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Brenda Bondage
by unkillbilly
By the time 1977 rolled around, I had pretty much fucked my life up. I was only 20 years old … but I was living with my mom, working as the night manager … at a sandwich shop. I was not pursuing an education, I’d given up on college after blowing not one but two scholarships. I don’t really recall what I was thinking, but I realized I had no ambition, I was just drifting, living with my mom, which pretty much prevented me from getting laid.
If I thought about anything, it was sex. Yeah, yeah, it was a problem. I would occasionally sneak off to one of the tiny little pornographic theaters that dotted the Phoenix landscape at the time. Wank off through my pants. Give myself an OTPHJ! But that just wasn’t the same.
I’d had a short span of sex with my last girlfriend, but it had been months, heck, years! Two since I had sex. My loins ached. So it was when I came home one night from my job as night manager at Funny Fellows Sandwich Shop, it was late, like twelve-thirty or something, and I’ve got a six pack of Heineken and a fat doobie I’m psyched up for.
Usually when I get off work, I’ll go home and go to the kitchen and sit at the kitchen table having a beer and half a joint, and nobody is the wiser.
Only on this particular night, I find my mom in the kitchen, leaning over the sink to look out the window.
I’m, like, “Mom what are you doing up?”She just turns to me and gives me the shushing sign. You know, put your index finger on your lip and blow out some air. Have I mentioned I hate the shushing sign? I mean, that is just rude. But that’s what she does, then goes back to staring out the window.
I walk over to my mom, and whisper, “Mom, what’s going on?”
She looks at me and then looks at the window.
“There’s something going on out there.”
Now, this window overlooks the parking for the apartment, and there have been occasions when thieves have methodically worked their way down the lineup of cars, stealing contents, ripping stereo equipment, causing damage to the vehicle. That’s my first thought. So I’m concerned when I take mom’s place at the window.I can see my mom’s car from the window. I look intently. There’re shadows … pools of darkness that fill the spaces between the cars. Plenty of space for someone to hide.
But.
As I look at and around the cars and the shadows, I don’t see anything. Then … I hear something. Mom is right. There are people out there in the shadows!
And I’m not even high yet!
What I hear is … laughter. Lilting, feminine laughter. And then … feminine voices. I lean into the window, looking for the source. To the left, I see nothing. A long line of cars. But to the right … I see a few cars but then the line of cars to the right is interrupted by the block wall that surrounds the dumpster. And there by the wall … is something.
At first, I can’t tell what it is. There is something … floating. In the shadows. It’s white and it’s smooth and the longer I look at it, I suddenly realize: it’s a human thigh. It is a bare human thigh, hanging in midair, wrapped in shadow.
At this point, I hear chatter, but I can’t quite catch the words, which are punctuated with laughter. And, and … a scraping noise. Some kind of tool … like a shovel. Scraping the ground behind the dumpster. My first thought is—they’re burying someone! Whoever the thigh belongs to is part of monstrous act, they’ve offed somebody and they’re burying the evidence.
I momentarily considered the idea I’d been watching too much Criminal Minds lately.
And just as I was questioning my perceptions ...out from behind the wall comes the thigh. And the thigh has a twin. And the twin thighs are attached to the body of a beautiful blonde woman.
Who I recognize immediately.It’s Brenda. Our neighbor.
I can’t help but notice what Benda is wearing. She has on a short, black, see-through cape, with a black fur fringe all the way around the bottom, which barely conceals her pubic hair and mostly reveals she is naked underneath the cape. Her body is shapely and seductive, and I immediately experience some significant wood.
I know Brenda because our mail gets mixed up and I have to take some mis-boxed mail to her. Our last name is Boyles, and Brenda’s last name is Broyles. You get the picture.
On this night, Brenda has company. With her are two other women, both Asian, both wearing embroidered body stockings, shear, black, tight body suits that reveal they are naked underneath. One of the women ls carrying a metal bucket and the other carries a shovel. They march the short distance across the parking lot, tittering and giggling and speaking in low voices so I still can’t catch any distinct words.
I know where they were heading. They are on their way back to Brenda’s apartment.
At this point, my brain becomes paralyzed, and my dick takes over my thinking. It’s one in the morning, and those women are up to something sexual. Hey, why else would they be dressed like they are if they aren’t going to have wild lesbian sex? And who cares what’s up with the bucket, we’ve got a six pack of Heinies, a big ol’ fat doobie with some premium Chronic, how can they resist me joining the party?
“Well, what is going on out there?”
“Uh, out there, well, I think someone’s cat died and they were out there burying it.”
“What? They can’t do that. We’ll have to tell the property manager.”
“Right, well, I’ll do that, you don’t have to worry about that, I’ll get it squared away tomorrow, mom.”
My mom is looking at me like I’m already high. She can always tell. I’m not high. Well, I’m high on hormones. And pheromones. And I’ve got to think of a reason to go back out.
“Hey, listen mom, I’m still fired up from work, I’m gonna go down to the clubhouse and drink a beer and shoot some pool, so don’t worry about me, I might be down there a couple of hours….”
My mom looks at me like she knows I’m lying. She can always tell!
But.
I don’t hang around to face more questioning. I grab the six pack, and I head back through the living room and out the front door.
Brenda lives on the first floor, so I take the stairs down and wind my way around the path that leads to Brenda’s front door. There’s a semi-shear curtain hanging over the window, and I can see light flickering through the curtain. Light like you might see if there was a fireplace.
But.
These apartments don’t have fireplaces!
So I stand there, at the front door, six pack in hand and a shit-eating grin on my face. Part of me wants to knock on the door and invite myself into their orgy. But another part of me is saying it’s one in the morning, billy, what are you doing knocking on a neighbor’s door at this hour? My rational mind says turn away, you weren’t invited to whatever wild sexual thing they are doing, you need to head for the clubhouse—and the next thing I know, my arm is moving, and my hand is forming a fist and I’m knocking on the door. I did not make a mental decision to knock, the command to knock came directly from my dick. And just as I’m about to turn and hurry away … Brenda opens the door.
And she doesn’t just open the door a little and hide behind it. She swings the door open wide so I can see everything in the living room. And I quickly spy that the two Asian girls are sitting at the coffee tables and there is some kind of fire shooting up off of the table! I mean, it’s more than a candle, not quite a firework, a solid flame, rising up….
“Hi, bill,” says Brenda, like I’m standing there with her mail or something.
So she spoke to you billy, respond, idiot!
“Uh, Brenda, hi, no, I uh, well I, uh, well I was upstairs, and I saw you guys in the parking lot and wondered if I could contribute this six pack to the party?”
Oh man. My poor brain. At least my cock has some sense left in it and managed to blurt out a response.
Brenda smiles, a million-dollar smile, a genuinely warm, friendly smile, and says, “well, tonight I already have plans—but come back tomorrow at this time and I’ll share that beer with you.”
She has other plans, but come back … oh yeah, I’ll come back!
“Uh, yeah, right, okay, well, you have fun tonight, I’ll see ya tomorrow….”
I take a last look into the living room. Brenda’s see through capelet looks even more inviting up close, and the two Asian women are doing something around the flame, and it suddenly occurs to me that what they probably are is witches! It’s a coven, and they’re casting spells! Oh my god, I just barely escaped, it could have been me they were burying behind the dumpster!
Again, I’m watching too much late-night television. And my rational brain is just having its blood supply return. I turn and I hear the door close behind me and I go to the sauna room and jack off before going to the clubhouse and the pool tables. I can’t take my mind off what I’ve just experienced. It happened here, at my mom’s apartment complex. If I’d had a place of my own, I would have missed this.
And who knows what’s in store tomorrow night. I drink one beer and take two puffs off the doobie, then I’m back home, to mom’s apartment, unable to sleep as the possibilities with Brenda swirl in my brain.
Work the next day is brutal. I’m tired from not sleeping and anxious about my late-night rendezvous. The minutes drag by and then I’m off and racing home. Mom’s asleep this time, and I make my way to the shower. I do my best to clean up. I have some clothes I wear when I’m ‘dating’. I put those on and then I sit at the kitchen table, drinking beer and smoking pot until it’s one.
This time I march boldly up to the front door and knock. Brenda swings open the door. Tonight she’s dressed in a yellow sun dress that fits her form perfectly.
“Come on in, bill.”
I enter her apartment and look for signs of witchery. Nothing is obvious, and Brenda’s smile is as radiant and beatific as always. If this is a witch, by golly she’s a good witch!
She leads me to the couch, and I sit on one side. She sits on the other side, so there is space between us. We make small talk.I don’t know what to talk about. I’m a twenty-year-old night manager of a sandwich shop. I have very little sexual experience. I don’t have any idea how to steer the conversation toward action.
And we’re sittin’ there on the couch, chit chatting, and Brenda says, “Some people think I’m mean….”And she reaches under the couch and pulls out a cat-of-nine-tails and raises it above her head and brings is smashing down on the carpet.
Whack!
I mean, this thing made a sound! I had no idea what it was—in my mind, it looked like a bunch of short bull whips combined into one. Little leather straps with knots tied into the ends.
“But everything I do is loving.”
I just look at Brenda. I have some vague notion of bondage. I’ve seen some examples at one of the theaters I go to. But this….
Brenda sees the apprehension in my eyes and quickly changes the subject.
“You know, I really like to masturbate, and I have a collection of toys.”
Brenda gets up from the couch and goes down the hall to her bedroom. She comes back with a basket full of … fake penises. Among other things. Again, I have a vague familiarity with some of the objects.
Brenda sits on the couch and lifts her skirt up and I can see her very light brown bush, almost blonde. And she pulls a vibrator from the basket and places it on her labia.
This is my signal to unzip, and I do. I’m all for mutual masturbation!
Brenda begins to respond to the vibrator, and she demonstrates just exactly what to do to bring her the most pleasure.
“I like to watch men jack themselves off.”
Oh baby. I am more than willing to pound my pudd for your benefit!
Brenda works her way through the basket, demoing how each of the devices works and how they can best be used to bring her to orgasm. At one point she takes one of the vibrators and puts an attachment on it.
“This one is for you. Spread your legs for me.”I spread my legs … and Brenda works the attachment into my anus.
I recognize the feeling I get—it’s the same feeling when the nurses used to put the rectal thermometer in me when I went to the doctor’s office. A strange—but intense—pleasure. She activates the vibrator and the feeling gets more intense. I can’t help but grab my cock and start jerking it. This turns Brenda on—and she offers me a dildo. “Here, suck on this.”
I do as I’m told, and this turns Brenda on. Soon she is taking my cock in her mouth and giving me a blow job. In no time I’m spurting my sperm into her mouth.
We spent the rest of the evening in her bedroom, with the big mock up of David Bowie in the corner. Brenda taught me things. Well, she reintroduced me to things I hadn’t experienced since I’d been molested at age eleven. She took me through a Kamasutra of positions, taught me how to enjoy every pleasure.
The sun was just coming up when we were both exhausted. I waited until my mom left for work to go back to my apartment, where I showered again—I absolutely reeked of sex after my night with Brenda.
That wasn’t the last time I spent with Brenda. She had grown fond of me, and we had our encounters over the next few months. She would call for me at the sandwich shop, and my co workers would mock me:
“Hey bill, Brenda Bondage is on the phone for you!”
The nickname stuck, and forever after that’s how I would refer to Ms. Broyles. Brenda Bondage….
Lee Trevino Syndrome
by
unkillbilly
It started with the limbo. You’re familiar with the limbo? No, not the state of being. Like, I’m not in limbo while writing this story. No, I’m talking about the dance. The one where you pass under a bar while bending over backwards. That dance. You must have played at least once in your life? No?
Well, that’s where this story starts. I was at my friends Chuck and Heidi’s place for a party. Chuck and Heidi always had great parties, not the least aspect of which were the guests. Some really cool people attend their little get togethers, and I do mean little—usually not more than a couple dozen guests. And Chuck and Heidi (long since divorced from each other) would do things at their parties to keep people entertained. It didn’t hurt that they have a hot tub in the back yard and a couple of extra rooms where people could bed down if they got too smashed to drive home.
This particular party, it’s the limbo, and I am not what you would consider a flexible person. I mean, we’re talking serious inability to bend over and touch my toes—much less bend over backwards, like is required to play the limbo game.
But.
I’m giving it my best shot, and the bar keeps going lower, and in the end, there’s me and a woman left in the competition. I don’t know how I’ve managed to hang, up to now, and the bar has gotten pretty low, like, under four feet high.
Because we’re polite, we let the lady go first. Even for her, it’s a tricky pass, and as she goes underneath, her breasts clip the bar and knocks it off the stands. I immediately have a much better appreciation for the young woman’s breasts, which I hadn’t really noticed before. Now it’s my turn, and yikes! No way I’m going to make it. Still, the bar is placed back on the stands and as I begin to approach the bar, a chant goes up.“Bhagwan, bhagwan, bhagwan….”Now I’m really feeling the pressure. I go up to the bar and assume the position. That is, bending over backwards from the waist, then stepping forward to try to pass under the bar. I can’t really see where the bar is, I’m guessing where I am in relation to the bar … and I lose my balance. I can feel myself falling backwards. Instinct cuts in, and I try to change the position of my body, swinging my legs around, in a squatting position—and I pass under the bar. The bar is undisturbed!!!
Of course, the fact is, I did not limbo under the bar. Later, photographic images would emerge of me passing under the bar in the crouch position. And everybody there was of the same opinion. My little physical maneuver, as fancy as it was, I mean, that was when I was in the best shape of my life, I could do things physically, but as artful as the maneuver might have been, it was illegal. My attempt was a scratch.
And since the woman had also violated the rules, the contest was declared a tie. Between me and the woman.
Wonderful!
Really, the perfect outcome, and I immediately went to the woman and congratulated her on her top finish.
“Well, that was fun. Well, kinda. I think I may have pulled a hamstring on that last maneuver!”
“Oh well, then it’s time to rehab that hammy. Shall we take to the tub?”
“An excellent idea.”
And I’m pulling my shirt off and my running shoes and socks off as we walk over to the hot tub. Like me, the woman is wearing running shorts and she pulls her top off, leaving only her bra on. I have to admire her runner’s body, there’s just something about an athletic woman that turns me on. And she’s her in just her bra and running shorts. Ooo la la. We climb into the hot tub, and sure enough, the soreness of my hamstring is immediately soothed. As is the rest of my body, the right hot tub temp and functioning massage jets make me melt. The small talk begins. I’m about five shots into a tequila high, so I don’t recall the substance of the small talk. I will say I am not much of a flirter. I’m terrible when it comes to ‘picking up’ women. I don’t have the lines! I know guys who have awesome lines, all the time! I can’t come up with those kinds of words. But somehow I managed to convince the woman to have sex. Seriously, I can’t remember the dialog, but it wasn’t long before we exited the hot tub and found ourselves in one of the spare bedrooms. I know I took my running shorts off and dropped them on the floor, as she discarded her bra and shorts. We got on the bed, and we dispensed with the foreplay and went straight for the money shot.And things were just getting started, I mean, I’d gone like seven or eight strokes … and the woman gets up and puts on her shorts and leaves the room. Just like that. No parting words or anything, she just got up and left. I of course, am confused. That’s never happened before. I mean, if it has to do with dick size, yeah mine is small for a guy my size, but it’s serviceable. I’d gotten orgasms out of a few women before this little incident. But.She was gone, so I reluctantly get up off the bed … and when I go to put on my shorts, I discover that the woman put on my shorts when she left the room and now I was left with her shorts to put on if I wanted to have something on before I left the room. Yeah the shorts are polyester, so there’s some stretch in them. Still, when I get the woman’s pair of shorts on m y body, it looks like I’m wearing a Speedo! I mean, utterly ridiculous. What am I going to do? I pull my shirt on and put on my socks and shoes and head out back to the party.Chuck immediately notices my condition. “Hey man, what’s with the Speedo look?”“That woman? The one in the limbo contest. She still here?”“Uh, no, man, I think she left.”“Well, we were, uh, going at it—and she just got up and left. I was seven strokes in, and she just got up and left! Seven strokes. I felt like, like, like Lee Trevino’s handicap!”Chuck breaks out laughing. “Lee Trevino?”“Yeah man, you see him in the golf tournament the other day? He won by seven strokes. Were gonna have to call this something, like, like a disease. Make it really noteworthy.”“Lee Trevino Syndrome.”“That’s it! Lits. Like AIDS. Only it’s Lee Trevino Syndrome. I like it!”“You’ve got LTS disease.”“Oh man, I’m going to have to start sharing that with my partners. You know? Before the act. This could ruin my love life! Having to tell people I have LTS.”Chuck is chuckling. I’m rifting. On lits. “But hey man, you got a pair of board shorts I could put on? And how do I track down the woman with my shorts?”“Sure, bhagwan, I’ll get you some shorts. And we’ll go tomorrow to her place and pick up your shorts. Nobody’s driving anywhere tonight.”“Ah cool, well, there’s a hundred dollars in the little pocket sewn into the shorts, I hope she doesn’t burn that up before I can get to her.”“Lets give her a call…”Chuck has to look up t he number, then he’s dialing. But no one is answering. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”And that was it. The inglorious conclusion to what had otherwise been a killer party. We reached t he young lady by phone the next morning and went over to her place and we exchanged shorts. She acted like nothing at all had happened and since there were others around, I didn’t pursue what happened. I’d just have to learn to live with the disease, until they find a cure. But. That’s another story.
Lee Trevino Syndrome
Are You Workin’, Honey
​
​By unkillbilly
Out. Cruisin’. With Black John.
I’m behind the wheel of the Mazda and the sunroof is open and the warm Tucson night air fills the car. There are also possibilities, riding around with us. We’ve been to Miracle Mile. Nothing there, or in the side streets. It’s getting late, and the odds of us finding a streetwalker are diminishing.
“This is bogus, man. We should be at your place already, bonin’ some chick.”
You notice the chick used previously is singular. What, you think were gonna pay for two hookers?
“Yeah, well you have to be philosophical about this, bhagwan … at least your not home with your witch of a wife!” And Black John laughs at his own joke. That hardy, hearty laugh of his. True mirth. That’s hard to come by. Black John excels at joke telling. His sense of humor may be dark, but he is truly funny. It’s how he got his nickname. It’s not because his skin is black, no, quite the contrary. In more ways than one. No, Black John got his moniker because his sense of humor was so dark.
“I’m saying we bag it. Let’s call it a night. We’re not gonna find anyone tonight.”
“Yeah, just turn around here and we’ll head back to your place.”
We’re on a side street approaching the Circle K at the corner of Oracle and Grant. We’re both scanning the storefront, looking for a working girl … and sure enough there is a woman walking along the front of the store. We spot her … and she spots us, immediately. I yank the wheel into the convenience store’s parking lot, and we roll over to the woman.
“You boys looking for some company.” I am immediately leery of this woman. First of all, she’s attractive. And you know what they say. If the streetwalker is good looking, run away. She has to be a cop. Second of all, she’s lithe, has a dancer’s body showing through her short shorts and a grey hoodie—my profile. Thirdly she’s right at the window, the look on her face is eager, unlike most prostitutes at this level of the sex worker career ladder.
I compulsively say, “yes, we’re lookin’ for some company. We’re havin’ a party at my friend here’s place, would you like to join us?”
“Sure, show me your dick and I’ll get in.”I immediately feel better about the prospects of this woman—it’s standard procedure for the prostitute to ask to see your dick, as no cop is allowed to do that prior to a bust—and I quickly pull out my semi-tumescent member.
“Alright, let’s roll.”
I put the Mazda in Park and pop out of the driver’s seat so she can get in the back.
“Thank you,” she says.
“No problem.”
I jump back into t he car and put it in drive and we pull out of the Circle K parking lot onto Eastbound Grant.
“So you been out there for a while tonight?” I ask.
“No, actually I just got there. I could tell just by looking at you what you wanted.”
“Wow, it’s that obvious, is it?”
“Oh yeah, a couple white boys in streetwalker’s neighborhood? I can smell a john from a mile away!”
Great. We’re incredibly lucky. This woman is pretty, and she seems more then willing to let two guys have their way with her. That could have turned out bad. I could only imagine my divorce attorney wife taking the call from TPD. Mrs. Boyles? We got your husband down here at the station…
Cest la vie.
She’s not a cop, and I’ve got a stinking suspicion we’re gonna have some fun.
It doesn’t take long for us to make it to Black John’s place. His hovel. That’s the only way to describe Black John’s abode. Well, you could use the word squalid. And wretched would do. Pretty amazing, actually, at just how gutter his place is. There’s a mattress propped up in the entry way, you have to turn sideways and squeeze by to get into the living area, which is all one big room, including one wall that houses the kitchen. There’s a table by the kitchen side of the room that is covered with cigarette buts, resting vertically, a forest of phallic symbols, covering literally every square inch of the tabletop. Dividing the living space from the kitchen space is a large couch. Black John steers our guest to the couch and begins to undress.
“You got to give me the money first.”
Ahhh, the money. Black John reaches into the pocket of his discarded pants and pulls out his wallet. He pulls a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet and hands it to the woman, who smiles a great big smile and begins to pull the hoodie off. Now it’s clear that not only is she lovely and lithe, she’s young. Hopefully she’s eighteen. Wouldn’t do to get caught with a minor!
“Just to be clear---you are of age, aren’t you?”
The woman laughs.
“Oh yeah, I’m twenty-seven. You ain’t got nothing to worry about, baby.”And with that, she slips out of the rest of her clothes and sits down on the couch. Black John goes over and stands in front of her, so she has access to his cock. She reaches up and takes Black Johns ample member and starts to jack it. A large drop of precum forms at the end, and the woman carefully spreads it around with her thumb on the underside up by the head. She knows the guy g-spot!
“Open up,” says Black John.
The woman smiles and then opens her mouth. Black John leans in and the woman leans in and Black John’s member disappears into her mouth. She gives him a deep throat on the first swallow. Black John groans and begins to face fuck the woman. I’m just standin’ there, but it’s not long before I’ve slid my basketball shorts down around my ankles and stepped out of them, feet still ensconced in my brand new Addidas sneakers. I go over to the couch and stand by Black John, who withdraws from the woman’s mouth and moves up onto the couch, crouching there—freeing up space directly in front of the woman. She sees me standing there and spreads her legs. I get down on my knees and move my cock toward the woman’s pussy. She hasn’t asked for a condom, and I don’t carry one with me—you try and explain a condom to your divorce attorney wife—but there’s no reluctance on her part when I kneel down in front of her. My cock is right at pussy level, and I lean in and push the end of it into the woman’s pussy. She’s got Black John’s cock back in her mouth and he’s goin’ at it big time and I’m in and realizing this is the tightest pussy I have ever had my cock in. I mean, I’m in heaven. This is what sex should be about. This feels so good … after weeks, months even, of low friction sex with the divorce attorney.
I haven’t been getting what I need. Something taboo and fantastic like this! With the beautiful, young, African-American woman. In no time, I’m cumming. A long, productive orgasm from the joys of the best pussy I’ve ever had. Black John continues pumping her mouth, looming over her, crouched, his Marines muscled body stabbing, over and over. Finally, after what seems like an hour, Black John get’s his nut. Everyone is happy, including the woman, who says she orgasmed multiple times. We get dressed and I pull out a twenty dollar bill I have there and give it to the woman.
“Can we drop you off somewhere,” I ask.
“Yeah, back at that Circle J, if you will.”
“No problem.”
And we’re squeezing past the mattress again on our way out to the Mazda and the short ride back to the circle J.
Strange
By unkillbilly
My introduction to Strange came on the island of Guam.
Chris was one of the best-looking girls on the island. Guam had its share of hotties, but Chris was right up there at the top. She was very nubile. Small breasts, small frame, lithe body, a perfect bikini body, I never got Chris’s age (or if I did, I’ve forgotten it), she was probably in her early twenties, just like my wife and I.
Chris had a bikini that had little slits on the back and front of the bikini bottoms that were more than alluring. It was a tease I found hard to resist, and somehow I ended up at her apartment late one night, I was with a friend from the base.
Ron knew Chris from Barney’s Beach Shack, a beach bar on one of the main beaches in Agana. I’d seen her there, in her revealing swimsuit, at Barney’s, mixing it up with locals and hoales alike.
Ron got pretty aggressive with the sexual comments and before you know it, we were getting dueling blowjobs from Chris.
That was my first encounter with Strange. You know the term. Means your getting sex from someone you don’t normally, usually your wife/spouse/partner. All I know is I liked it, and I pursued Chris some more. It just so happened that her boyfriend had recently done her wrong and she was looking for something new herself. We hit it off.
There was one aspect of my marriage that put a different slant on Strange. At the time, I had an open marriage. Both of us had permission to have sex outside of our marriage, and now I was exercising that freedom.
But.
Marriage is marriage, and anything outside of that is Strange. My then wife was exercising her freedom to explore. She had sex with one of the base commanders. (That technically is a no-no, as my wife was enlisted, and the commander was, of course, an officer. The military outlaws fraternization between enlisted and officer.) Anyway, I felt free to roam a little and it was just my luck that led to a brief fling with the islands best looking female. One of the best, for sure. To be fair, I didn’t hold my spouse’s outside dalliances against her. I was the opposite of jealous—I was aroused. Thinking of my wife with another man turned me on. And I would convince her to describe her experiences to me. This usually led to some serious sex. So it was not a win-lose situation, for either of us. (To continue the fairness, when the commander’s affair got the attention of the base commander, he was quietly and quickly transferred off the island.)
Also, to keep the fairness theme going, the open marriage didn’t work. Turns out it was a marriage of convenience and there was no love there to hold things together when we returned to the mainland.
Still, it was a valuable experience, and it allowed me to launch the concept of Strange in my second marriage, where the marriage concepts were of a more traditional nature. In my second marriage, I had a spouse that didn’t like sex. I mean, it’s one thing to not like sex like I do—wide open with as many sexual experiences as you can have.
But.
My second wife just didn’t like sex in general; she near refused to have oral sex and was generally prudish about open minded sex. I was a swinger at heart—and my ex would never even consider anything like swapping or groups. So there I was, stuck with a prude, what’s a poor boy to do?
Strange!
Oh man, if you’re in a loveless relationship, you know what I’m talking about. I know, loveless is a little strong, but it applies to the relationship. And the only reason it lasted as long as it did was because I was on the road the last half of the marriage. I got away, to other cities, where there were women that appreciated a good wide-open romp. If there had not been those brief interludes, the whole thing would have collapsed a lot sooner.
As it was, it took a couple of huge mood swings, including two manic swings and a complete mental breakdown on my part, to bring the thing to its knees. When it’s over, it’s over.
I’ll always count myself as lucky to have had all that Strange in my life. I met some beautiful women, inside and out, and had some great sex. Like Osho says: “One should have as much sex as possible before turning to contemplation of the Buddha.” I did that….
The Professional
by unkillbilly
“Hey, good to see you,” I say, as I begin to take my clothes off.
“Good to see you, too,” says the prostitute. “How ya been?”
“Good, good. Nothin’s changed at home, it still sucks whenever I go back there.”
I get undressed and I lay down on my stomach on the foam pad. By law, the women have to give you a back massage, and so I assume the position so she can rub my back the required five minutes, or whatever it is.
“Well, that’s a bummer,” she says as she runs her hands up and down my back. She must be in her thirties, she’s white, she’s got a compact body and she’s intelligent.
So I’m a regular.
Since I got to Saint Louis in May, I’ve been across the river three times before this. And each time I’ve asked to be with this same woman. Kinda weird, but it’s the path I’ve chosen. It always makes the black girls in the line-up angry when I pick the white girl. That’s how they do it at this brothel. You walk in the front door and all the girls working that night line up in the lobby and you get to pick who you want to be with. There are at least a dozen girls, three quarters of whom are African American. They’re callin’ me babe and making suggestive remarks about what they want to do with me, prolly just the kind of freaky thing I’m normally into—but for some reason I pick the demure white gal at the end of the line, and that just doesn’t go down well with the rest of the women.
Cest la vie.
The back rub is over quickly, and I turn over and the woman takes hold of my cock. Now it’s time to get busy. She gives me a hand job while she gets up from the side of the foam pad and positions herself over me. She knows exactly what I want. And assumes the position of Cowgirl.
Ah yes, this will do. This is just what I needed. She rides my pony, and I lie back and watch the show. She’s good at this. Her body writhes and twists over me and if she’s faking it, she’s doing a masterful job of it. She’s got some stamina, and we go for a good twenty minutes before I pop my nut.
I can’t do that without making some noise, so my money shot is exposed and it’s $200 till you cum. The woman winds down her gyrations, and in a moment, she’s lying by my side, snuggling up against me.
“You don’t have to rush off. Technically it’s till you cum, or forty-five minutes, whichever comes first. They don’t need to know you’re done yet.”
Nice. No rushing me off, making me feel like I’m more than just a john, that I’m a client, a VIP! And maybe that’s an act, too, but it feels sincere to me—and it’s not like I’m getting any cuddling when I go home….
“So what happened the last time you went back?”
“Oh, man, you wouldn’t believe it. There was a homeless person sleeping on the couch, and I couldn’t walk around naked like I’d planned!”
“A homeless person?”
“Oh yeah, she brings home strays all the time, and I don’t mean pets!”
“So you’re gone all week working and when you come home, your home is not your castle.”
A statement, not a question.
“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”
“And it’s like that all the time?”
“Yeah, pretty much. We fight every weekend, and I end up spending the night out in the RV. Then I have to fly back here on Sunday. At least I’ve got an apartment over there now. I don’t have to worry about finding a room at the Adam’s Mark every week.”
“Why do you stay?”
Ah. The question. The one I ask myself all the time. Why don’t I just dump her? Part of the answer to that question is she’s a divorce lawyer. And unpredictable. She could get pretty nasty in divorce action.
And then there’s this feeling I have for her … it’s not love, I tried that, love didn’t get my anything with this one …
I do feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for what would happen if I did walk away. I mean, at her age? She’s seven years older than me, the other side of 50 and her disposition is not getting better. She is not like a fine wine!
“And if I pulled the financial rug out from under her, she’d collapse.”
“What about you? When do you collapse?”
I can only shake my head.
“This is a new beginning for me, this job I have now. It looks like I am going to spend a lot of time on the road. I’ve got to have a stable situation to go home to or will collapse!”
“That’s sad.”
“Yeah, but that’s my world right now. And I better get back across the river here so I can get a modicum of sleep before work tomorrow.”
“Mmmm, well thanks for coming to see me. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“Yes, you, too, next time we’ll talk about your world, I promise!”
With that I get up and get dressed and with a quick “thanks again” I’m out the door and down the hallway and through the lobby and out into the massage parlor’s parking lot. Professionals. You gotta love ‘em!
Ballin' in Baltimore
by unkillbilly
Bon Jovi undulates from the house sound system. Livin’ on a Prayer.
The dancer’s body moves with the music. She’s completely naked, and there’s a pole in the middle of the stage. She occasionally reaches up and touches the pole, but her movements are independent of the device. She punctuates the words in the song with an arch of the back, a rock of the hips.
We gotta hold on, to what we’ve got.
I’m holdin’ on. Holding on to nothing. My life is nothing and I feel nothing. Except the Urge. That’s always there. I can never quite get it out of my mind. No matter how hard I try, and that’s not very hard, the inclinations and the predilections run rampant. No matter how fucked up my circumstances, no matter how miserable the situation, my life, my job, my relationship, I’m still … aroused.
So … I come here. To this place. It has a name. Fantasy something. I’m sure. All I know is they have nude dancers. And, for a price … the use of the upstairs fucking area. I hesitate to call it a room. The room has no furniture. There’s no bed. There are no chairs. There’s just this oversized closet with a piece of old carpeting on the floor.
But.
You can take one of the dancers upstairs. After their show is over. You hand the bartender the two hundred bucks, and you go upstairs with the girl. Up a narrow flight of stairs, looks like they were just roughed in, never finished, but that serve the purpose: convey the customer to the fucking area.
Not every dancer goes upstairs. So far, I’ve gone upstairs twice before. What can I say. Sitting here, in Baltimore, alone. My career is going down the drain, I’m basically untreated for major Bipolar Disorder, I have a constant compulsion towards sex.
What am I gonna do? Where’s it going to end?
“So what are you thinking?”
I look at he bartender, then I look over at the current dancer. She is definitely my type. Lean body, healthy rack, shaved pussy. And she’s moving. In ways I’ve never seen a female body move before.
“How about this one?”
“Nah, that won’t work. She’s got another dancing gig she’s gotta go to. How about the one sitting at the other end of the bar?”
I look down the bar. Lean, check. Rack, check. Shaved pussy, TBD. Her face is not as pretty as the current dancer, but I’m not after her face.
“Okay.”I dig into my wallet and extract two benjamins and pass them to the bartender.
“You know the routine.”
The bartender moves down to the girl at the end of the bar and says something to her. I get off the stool and start walking towards the back. At the funky staircase, I pause waiting for the girl at the end of the bar. Who looks reluctant to be obliging. The bartender says something else to the girl, and the girl gets up and walks over to me at the staircase.
She just looks at me, doesn’t say anything, just begins to ascend the stairs. I get to see her lovely ass in a pair of revealing daisy dukes rising up the staircase.
At the top of the stairs there is a red door, and the girl goes over to the door and pushes it open. She steps inside the room. I follow her in.
There’s nothing in the room, so nothing has changed since the last time I was up here. It looks like it might be a fresh piece of shag carpeting on the floor. Shag carpeting. Good for giving one rug burns.
The girl looks at me and then pulls her top off over her head. She unfastens her bra and lets both fall to the floor. She puts her thumbs inside the waistband of her shorts and pushes them to the floor. She’s got just a thong on and does not seem disposed to dispose of the thong.
“Well?”
Finally. She says something.
I quickly undress, and I’m talking less than thirty seconds.
Then I’m over to the girl.
“No kissing, no anal, missionary only.”
More words. Not exactly arousing words. In fact her whole attitude seems to be a little … off.
She drops to the floor, sitting Indian style, and then lays back, with her elbows on the shag carpeting. Ah, ah, ah—you’re gonna get burns on those elbows if we fuck like that.
I drop down on one knee next to her and then place my other knee between her legs. Then I pull my other leg between her legs and lower myself down, so I’m poised over her opening.
It’s time. I’m holding onto something. I’m consummating my desire. It’s intercourse.
Only….Something is not right. I can hear the stereo downstairs turning to Motley Crue, a timely homage to Doctor Feelgood. That’s good fucking music.
Am I right?
He’s the one that makes you feel all right.
Clearly, my alleged partner is not feeling the good doctor. There’s a vibe. Exuding from the girl. One of displeasure. Which is, of course, antithetical to the act. I’m pumpin’, and she’s grimacin’. That’s what that is. That is not a smile, not by any stretch of the imagination. The look on her face is blunt resistance.
And of course, I lose my erection.
Two yards, and I don’t even finish.
The female is pushing me off of her and I am rolling away and she is hastily donning her clothing. I just sit there, watching, as she snatches each article up and replaces it where it should be, as though it had never been shed in the first place.
Then she’s at the door, pulling it open, leaving the room. Never looking back, never saying another word.
After a moment I get up. I pull my pants back on. I pull my socks on, and shoes. I pull my sweatshirt over my head and check my pants for my wallet.
Then it’s my turn at the door. My turn down the steps. My turn to sit back at the far end of the bar. I gotta have one more drink before I leave. You know, to celebrate. My great sexual experience.
Yet another bout of Lee Trevino Syndrome!