being nineteen and living in South Pasadena meant being able to jog late at night, because I was dumb, and because the city was very safe (luckily).

South Pasadena is quite pretty with a lot of jacaranda trees, the fallen lavender blooms of which look amazing in contrast to green grass.  I lived in a studio apartment ($395 per month) across the street from a middle school.  It was quite idyllic.  Jogging at night had a certain scent that I loved.

The guy, let’s call him Mr. Schwartz, sent me a plane ticket.  This was back in the day when an actual plane ticket was required in order to board a plane.  And when people used this thing called the US Postal Service.  It was also back in the day when one could board a plane without fear of being strip-searched by a team of morons.  But I digress ….

At the time I didn’t realize how cheap Mr. Schwartz was by flying me to New York:  coach via an indirect flight through the Dallas Ft. Worth airport.  I know now that he was a cheap ass.  At the time I was just excited to fly so far.  Up to that point it was the farthest I’d gone from my lifetime home, California.  And of course going to New York had been a fantasy for years, so I looked past (or was too inexperienced to notice) a lot.

I flew into LaGuardia.  Mr. Schwartz had given me explicit instructions on what to say to a cab driver to get me to his apartment.  I think he was on either the Upper East Side or Upper West Side–he was on 60-something Street, I think; he was definitely close to Central Park.  He lived in a high-rise building with a door man, which I thought was so New York.

I arrived at his apartment and he gave me a tour.  It was a two-bedroom apartment with great views.  Even at my tender age and ignorance of real estate I realized that the view of the Empire State Building was fucking amazing.

He showed me to my room, which he told me was his daughters’ room when they stayed with him.  That’s when I learned that both of his daughters were older than I, though by a very few number of years.  At the time I thought nothing of it; now I know it’s fucking horrifying.

Even creepier:  I was a full thirty years younger than Mr. Schwartz; he was 49 years old.

Mr. Schwartz also showed me his insulin supply:  he was diabetic and wanted me to know what I needed to do should he need some medical aid.  I remember pretty much ignoring what he told me and thinking that I had no interest in giving this old guy any sort of medicinal attention.

After I put my stuff away Mr. Schwartz and I went out to a Chinese restaurant to eat.  During the meal I told him that I had given it some thought but that I wasn’t so interested in playing the dominatrix role.  I told him I was more comfortable playing the submissive role in a movie.

Mr. Schwartz was very amenable to my seemingly-sudden switch (pun intended, though not completely understood at the time).  After dinner we went back to his place.

I next recall (this was fifteen years ago) that we were on the bed of “my” bedroom.  He lay on the bed.  I remember him asking me to pay with his “friends.”  I was confused.  What friends?  Was someone else showing up?

The friends?  His balls!  Yes, he called his balls his friends.  To this day I have not encountered a man who calls his balls his friends, with or without irony.

As part of the “audition” process he had to see if I could take pain.  He spanked me.  I don’t recall if he used anything other than his hand, but I think he may have.  Following the spanking he soothed my burning bum with witch hazel-soaked cotton.  I think that was a nice touch.

We then slept in our respective bedrooms.  I didn’t close the blinds so I could see the view of Manhattan as I drifted off to sleep.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.


9:09 pm

9:20 pm

I want to call Amy but Mom’s already told me not to make any long-distance calls.  Shit, I just want to be reassured that no one’s forgotten me.  And that they still care.  Maybe if I beg, she’ll let me.  I just remembered the young girl in “Dangerous Liasons.”  She had the prettiest breasts I have ever seen in my life.  If I ever get a chance to see those kind of breats in person I will probably go crazy and stare for a while then touch gently and slowly watching the nipples become erect.  Anyway–back to life, back to reality.  What is there to eat?  I’m watching new music awards on MTV.  It’s mostly alternative music.  Jane’s Addiction got an award for album cover.  The Red Hot Chili Peppers sang–the lead singer has a great body and really long, pretty hair.  Oh, and Mike B., the Flea is not dead because I saw him on stage.  So Chriz in my econ class can go to hell for telling me he had died and getting me depressed.  I’m jealous of Amy and Erica because they get to sleep with each other.  They can wake up any time and do whatever (as Erica says Amy does) and then wake up next to each other.  They don’t have to worry about someone coming home because they are home and Amy’s parents don’t even suspect.  Whenever I think back to stuff it seems just as unreal as one of my little day dreams.  But then I realize that it was real, I think.  It seems so long ago that I talked to anyone I know (Erica, Amy, Juree) but it was actually only two days ago.  I think back and get so afraid that I’ll never see them again or that they won’t like me.  Why the hell am I so paranoid?  I just need someone to be close to.  I want to be able to tell someone (Amy) that I feel greatly for her.  The trouble is I don’t know in what way that I feel.  Maybe it’s just sexual.  She asked me if I was alright.  Why do people always ask that?  Robbie, Mike, Amy.  But Amy sounded genuine and not scared.  She also said that I was shaking and then said, “Oh, I’m shaking too.”  I was sitting on the stool with my legs open when she came and stood between them and said something like, “Oh, you’re ready, aren’t ya?”  Anyway, my legs wrapped around her and that’s when her concern started.  I like just hugging and we did that for a little bit while breathing heavy.  Then some time after that Erica came a-knocking.  Oh, and Amy was biting my neck so I thought I’d have marks and I was totally paranoid that someone’d see.  And then they’d just deduce that I didn’t have any hickeys before lunch and they’d ask who the guy was and I wouldn’t be able to think of a name on such short notice and then they’d know I was with a girl and they’d spread the ol’ rumor as fast as the speed of gossip (juicy, at that) and then I wouldn’t have any friends, not even Amy and Erica because they’d be so pissed at me because I let it out, then I’d be all alone and depressed and then die and never be anything and never know what I could’ve done ’cause I’d be dead as a doornail.  Well, anyway, I looked in a mirror after 5th period to find not the slightest mark on my neck.  Boy, was I happy.  After school I missed my bus so I had to take another one that went all over El Dorado Hills.  So I didn’t get home until after 4:30 and then I had to pack for L.A.  (I’m here now.)  Mom called and we talked about DJ picking me up.  And I tried calling Amy twice–both times the answering machine came on, which of course I refused to talk to.  She must have been at work.  Life is so depressing.  DJ said it’d get better in four to five years.  Oh yea.  I’m so organized now that I’m sure I can still handle four to five years of worsened hell.  Gosh, I’m so excited.  She seems and talks so self-confidently but she’s scared just like the rest of the world and society–screwed just like the others of us.  And she said so herself that all her psychologists thought she was tweaked because she always lied and I was the first person she told the truth to.  So I’m going to try to get Erica for my subject in Lifeskills.  She would be perfect but I don’t know if we’re allowed to be previously emotionally involved.  So I’ll have to ask Mr. H.  I am quite emotionally involved not only because I’m her friend because I’m choosing an alternative lifestyle also.  I don’t have the heart to–no, not nerve–more like nerve to say I’m gay.  Because I don’t want to be.  I’m doing fine experimenting and I probably will all my life but I know I still like guys.  Maybe it’s like DJ says–so you always have a date.  But she’s not bisexual so maybe she just doesn’t understand.  I don’t myself.  Someone bisexual sounds like someone who’ll pick up anyone who’ll pick them up–male or female.  Well, for me that’s just about true.  Amy was saying that if we were all honest with each other we’d end up in the same room doing it together and she couldn’t handle it.  I don’t think I’d want other people to see me get out of control–I don’t think I would if there were other people because I’d be too self-conscious.  But I like to watch other people–not participate, just watch.  It would be neat to see them get out of control.  But how do I expect that someone else wouldn’t be a little worried if I would be?  Ok, so I’m being illogical but at least honest.  It would be fun to watch Juree and Erica because they’re quite used to each other and Juree I think gets off easily.  I’m not sure yet why I wouldn’t want to watch Amy and Erica.  Maybe because I’d be jealous or because I’ve never seen how they act together intimately.  Am I going to have to burn more incense?  I still haven’t gone Christmas shopping, but oh well.  I want to hear “Janie’s Got a Gun” but they’re just playing dumb shit like Paul McCartney.  So tired, 2:39 am.

10:59 am

Had a dream about Amy.  [Step-Sister] and I were shopping and I saw Amy.  We ran up to each other and hugged like we do when we see each other in econ.  But then we ran quick as possible to try to find some place private to get intimate.  It was quite interesting because I don’t usually have dreams about people until long after I’ve stopped thinking about them.  I just remembered the dream I had about SB when I kissed her.  Maybe I have had a crush on S.  But considering I dislike her so much, I don’t think so.  But then again, maybe.

2:20 pm

If I told Dad and [Step-Mother] that I was interested in both guys and girls, they wouldn’t let me have anyone over, just in case.  I would like just to be honest with them and tell them what I’m doing and how I am without being stopped or judged.  [Step-Sister] already knows about Juree and perhaps

3:50 pm

if I remember right, Erica, and I hope not, but I think so, Amy.  I can remember [Step-Sister] saying, “So you’re the only straight one,” or something of that nature.  If she knew, she’d start asking me rude, embarrassing questions about why or how.  But I don’t know why if not because it’s love right now.  I wonder if Amy just started because I’m around, available, and accepting, or if she liked me before.  Probably the former.  I want to be special to someone but when I realize I’m not, I can accept being just one of the many.  This two weeks is going to last an awful long time.  I keep having little sexual day dreams.  They’re nice and all but I have to do other things.

6:15 pm

Bored, no energy, in a slump.  Why?  Thinking about what’s going on at home.  Want to spend New Year’s Eve or Day with just the four of us.  Just the four of us have never spent time alone together.  Maybe I’m just being sentimental but these three people are going to be sharing my life with me for a while.  I don’t like being alone–being alone down here not knowing anyone with nothing to do is not fun.  I like just being about to walk over someplace and simply hang out together talking or relaxing discussing philosophy, etc.  Of course I’m being slightly sarcastic about the philosophy but I love just sitting there and saying stuff like, “Why the hell do people put trees in their houses at Christmas time?”  I want to get a close open relationship amongst us all that we can use in the future.  Once again I’m being selfish because I’m only thinking how it will help me be a better person.  But maybe it will benefit them also.  I’m stilll at Ruth’s house watching them put crap on the Christmas three.  Janie’s got a gun.  Maybe it seems as if I’m on a bummer.  Wait, I’m beginning to sound like [Step-Mother].  Fuck her, I’m doing just fine.  When Amy and I were done, after Erica had come and left, I asked Amy if she was thinking about Juree.  She said not, that she was thinking about me.  “But why?” asked I.  She didn’t answer to I don’t know why.  I didn’t really get to say good-bye properly to any of them but not a word except at the end of lunch to Amy.  I don’t think I really think of them as individual people, more as a untit–the three of them, the four of us.  But how long will it last?  Oh gee, I hope Amy can’t stop thinking about me because I was so good.  Not good really, that makes it sound cheap, more like me–thinking of me.  Whenever I kiss let myself be pushed back because I’m so comme çi, comme ça just relaxed–complete subservience that’s me.  For some reason I’m thinking of this trip as some sort of turning point.  Everything will be different in some way when I return.  Perhaps the newness will have worn off.  Will they still want me?  Not sexually, but as a friend.  Anyway, I hope Amy is talking about how good I am.  Which I hope I am because that’s a good attribute.  But anyone who gets excited as easily as I do must excite the other person.  Erica told me I was a great kisser even after I told her she wasn’t anything to shout about.  And I’ve been told before that I’m a passionate kisser (thank you, Mike) so heck, I must be pretty good.  But I don’t want to get an ego about it and go around telling people about it ’cause then if they ever kiss me they might be disappointed.  Erica told me she was good, but I doubted at the time she thought she would ever kiss me.  She said that Juree was a good kisser.  I’d like to find out but Juree is a commendable person and doesn’t want to cheat.  So I’d like not to be forgotten by anyone.  When I go back I want to be celebrated.  I think my hormones are working overtime because I keep thinking about going back and getting sex.  Amy has the most adorable nose and that little swirl on the back of her neck.  And her body’s got a good shame–little, tight, but not tiny.  Litle like tallness.  Big, large, round, full, voluptuous breasts and the rest of her body is proportioned well.  Erica has a really nice stomach.  Flat, smooth, white, hairless, slightly rounded.  Anyway, I guess I’ve always known but not quite admitted it.  Mary has a cute little  butt and nice legs but she’s just a wee-bit too hairy.  Lisa has big boobs but you’d be afraid of smothering.  Without a bra she must sag something fierce.  But guys’ bodies are great too.  I still have yet to see Rick without a shirt but I know it would be nice.

Before we met I asked if English wasn’t his first language.  There were idioms he just wasn’t getting, so I thought maybe he hadn’t been speaking English his whole life.  But English was his first and only language.  Yet he seemed to have trouble communicating, in English.

We had been exchanging emails for a while and he had wanted to meet me almost from the very beginning.  I was loathe to meet, but not for any particular reason, just a feeling I had.  Once again, it’s been confirmed that I have excellent instincts.

I finally agreed to meet him because it was pouring rain and I had to go to the post office.  The news was that the storm was going to last through the weekend, but I really needed to get my post office business done. (I was sending a package to Army Guy in Iraq.)

So I was a whore for a ride to the post office.  The guy came to my place, picked me up outside, gave me a ride to the post office, and waited outside while I filled out the customs forms and waited in line.  Then we drove back to my place where he parked in my parking space and came inside.

He was empty-handed when he got out of his car.  We had had a whole chat exchange about him having a bunch of alcohol left over from a party at his house and about me being very interested in drinking, yet he showed up at my house with nothing.

We had a frank discussion about sex.  He complained that the last two women he dated hadn’t given him head.  I told him he shouldn’t have dated them.

The night before I’d had a date (with J. Lee, I believe).  We had had a quickie before dinner because I could tell he wasn’t going to make through the meal otherwise.  Then after dinner we went to my bedroom for some leisurely sex.  However, intercourse never occurred because a cock-sucking mood struck me hard.  When I’m in that mood both the suckee and sucker both have a very good time.  I thanked him for coming in my mouth.

After my glorious cock-sucking of the previous night I was actually in the mood to do it some more, or, at the very least give advice on how to “get” a woman to be just as generous with her time and mouth; I wanted to spread the blow job love.

I asked him how he broached the subject of blow jobs.  He said during sexual relations he said something along the lines of, “How about sucking my dick?”  So suave.  Why weren’t the women lining up for that?

I felt it necessary to try to give practical advice to the clueless 27-year-old(!).  Really, how does someone make it almost to 30 without figuring out how to get his dick sucked?  He had told me previously that he didn’t like going down on women unless they were completely bare and he was in the right mood.  I actually didn’t tie the general lack of oral sex in this guy’s life together at the time, but I certainly should have.  If he told the women he was with he thought female genitalia was gross in general it’s understandable that they did not feel like worshiping (which a good blow job absolutely does) what he had to offer.

This guy told me women “his age” don’t give head.  What the fuck?!  Women in their 20s stopped sucking cock?!  Why isn’t this information in the fucking news?  This is a goddamn crisis!  He thought I’d feel sorry for him, get on my knees, and show him how well a woman in her 30s can suck cock.  Uh, no.

Ends up women “his age” are not his age, but in their early 20s with little to no oral sex experience.  I was convinced that these girls were pretty and dumb and had been treated as if they were special their whole lives because of it.  Those of us for whom getting our first boyfriend (and girlfriend, but they don’t have cocks) was a bit of a struggle know how to suck cock.  In my early 20s I was trying so hard to please guys that I was sucking them dry.  (Now I do it not because I have low self-esteem, but because I want to suck cock.)  I guessed the girls he was dating never felt like that.  And he wasn’t all that good looking so the girls probably didn’t feel like they “had to” give him head in order to keep him interested.

I didn’t even bother trying to explain that to him.  I just tried to make him realize that those blanket statements about women “his age” weren’t doing him or his dick any good because he had a defeatist attitude.  I suggested he bring up the blow job subject when he was not fooling around so as to not put pressure on the ladies right then.

In the mean time he kept hinting in a really annoying and crass way that he wanted his dick sucked.

The guy was one of the stupidest people I’ve ever encountered.

I swear.  True story.

My face smelled like balls.

The other night Pedro, one of the guys from “International Day, and Night,” called to invite me to a party.  He kept saying that it was a private party.  I assumed he meant I wasn’t to bring a bunch of my rowdy friends since the party was taking place at a friend’s apartment, but I asked to make sure.

He told me there would only be six to eight people at the “party” but that he really wanted me to be there.  I’m no dummy so I told him that if his idea of a party was to have me fuck everyone there that I wasn’t going to go unless he was willing to name a price.  That was a joke?

OF COURSE he assured me that that was not the case.  It was just that the neighbors were very sensitive to noise so they didn’t want anything too loud or too late.  Pedro told me that we’d more likely than not start out there with a few drinks and then go out dancing.

It was a Friday night, I had nothing else to do, and I figured it was good for me to get out of my Mission comfort zone every once in a while, so I showered and got dolled up a bit.

I took a cab to the designated party pad.  The “party” consisted of Pedro, me, and one other guy, our host.  A much less cool chick would have been at least a tad perturbed.  As I’m extra cool, I was not.

The three of us sat in the living room, where there was a bottle of Jose Cuervo, a salt shaker, and a small platter of lime wedges.  We each had a shot.  I pointed out to our host that the limes should have been cut much thinner for our purposes of taking shots of cheap tequila.

Our host, Alberto, pointed out that he didn’t know to what size he was supposed to cut the limes since he wasn’t Mexican – tequila being a Mexican beverage.  Alberto told me he was from Lima.  That’s in Peru, folks.

We each had another tequila shot, and then I got a phone call from a friend with whom I had to talk.  I walked down the hall of the Edwardian [After doing some research I may or may not be naming this style of architecture correctly.] apartment, past at least one bedroom and to the kitchen.  It was a nice apartment that was clean and didn’t look like a stereotypical bachelor pad at all.  After ending my phone call I rejoined Pedro and Alberto in the living room.

The tequila, another shot of which I probably had, was definitely doing it’s job, because I really don’t know how the three of us ended up in the bedroom which was adjacent to the living room.  The bedroom was large–there was a queen bed, a love seat, at least a couple of pieces of dresser-like furniture, and plenty of room to walk around.

Only I didn’t notice such things at the time because the the three of us were quite busy.  Of course I had fucked Pedro before (on two separate occasions), so I knew I liked him.  And Alberto had soft, hairless skin, a tight body, and a hard cock – yum!  We were having a whole lot of fun.

It seemed as though the next time I looked up there was a third guy there.  Huh?  I was having so much fun that I was happy there was someone else to join us.  I don’t recall ever seeing this third guy, Esteban (whose name I didn’t learn until much later, of course), with his clothes on – I swear the first time I actually noticed him he was already naked with a hard cock (this is NOT a complaint).

We happily welcomed Esteban, who was Alberto’s roommate.  At the time I remember thinking, and possibly saying, that it was only fair that he join us considering it was his place in which we were having our “party.”

There was a lot of cock sucking.  Per usual, I wanted ALL  of them in my mouth.  We didn’t try putting more than one at a time in my mouth, I think only because none of us thought of it.

A cock went in my ass.  It felt really good, only I hadn’t properly prepared for such an eventuality and I had to use the facilities soon thereafter.  As this was an Edwardian (I think) abode, finding the bathroom wasn’t the easiest of activities for me in my intoxicated state.

This type of place is long and skinny.  All of the major rooms, including the living room, any bedrooms, and the kitchen, were to the right of the hallway that ran the length of the place.  The bathroom was to the left.

Only bathroom, singular, isn’t quite correct.  This kind of place, which is very common in San Francisco, had split bathrooms.  Well, a split bathroom.  The bathtub and sink were in one room off the hall, and the toilet was in another room off the hall.  At the time I was drunk and had just been pounded in my ass and my mouth (at least) so my sense of direction wasn’t at its optimum.

I recall looking in the bath/sink room at least a couple of times because I was sure I just hadn’t looked hard enough for the toilet.  And it seemed as though the other doors off the left side of the hall were so far away from that room as to not be plumbingly associated.  Finally, I found the toilet and took care of business.

Afterward, I went back to the bedroom where the four of us continued our various permutations of fun.  I recall being on my back on the bed with one cock in my pussy and one in my mouth when I requested that all of them come on me at once.  I made it clear that I wanted to lie there whilst they all shot their wads on my face and tits.

But that wasn’t to be.  Eventually Pedro left.  At the time, though, I didn’t notice until he’d been absent for some time.

Alberto and I really seemed to like fucking each other.  Whenever we were alone on the bed we once again launched into making out, and his cock going into my mouth, which eventually lead to him fucking my pussy, again.  While we fucked I gazed upon his pretty, sweet face.

Alberto was on his back while I mounted him.  I slid my pussy over his cock.  Without preamble I felt Esteban’s cock pushing into my ass.  I remember holding still so Esteban’s cock could work its way into my ass.  And then I had a cock in my pussy and another cock in my ass at the same time and it was fucking glorious.  It felt so good.

I’m not sure how long the three of us were able to keep it up, but I do know it felt FANTASTIC and I will do it again, hopefully soon.

The three of us fucked some more, in various ways, and eventually one of us came. It was Esteban–he came all over my face after I insisted I wanted it.  Alberto and I really seemed to not want to stop fucking, or I was just drunkenly and hornily assumptive.  He and I fucked some more.  That sweet face; that smooth skin.

Then I realized I needed to get back home to my animals.  While I dressed we chatted.  I learned that Esteban was 25, Alberto was 23, and that though they were both from Lima they had met in San Francisco at a private English-language school.  I got Esteban’s phone number and then they called a cab for me.

Esteban has since made it clear he wants to fuck me again.  I want to fuck him too, but also Alberto.

I swear.  True story.