Pantyhose Fetish Erotica
"Hose in the Cold - From my Skin to His," a Dirty Martini Story by Tao Mitts
Logan: Do you have your ski mask on?
Me: No.
Logan: Go get it.
Me: (brb) Okay.
Logan: Put it on.
Me: It's on.
Logan: I'm jerking off.
Me: ...
Logan: Are you touching yourself?
Me: Yeah.
Logan: I'm wearing a ski mask. Are you wearing hose?
Me: No
just me
sorry.
Logan: Do you have panthose with you?
Me: In the drawer.
Logan: Go get them.
Me: Okay - got them.
Logan: Put them on your head.
Me: Okay.
Logan: Are they on?
Me: Yes.
What does it feel like with another person?
Logan: Well not much different, but there's a really nice sensation when they rub against each other. Like if you were rubbing your legs together.
Me: I'm all squishy now.
Logan: Apologies ;) Everyone get down on the floor!
Me: ?
Logan: This is s robbery! ;)
Me: Logan!
Logan: What?
Me: ...
I don't know what to say.
Logan: Are you getting off?
Me: Yeah.
Logan: Can't type.
Me: It's okay.
Logan: Does it feel good?
Me: I don't know. It feels like pantyhose.
Logan: I wish you had a cam.
Me: I'm taking it off now.
Logan: So soon?
Me: I have to go.
Logan: Jess.
Me: Sorry really have to go. ttyl.
Logan: Jess, come on.
Me: Bye.
*
I have to tell you a story about my friend Logan. It's not an easy one or a simple one, because it's true. I guess that's the nature of our deepest fears and desires. We may be civilized, even simple, but our fears and desires are not. I am afraid of being alone. Ironically, this fear has kept Logan and I from each other for eight years. Eight years of restraint against a backdrop of cold hands at the key board in mothers' basements, puffs of steamy breath in the cold car on reluctant rides home, aching against the zipper of his jeans, held between my pantyhose-clad knees, pressed together, trying to keep warm, holding a secret.
This is not a healthy relationship.
Have you ever said this to yourself, only to follow your course of action anyway? One foot behind the other, the moment begs to come into existence - the moment of contact. It will happen for no other reason than just to exist - this fact of you and him and your bodies touching.
Logan and I... it's sort of like that awful '80s movie Ladyhawk. The idea was that the girl turned into a hawk by day and the boy turned into a wolf by night. They could never be together. For one thing, for whatever reasons, quixotic, neurotic, practical, existential, hormonal, I have always, always, had a boyfriend. When Logan and I met I had a boyfriend, and I have a boyfriend now. On my end, there was always a reason - a walking, breathing one with a beating heart - that we couldn't be together the way we wanted to be. On his end...well, he had his reasons.
Listen...
*
It was early winter. We were standing outside my mom's suburban in the cold rain, my brother saying, "Logan, this is my sister Jess, Jess, this is Logan from my physics class." Evan had said for a long time that he wanted us to meet. He described him to me as the funniest and most eccentric (though shy and anti-social) computer nerd at school. Logan was tall and slender, radiating an inscrutable intelligence in baggy pants and a grey sweater, a heavy mop of hair falling over noble features. He was staring remotely into a puddle. I appraised him coyly from behind heavily made-up eyes, shifting my feet in their black, knee-high boots to see if I could draw his gaze from the puddle to my nylons and mini-skirt. To others, it appeared to be only shyness that caused his refusal to meet my gaze - which was understandable considering my image: one of the toughest, prettiest girls at school. But I felt a stirring in him, forces keening forward, straining against the gate of a fortress just under the surface, matched only by his determination to conceal them. There was an uneasiness, an intensity in his puddle-staring refusal that made me want to get closer, to break through it, to let whatever was underneath loose.
After meeting this shy, odd boy, I went home palpitating, distracted. His spirit followed me, reached its hands under my clothes. When I got home I locked myself in my room. I fumbled with the waistband of my tights and immediately wiggled my fingertips into the wetness between my legs. I hardly moved my fingers but I could feel my orgasm building like a rocket, imagining my fingers were his, feeling my pulse throbbing, my body tightening around them. I could feel him all around me, in his quiet, still bedroom. I staggered over to my bed and collapsed on it, burrowing under the covers. There was something about the silence, and about being wrapped in the blankets, that evoked him somehow. To be in his world...his quiet, still world that no one had ever been in before, that no one would be allowed into. I rolled around and around, imagining his body on top of mine, against me, beneath me. On my stomach, kissing the pillow like it was his face, I moaned out loud when I pulled my shirt down, my breasts bare against the soft fabric of the sheet, imagining it to be his chest. I came like that, shaken with the impossibility of it, the wonder. It was my secret. My desire for him. I carried it on my tongue like a liqueur-filled chocolate I wasn't allowed to break open, but no matter how gentle I was with it, the heat from my mouth was melting its thin shell.
We became friends. Unlikely friends. He was quiet and phobic, and I was aggressive and cavalier. He was an outcast, but I was popular enough to not care what anyone thought of us.
We would drive around town in his car after school. I had to fight the urge to put my hand on his leg, to touch him like we were lovers. This frustrated desire sublimated itself into a constant, subtle, unspoken and un-acted upon performance of seduction. I would wear black pantyhose and short skirts, exposing my slender legs, stretching them out in the passenger seat, then folding them, keeping my knees chastely but alluringly pressed together. I could feel him watching them in the deepest silence. There was something about my legs that made me feel powerful when I was around him and I became acutely conscious of them, rubbing them together to generate heat. Images of draping them over his lap while he was driving, or straddling him in the front seat, his hands gliding up my thighs and touching my ass in the tight fabric would haunt me. He had beautiful, slender hands. Looking at them would make my heart race, Whenever he was near me I would be wet, my entire body alert, senses reaching outward for contact. I was tormented with guilt. Part of the attraction was that he was so awkward and geeky - I knew that until now he could only dream of being with a girl like me. I had the power to give him something that he probably would never have - to be with a really hot girl. My breasts would ache inside my bra and strain against my sweater. I could always feel him staring at them and it made them ache. As the car went over bumps and potholes I could feel him fucking me. I was imagining it so uncontrollably, I'd be almost coming, holding onto the door handle, turning my gaze helplessly to the window. Like it was a film endlessly playing, semi-translucent, overlaid over the foggy window, all I could see was him fucking me. What was it in him that had this effect on me? Something inside of him reached right inside of me...with...with what? After every encounter with him it was all I could do to hold out until I was alone, and I would bring myself off in a frenzy, trying to exorcise his ghost from my body, my nerves raw, laid bare and exposed.
Our friendship endured through the winter, through many nights of watching movies and busying ourselves while trying to find ways to brush up against each other, his parents looking at us suspiciously when we came up from the family room. Our expressions betrayed our desire. Everyone felt it. Alongside this desire, a friendship grew, but the intensity of the attraction found its way to the surface in an explosive fight right before graduation. I looked for him in the crowd the night of graduation to apologize, but he was already gone. We didn't speak for three years.
Three years later.
It was winter again. There was as message in my inbox: "Jess- I miss you loads. Please let me know how you're doing."
Within days we were back on, as though no time had passed, but we were in University, in his apartment alone, with no parents around, watching movies and busying ourselves while trying to find ways - harmless ways, ways that my boyfriend wouldn't object to - for our bodies to touch. Half way through a movie, after sitting next to him on the couch I would be going so crazy I would have to touch myself in his bathroom because I couldn't take it anymore. I wanted to jump on him. I wanted him to push my shirt up and release my breasts from the tight bra and kiss them. I wanted to take him into my mouth, I wanted him inside of me so bad. I was so wet he would hardly have to move. He would just slide right into me so easily and we could finally just move together, we could finally, finally fuck. But I was living with my boyfriend...I couldn't.
This is when the emails started. There was an ease in our communication through text, like we could slip into another skin - each of us, one that was more comfortable, and in which we knew each other perfectly.
"I like it when you wear short skirts," he said one night as he dropped me off reluctantly, my boyfriend waiting for me inside. And then later in an email he added: "I like legs. I like legs with pantyhose or tights. I loved whenever you'd wear that stuff. So thanks. Thanks for making many high school days."
It continued like this - an affair without touching, a mad dance, for months and months. Everywhere we went together, theatres, cafes, I would get myself off in the bathroom to stop myself from fucking him in his car. I was out of control. Knowing the effect it had on him, I would wear pantyhose and pull my skirt up just a little bit, flashing him my thighs. He would moan. And I would run to the bathroom. It was like a drug. In the bathroom I would take off my mittens and hold onto the handrail and slide my fingers deliciously into myself, imagining his penis. It would be so long and hard. He was so tall and graceful. This one time in a movie theatre bathroom, as I rubbed myself, fingers sliding in and out, I really felt like I was being fucked right there. I pulled my shirt down and watched my breasts as they pressed out from the tight neckline of my shirt, so pretty and full and hard, my nipples so pink - I knew how crazy this would make him. I wanted him to come all over them. I got wetter and wetter and wetter and worked in harder and harder with my hand imagining him fucking me right there in the stall from behind. I heard other girls shuffle by in their slushy boots and wondered if they could see my feet and knew I wasn't pissing. I didn't care. I rubbed faster and faster, imagining his cock sliding into me all slippery and wet, pounding into me. Frantic, I grabbed one of my breasts with my free hand imagining it to be his hands on me, letting go of the handrail, my legs shaking uncontrollably, I fell against the wall, the cool tiles against my nipples. Logan. I'm so hot now. He's fucking me fucking me fucking me. My wrist is about to lock up in agony and God now
I'm coming and
Coming
And coming
like icing sugar and pink lava and red waves and vibrato golden clenching tingling waves white light opening and closing and opening and then
Calm...and it's over. Sad it's over. Throbbing. Logan, Logan, Logan. Will you ever be able to do this to me?
And I left the bathroom. Sore, relieved. Until tomorrow, I'd think.
Then something happened that changed everything.
The subject of fetishes had come up and it came out while we were chatting online that there was something, something that he hadn't told me before and had never told anyone. I pressed him to confide in me. He told me again that he liked tights. He liked pantyhose and... "And what Logan?"... "Pantyhose- over the entire body...and ski masks...on both the guy and the girl. I'm going to go pass out now." Inside, I recoiled...it just seemed so weird. I didn't contact him for three days. When our communication resumed he started making comments in passing about going pantyhose shopping with me. I could tell that just talking about it was turning him on. When I realized he was serious, partly out of pity, and partly out of curiosity, I agreed. He acted like it was Christmas. We roved the isles in Sears, and he picked out panty hose for himself and tried to buy some for me. I watched him closely, the way his expressions and movements changed and became softer, how he seemed soothed. "You should wear stuff like this all the time, Jess." The layers and layers of his obsession slowly unpeeled themselves and revealed themselves to me. He wasn't satisfied with the selection so we hit up two other department stores.
Hours later he dropped me off at my class. When I was about to get out of the car he reached over and took my hand. He caressed my fingers briefly but breathtakingly, and pressed down on my nails with his fingertips. His eyes reminded me of a hungry wolf's. "Thank you Jess," he said, before returning my hand tenderly to my lap, little red crescent moon shaped imprints of my nails still visible on the pads of his fingers, pale in the winter evening light. I got out of the car, transported, my mind quieted by the exquisite intimacy and monk-like chasteness of his touch - an encoded gesture through which I could felt a forced silence, the fiercest restraint.
*
A year later.
P.S. For a while I really had the urge to send you a picture of me decked out in nothing but pantyhose... but that would probably have been inappropriate, wouldn't it? Logan
Send them.
Jess
(I wanted to know.)
*
Our relationship began to change, to become more complicated emotionally. Now my image of Logan as the odd, graceful boy in baggy pants with the noble features was buried under layers of something dark and leering and strange - a svelte anonymous figure in a grainy photograph, proudly posing in a full body costume of navy pantyhose, grotesquely flattening his genitals and his facial features. My desire for him was caught - suspended. He had gone somewhere, finally, that I couldn't go with him, not even in fantasy, not even in text.
I would sit in class distracted with the question of what the pantyhose fetish was...what it meant, what it was about. I wanted to understand it. I wanted it to be a secret that he could not only disclose to me, but also to share with me. I was so central to his fantasies, and to the origins of this fetish for him, I felt like I needed to feel it too. As far as I could analyze it, it was a metaphor for the emotional, mental, spiritual state of being distanced by layers and layers from others and the world. It was about spheres within spheres of hidden chambers that are enclosed, and encased, and the preciousness of when somebody, with love, manages to touch you through all those layers. The unexpectedness, the sacredness, the territory traversed, the impossible...to be touched through layers in a way that is so loving that it makes you feel like they're not there.
*
Images and fantasies haunted me. I would have this dream that would repeat, each time with little variations: A woman wears a knee length skirt with knee high boots in a busy mall. Walking through the market. She's wearing a tight sweater over high, firm breasts. They run into each other. It hasn't been planned. They talk nervously, making rushed, transparent plans to go to a movie, or go to lunch. Anything that will get them to the car. They walk to his car in the maze-like mall parking lot, their breath surrounding them in knowing puffs of smoke. The doors slam shut and they sit back, exhale and look at each other mournfully. Until now their transgressions have only taken place in words, and the extent of their physical contact could have been mistaken by a hidden observer as two close friends consoling each other over a loved one's death.
"Come here" he says thickly, the words hanging in the air like smoke.
"No."
"Come here," he repeats.
"No. I shouldn't."
He reaches for her hips to pull her closer and she resists. He hooks his fingers into the crooks of her knees and pulls her across the car seat, her skirt sticking, exposing her thighs unexpectedly in the cold. Her body is now facing the driver's seat, semi-reclined, shocked by the sudden gush of hot wetness between her legs. They come to a brief impasse. His eyes look flat. Then, a struggle for the skirt. She doesn't know what he's trying to do. He's managed to unbutton the sides and starts to push the fabric away from her hips.
"Wait. No. They don't go up all the way." She says, realizing what he's looking for. The line where the pantyhose end at her waist. He wants to see them go all the way up.
There's a flash of white, soft thigh and hip.
They move, the white punctuated by two sharp black garter lines. His ungloved hands have found the bare skin of her hip. The shock of nakedness. He drops his head heavily into her lap, eyelashes lapping at the line of dark fabric that meets bare thigh and his fingers curl against the texture of the pantyhose.
In this car, with his hands inside her skirt, flipped back, she remembers what it is to be naked. She rediscovers the beauty of this body only in its forbiddeness. It is a spectre that hangs over her. Guilt and desire devour her equally. Sometimes our bodies betray us. Sometimes we betray our bodies. It's really fucking hard to tell sometimes which is happening from moment to moment.
If our real lovers knew the extraordinary pain of this, would we be absolved or would we be thrown out forever? This excruciating shock of skin meeting skin does not happen with our lovers, because the years have turned our skin into another layer of clothing. We can't feel each other. We can't even feel ourselves through it any more, this gauze of familiarity, of habit. We try to peel it away only to scratch ourselves raw. It's impossible to peel anymore away without bleeding to death.
*
Soon it was all he would talk about with me, with that wolf-like, broken longing in his eyes. He would tell me about putting hosiery on himself, sent me picture after picture of himself, naked, encased in black pantyhose and began to grovel childishly for praise. A part of me recoiled and my desire for him would die. My desire for him came out of the sense of being worshipped. But what he worshipped was not me, but my willingness to someday act out his ultimate fantasy - of pantyhose on both the guy and the girl. I was his promise of being set free. Tenderness and trust continued to grow between us and we dipped into his secret world alongside, and detached from, an otherwise "normal" camaraderie. We took the roles on and off like masks, one moment, we were laughing and joking best friends who had known each other for years, and the next moment, secret lovers, virtual lovers, exploring each other's hidden places in the dark basement of our respective imaginations.
Finally, one day, we touched. Laying on his couch, my skirt hiked up to my thighs, he ran his hands up my legs. Delicately, sensually. We both shuddered and laid like that, weak, throbbing. I let him see my legs in the car again by pulling up my skirt. He pleaded with me like a wounded animal to see more.
Meanwhile, he carried around bits of hose in his pockets.
*
I left the country for a year. We emailed the whole time and when I came back we arranged to meet. Increasingly, I was bored of playing along with his fantasy. I didn't get it and I never would. I was tired of wearing the secret fetish lover mask, but increasingly he was masked in pantyhose all the time. He sent me a picture of a girl encased in pantyhose who looked like me. As soon as I became interested in sex with him again, he made it about the fucking pantyhose. He mentioned it compulsively, until it took a darker turn. One night we were chatting and he started talking about robbing banks. In ski masks. I changed the subject to what I was making for dinner that night and asked if he could take me to get groceries. He came to pick me up at my parents' house.
We pulled up outside of a bank and sat in the parking lot. He didn't move. "Um...do you need to go the bank.?" "No." "Oh..." "I just wanted to think about it." There was a long silence. "About robbing the bank?" I asked. He nodded. My heart started to race. I could hear him breathing.
Groceries abandoned in the back seat of his car, we went back to his house and I followed him into his room. He shut the door. He handed the pantyhose to me, trembling, and sat on the edge of his bed. "I just want to look." He said. I put it on for him, as a top and over my face. He relaxed in a way I'd never seen him relax. Time stood still. He looked at me gently and everything seemed soft and buzzy. It was too much. I moved to take it off.
"You're taking it off already?" he cajoled, his voice still soft but filled with regret. I barely recognized him. He seemed like a totally different person. I pulled it off and he was still staring at me longingly. "Can you just put it back on? Just for another minute?" "Okay." I acquiesced. "I want to look at us in the mirror together. I'm going to put mine on too." He pulled the panty hose over his head and stood behind me so we were both facing the mirror, hearts pounding. The look on his face through the mesh of the panty hose was wistful and distant. He put his hands on my waist, afraid that if he touched me too firmly, I'd disappear like something in a dream as you're waking. He touched and looked with other-worldly reverence. Every caress was full, loaded. Both of us were throbbing again. I broke the spell and pulled away suddenly, taking off the mask. "Okay that's enough." "Okay," he said weakly, leaning against the wall. He didn't put up a fight. I was throbbing everywhere, a pulsing starting between my legs and spreading out over my entire body, pounding in my ears. It felt like we were both wrapped in a blanket of white noise.
I turned away from him so he couldn't see me as I got dressed.
"I'm going to the bathroom to get myself off, then we have to leave." I told him.
"I might have to do the same thing while you're in there." he said, his familiar, humorous voice returning. On my way out the door he handed me the pantyhose mask. "Just put this on your head while you do it. Please."
Locked in the bathroom I pulled the mask onto my head again and looked at myself in the mirror. It was grotesque. My eyelashes were flattened unattractively this way and that, my nose squished. I stared harder, trying to see what he saw in it, trying to understand. I started to touch myself, but without him standing there wanting me it wasn't the same, and the pantyhose on my head felt ridiculous and silly. It was so clear to me then - I just wanted him, and he just wanted the pantyhose. I pulled down my shirt so I could see my body, and was startled at how strong and powerful I looked, arm and chest muscles flexing, flushed. I had to ignore the mask. I was so turned on it didn't matter and I came anyway, leaning heavily against the wall with my free arm. I pulled the mask off my head immediately afterwards, feeling strange.
We met in the dark hallway and the spell was broken. I handed the crumpled mask back to him and we smiled at each other sleepily.
I left town the next day. We haven't seen each other since.
*
Logan: What of my swank new job?
Me: Hunh? Did you tell me?
Logan: Bank robber extraordinaire! That's right, c'mon Jess, rob a bank with me. Then we'll go to chile.
Me: That sounds pretty great. The chile part.
Logan: :P But not the ski mask fun time part.
Me: ...
Logan: Did i ever tell you what i was going to do that day i picked you up if no one else was home?
Me: No you didn't tell me.
Logan: I was going to pull on a pantyhose mask.
Me: When?
Logan: In the house. Your dad's house.
Me: Like when you walked in? Did you have it in your pocket?
Logan: Yes and yes.
Me: I'm not sure what to say.
Logan: That's okay.
I'm not sure what I was planning to do after that. I had a mask for you too.
Me: Uh huh. Can I ask how things are going with Melissa?
Logan: Will you rob a bank with me?
Me: Um...I don't know ,Logan.
Logan: Remember when you put on my ski mask?
Me: Yes.
Logan: That was really hot. What did you think?
Me: Of myself in it?
Logan: Yeah, and of wearing it.
Me: I think I might have said this to you already but I guess I Could compare it to... the way it would feel for you to wear a mitten or a warm sock....having the ski mask on.. that's all.
Logan: Well they come in other materials... not knit wool
Me: I'm not talking about the wool. I mean the signification is missing on me. Lost on me. That's what I meant
Logan: Well it's ultimately the anonymity and the snugness that feels good to me.
Me: Do other forms of anonymity turn you on as well? Like if I were to wear a disguise, a wig and something different about me...sunglasses?
Logan: Some sunglasses... bandanna masks, stockings, wigs (but more in combination with something else)...those clear plastic masks. Like my pic? With the balaclava and the gun?
Me: Sure.
Logan: :(
Me: ?
Logan: It seemed like a no.
Me: What do you want me to like about it?
Logan: I'm not sure. The look, perhaps.
Me: It's interesting, the look, okay? But I don't know what all it represents to you.
Logan: You couldn't encourage me to rob a bank.
Me: If I find it attractive, it's not the bandanna I find attractive, it's you. And those pictures where you had the gun and the mask...it wasn't the gun and the mask, it was the way you looked in the black sweater. It reminded me of when we first started hanging out again after high school. It was winter and we were wearing sweaters and you looked really beautiful to me. What I'm saying is that you are finding the accessories, the props to be the focus of interest in the pictures. But me, I just find the person underneath the mask attractive. So when you ask me if I like it...sure, but not for the same reasons you do.
Logan: I guess I want you to like the masks.
Me: I like you. I like your face. It's a limitation in me you'll have to accept. If I find it exciting, I'm more responding to your excitement than any thing else. For instance...do you remember when we went pantyhose shopping together?
Logan: Yeah.
Me: Okay, well, it was your roving intensity that stirred me, and more so...when you dropped me off after for my class, you reached out and touched my hand...it was all so restrained. So carefully restrained...and you sort of rubbed the back of my hand, just for a second, and dragged your fingers down and pressed on the edges of my nails. It was one of the most touching, tender, intimate moments I've ever experienced with anybody. So for you it was about pantyhose, and maybe the prospect of both of us wearing them, but or me it was about the side of you it all enabled me to see. Just by sharing it with you. It made me feel special. because it made me feel closer to you than anyone else.
So I guess maybe I've come to the end of being able to share this fantasy with you because you sort of have a girlfriend and it seems you should be sharing it with her now.
Logan: But where is she?
Me: I don't know. Where is she?
I have to go
Logan: Okay.
Me: I love you Logan.
Logan: I love you too.
*
Everyone has their demons.
There's a dark room in my head that I go to sometimes, when I need things to be quiet. A dark room where he's put on pantyhose and can feel the tight mesh hugging his toes, his calves, his hips, snapping taught at the waist, firmly but ephemerally matting down his pubic hair and sleepily waking up every nerve ending of his penis. It's hard and straining against the seam. And I'm there. I stand in front of him, encased head to toe in the tight, translucent fabric. He's seeing my entire body in panty hose for the first time. The pleasure of the pressure from the seam on his cock is so acute as he touches my nipples through the sheer material, hardening them, that he feels like he's going to die if he moves at all, if the fabric should rub, if I should move at all. He gently encloses his mouth over one of my nipples, lingering with his tongue and pulling away. The fabric, now cool and wet, rubs against my nipple, keeping it as hard as I feel my own wetness soak the material between my legs. He pushes the tip of his penis against me, pushing against the material between my legs, harder and harder until he reaches down and rips a hole right through it and pushes himself inside me. I'm so wet it slides right in and I gasp with surprise. He holds it firmly and deeply inside me for a moment. Just as I start convulsing, he pulls it out slowly and enters me again in even, long, hot thrusts. I start moving, riding. But there's something missing. Something feels incomplete, almost backwards. We were meant to fuck, from the moment we saw each other...but somehow...not like this.
Then he stops.
"There's something I've wanted for a long time." He tells me in a ragged whisper. He reaches under his bed and pulls out a strap on with black leather straps and a purple dildo. The object holds a magical aura. It's delicate and moderately sized. It's the perfect proportion for me. Like it could be mine. I've never worn one before but pull it on over my panty hose and strap it on. I feel the aura spread through my body, a surge of erotic energy, a feeling of incredible sensual power. We're not Jess and Logan anymore. We are these creatures, these anonymous sensual creatures who are only here for pleasure. This is the freedom that we allow each other, that we offer each other. His body looks soft and yielding, like a woman's. As I cover my dildo in slippery lube and rub it to warm it up, I feel sexy in a way that I've never felt before. I feel like I have a cock. I look at him tenderly. Suddenly it all makes sense. I've wanted to fuck him like this since the day I met him in the parking lot and he wouldn't look at me. He was afraid of me, of my power and my beauty. I pushed him constantly, getting turned on by the dynamic of power - his shyness and quietness would make me more aggressive, more dominant. Through him I can access a side of brute power in myself that was always there, but always dormant. Now I can use that power, to make him feel good, to give him pleasure. "Come here, baby," I say in a low, calm voice, with a confidence I've never felt before. He convulses with pleasure at my words. I take his hips gently but firmly and guide him against me, letting the dildo rest against his ass for a moment. "I won't hurt you baby." I run my hand up his mesh covered back, then back down to his ass, and rip a hole in his panty hose. I rub his ass with the lubricant gently, gently easing my finger inside first. I'm afraid he won't be able to handle it. His ass is really tight. "Breathe, baby. Lay down." I feel like there are actually nerve endings in the dildo, and I can feel it throbbing, wanting to be inside of him. He looks so soft and sexy, like a girl. I want to fuck him until he can't remember his name. Until he can't remember mine. I have him lay down over a pillow so his ass is up in the air. "Oh, sweetie...you look so sexy." I push my finger slowly in and out of his ass, spreading the lube around, until I feel him relax. He starts to moan. "Oh yeah." I hear myself responding. That sound...Oh fuck...the sound of him moaning. I can't wait any longer. I kneel down and melt my tongue into his ass. He tastes sweet and clean. He gasps and squirms, tightening up again. "Sweetie, sweetie sweetie...It's okay, baby." I take the tip of the dildo in my hand and start to massage it into his ass, slowly, slowly working it in. "It's okay, it's okay," I say, my voice coming out dark and smooth and soothing like chocolate. I keep talking to him, calming him, as I start to work towards a slow rhythm. My dildo is gliding in without resistance now, and I start to really fuck him. He's breathing hard and I can feel sweat now through the panty hose. His ass is so hot. I hold it while I fuck him, rubbing it and comforting him like a baby. I feel him loosen. I go in deeper and deeper. I feel like I'm going to fucking come - that I'm actually going to squirt with come inside of him. I feel so lithe and strong and sexy. I shorten the length of thrusts and quicken them, moving my body up so that my dildo is pulling his ass up, in a different angle than before. He screams and grapples for me. I take his hands off of me and pin them to the bed, feeling suddenly incredibly strong. Something wild comes over me. Tenderness and violence crash over me in one wave. I can feel how close he is to coming and I let myself move wildly. Again and again and again I push myself inside of him. He starts making a low moaning noise. He's so hot. I can't stay quiet. I feel my orgasm before me, like something huge that's about to hit me. "Baby, you're so sweet." His whole body starts to shake with a fantastic force. I scream as I thrust. "Oh, God, yeah!". Then it hits me. It slams me, like Rocky, trying to kiss a freight train. I can barely even hear his scream of ecstasy. I come like that, deep inside of him, and he comes. The chocolate, the liqueur filled chocolate I had been carrying in my mouth finally breaks its thin shell, and I finally, finally get to taste the enchanted stuff inside. And I'm so far inside of him that he tastes it too.
In the shelter of the dark basement room we can walk around these deep hidden places in each other. We can be outrageously beautiful and prowl for each other's eyes like sleek, impossibly sensual black cats. The dark room is a sacred space. We are the black cats in the box and no one knows we exist. In the black box I give him the impossible. I give him understanding. I hide him in myself. We make this exquisite friction of thousands of tiny little holes, tight, stimulating every nerve on our skin equally, simultaneously. I comfort him by sharing this sumptuous fuzzy friction. I comfort him like white noise.
An email from him has just appeared in my inbox.
Originally published April 2007 - "Dirty"