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Angela St. Lawrence is the reigning queen of high-end, long distance training and Femme Domme phone sex, providing esoteric depravity for the aficionado, specializing in Erotic Fetish, Female Domination, Cock Control, Kinky Taboo and Sensual Debauchery. To make an appointment or speak with Ms. St. Lawrence  ...


Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Juice

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the Juice:  A Queerly Medical Fantasy

Doctor’s Visit

by Porno Person

My wife and I had been trying to get pregnant to no avail. I had grown up in a really toxic area and had the sinking feeling that my swimmers weren’t treading water.

I had been putting off this appointment for months. It’s not that I detest doctors or office visits; I simply can’t stand the whole "referral process" that requires me to see my regular doctor, knowing that he needs to send me to a specialist but has to set up on official referral. Such a crock. It’s a waste of my time, the doctor’s time, and everyone’s money.

I had expected a simple "jerk into a cup" kind of appointment with the specialist, Dr. Lan. What I got was something quite different.

We started with a series of questions. He wasn’t shy asking about how often I masturbate, the frequency of sex with my wife, and when both things had last occurred.

You would think that I would be fine admitting how frequently I jerk off but it still caught in my throat; the Catholic guilt runs deep. "Three times a week," I croaked and mentally added, "More, if I can." As for sex, after sixteen months of trying my wife seemed to put sex on indefinite hiatus. It had been two months since we’d last "engaged in copulation" (as the doctor put it).

He nodded to each of my responses and marked my chart.

His questions exhausted, I thought that now was the time for the cup and squirt. Far from it. He rolled his chair over next to the padded, paper-covered table on which I sat and cuffed my arm to take my blood pressure. I could smell his cologne, it was a nice counterpoint to the typical medical office odor.

He tore off the cuff when he was done and, like every doctor or nurse I’ve ever had, didn’t tell me the results.

And then began the part of the exam that I had never before experienced at a doctor’s office. He had me stand up and take off my shirt. While I did that he retrieved a tape measurer. He unspooled it and wrapped it around my chest with my arms down. Getting the number of inches he marked these on a chart next to a line drawing of a figure. He repeated the process around my stomach, around my shoulders, along one arm and then the other.

Initially I felt like I was being measured for a suit but quickly I found that Dr. Lan was being far more thorough in his assessment. Up and down my arm, even noting the length of my fingers.

He requested that I remove my pants as well and, once I was finished, he began unspooling the tape measurer down my legs, his fingers brushing under my buttocks.

He told me to turn around so he could do the same for the front. I was hesitant to do so as I found myself with the beginnings of a hard-on. I hoped that he wouldn’t notice, that he’d be too involved with my legs to not look at the bulge in my underpants.

All the way up and down my legs he worked, the warmth of his hands a welcome presence in the cool of the examination room. He knelt down as he took his myriad measurements, his head even with my crotch. Though I tried not to, it was then that I started thinking about Dr. Lan in sexual terms.

When standing he was a half a head taller than me. Handsome, with an strikingly handsome face. Far thinner than me, he was still muscular and, noting that his white coat was opened, I wondered what he might look like naked. I tried to shake these thoughts from my head as they continued to make my erection more prevalent.

Dr. Lan had me turn around again and walk across the room to watch the way my hips worked, checking for any kind of dysplasia. I caught my reflection in one of the many mirrored surfaces of the room, feeling ridiculous stripped down to my whity-tighties tented out with a hard-on. Worse, after walking away from him I had to walk back, I could feel my dick bobbing in my underpants and hoped that he didn’t notice it.

If he did, there was no reaction. Instead, he asked me to repeat my walk a few times before he had me walk in place. While I did so, he put his hands on my hips, pushing his fingers along my joints. Finally he let me stop and marked more notations on my chart. I tried to spy what all he was writing but couldn’t make heads or tails of it. He got back up and, putting down his pen, donned a pair of rubber gloves.

"I need you to remove your underwear," he said. I felt my heart jump. As I lowered my underpants I half-expected to hear a cartoon sound effect, "Sproing!"

My "one-eyed snake" stared Dr. Lan in the face. Ignoring it, he reached underneath and grabbed onto my testicles. "Turn to the right and cough," he instructed. His hand felt wonderful on my balls. I wanted him to tug on them. I coughed for him and he had me repeat this a few times.

"I’m going to take your temperature," he said, getting up and going to his cabinet. I sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling under my ass. As he returned with a thermometer he said, "I prefer to do it rectally."

I shrugged and got off of the table to turn around for him. "Reach back and spread your cheeks for me," he said. As I did I felt the cool of lubrication being applied to my sphincter. This gentle rubbing was all too quickly interrupted by the intrusion of the thermometer sliding inside of me. I stood there in this awkward position, my erection pressed between my body and the exam table and my hand spreading my ass cheeks for what seemed like an eternity, all the while one of his hands rested on my lower back.

His watch beeped and he took out the thermometer. He read it and put it aside before he began sliding his fingers gently inside of me. He slid them in deep until he began gently prodding my prostate gland. My cock jumped at his touch.

His fingers seemed to linger longer than maybe they should have as they continued to press against my prostate. I felt a tingle in my loins, the kind that comes with urination or orgasm, that "loss of control" sensation. I tried my best to resist it.

"Very good," he said, removing his gloves with a snap behind me.

"Please get up on the table," he instructed as he disposed of his gloves and donned a new pair.

I lay back on the table, my legs hanging off the edge and my cock waving.

Standing next to me, Dr. Lan looked down, a small white plastic cup in his hand, and said, "I need a sample of your sperm so I can test the motility. There are a few ways we can do this; you can manipulate yourself, I can give you a prostate massage, or I can give a prostate massage and manipulate you at the same time."

I gulped and wondered if he could be serious about his offer. Rather than repeating what he said I merely indicated, "The last one, please."

"In that case, I’d prefer if you kept your eyes closed." He reached into a drawer underneath the exam table and brought out some gauze. He unrolled a bit and placed it over my eyes. I lifted my head and he began wrapping the gauze around it until he was satisfied that I couldn’t see. I could still make out shapes and shadows but only through a white curtain.

After adding some more lubrication to his gloves, Dr. Lan reached down between my legs and to insert a finger inside of me again. This time he found my prostate immediately and began rubbing it softly. Meanwhile, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around my cock and began stroking me. His firm, sure grasp made me moan before I could even realize what I was doing.

I could hear the sound of lubrication squelching in my bottom as he began moving his finger in and out of me in time with his hand pumping my cock. It felt so good as he expertly jerked my cock.

"What do you usually think about when you masturbate?" he asked me. The question startled and embarrassed me. Moreover, it perplexed me. Did he want the truth or did he want to hear something that would please him? What would make him happiest to hear? Why was he asking? Was this turning him on too? Did he want to know so that he could fulfill my turn-on?

These questions flew through my mind while my mouth quietly uttered, "Sucking cock."

Again, I couldn’t believe that I had admitted this to anyone, much less this stoic physician. My body seemed to be in revolt. I wasn’t saying or doing what I thought was right, only what, apparently, was necessary. This became completely evident as I reached my hand out to where I thought the front of his slacks should be.

I found his cock tenting his pants and gently rubbed my palm against it. He felt huge and rock hard. I hoped that I wasn’t stroking his otoscope. His reaction made it clear that I wasn’t. He pushed himself against my hand and I felt the wonderful upward curve of his cock filling my fingers.

"Would it make it easier to ejaculate if you were holding that?" he asked.

"Yes, Doctor."

He stopped stroking me and I heard the sound of his belt and zipper being undone, his pants falling to the floor with a jangle of keys and change. He put his hand back on me and I reached again for his cock, fumbling in the dark until my fingers found him and wrapped around him.

His cock felt wonderful, so hot and hard. I could feel the tendrils of pubic hair as my fist went down his length and the dribble of precum as I moved back up him again. I licked my lips and began jerking his cock in time with the way he stroked mine. "Tighter," he said. I obliged, tightening my grip on his manhood. He groaned in appreciation and I squeezed even more, so tight that it was difficult to stroke him completely. He helped by pumping his cock into my fist.

His cock was like a living relief map. I could feel the veins throbbing in my hand. He groaned again, I looked up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction but was unable to see anything but a blurry shadow through the gauze.

He plunged his fingers in deeper inside of me and I knew that I was going to cum soon. I felt him pushing me farther along, taking me to that place I love to go. Needing him there with me, I pumped him harder, faster.

His manipulation put me over the edge. I felt hot drops of spunk landing on my stomach. They were quickly joined by more on my chest as Dr. Lan began cumming. My hand was wrapped around him so tightly that I could feel the cum moving under my thumb as he drained himself onto me.

I didn’t want to take my hand off of him. I wanted more of him. I could feel his pulse pounding in my hand. He slowly removed his fingers from inside of me and took his hand off my cock. I did the same for him. He ran the plastic cup along my belly, collecting some of my ejaculate.

"That should be enough for testing," he said, the zip of his pants loud in my ear. "Though, we may need to take another sample if the lab can’t process this."

I felt him wiping me off with a wet towel, cleaning himself off of me, before he cut away the gauze over my eyes. I felt like proclaiming, "I can see!" but ruled that a little melodramatic. By the time I sat up on the table he looked as if nothing had happened.

He made one more mark on my chart before off-handedly saying that I’d have my results back in two weeks and to make a follow-up appointment at the front desk before leaving me to re-dress alone in the exam room. I made my appointment and knew I wouldn’t mind spending the money on my co-pay the next time I came around.


Ah, Porno Person.  He’s such a kinky guy and I simply adore him for it.  The man’s mind is a wicked, wicked place and perpetually in hyper-drive. 

Lucky for us.

Visit Porno Person’s blog, Prurient Interests, to be inspired, shocked, amazed and feel the overwhelming urge to masturbate furiously.

Faggotry, Foot Worship and Buggering

Thursday, January 15th, 2009

My Beer Buddy

by Louis Friend (Prurient Interests)

Despite us calling it "boys night out," most of the time Tony and I would hang out in his finished basement on our occasional evenings. Basketball season was our favorite. Tony’s wife, Marsha, would order us up a couple pizzas, stock the basement fridge with beer, and let boys be boys.

I don’t think that Marsha knew just what kind of boys we were being in the comfort of his plush rec space. Once we got down there and settled, Tony would have me strip for him. I’d get down on all fours and be his footstool. He’d rest his frosty mug of beer on the small of my back, sending a shiver up my spine I had to suppress, lest I spill a drop. All the while, my cock would be rock hard from serving him.

After a while, he’d finish his beer and set the glass aside. He’d have me kneel down, lower, and rub his bare feet. I took special care of him this way. Each week I’d rub and massage his soles. I’m sure that, of all the guys in the office, he had the softest and most pampered feet in our office.

Properly buffed and moisturized, Tony instructed me to worship his feet more deeply. I took each toe into my mouth, beginning with the little one on each foot and moving closer and closer to the big one. I loved to take his big toes in my mouth and suck them long and hard, lolling my tongue under them, feeling the ridges of his skin.

The first time we played this game was over a year ago. It was late–really late–and we had been drinking… a lot. After the game was over, Tony started flipping around and came to a softcore movie on one of his thousand cable channels. He started talking about how hot the girls in the movie were. Before I knew it, he had fished his cock out of his pants and was stroking it right in front of me.

I don’t know what it was but something came out in me seeing that. I just couldn’t help myself. It looked so big and full and… delicious. I bent over and put my hand over his, then I put the head of it in my mouth and started to suck. It just felt so right. He moaned and lay his head back over the edge of the couch, his mouth agape. I just kept sucking and stroking him, cupping his heavy hairy balls in my hand, feeling them tighten and hearing his breath get harder and heavier until he came, pumping his load into my mouth.

Since then, I’ve been his. We don’t talk about it much outside of his basement but once we’re together down there, I’m his.

While I love to suck his cock, what I really love is when he fucks me. I never knew that I’d want something like that but, shit, the next time we were together I was begging for it.

"Tony, will you fuck me?"

"What? Fuck your ass?"

I nodded. I felt like such a little bitch asking for it, but it just felt… I dunno… natural to want it. I wanted to feel him inside of me, deeper than my mouth.

He had me get over his ottoman and used some lube on my ass. That he had lube there, made me realize that he had thought of this as well. He put a finger in me and, oh, it felt so good. He started sliding it in and out and I couldn’t help but groan. I wanted him. I wanted him in me.

When he took his finger out, I felt empty. I wanted more. I wanted fullness. "Please, Tony, please fuck me."

He put the head of his cock against my asshole and pushed in. It was excruciating. "Oh, shit," I said, "Just… wait… keep it in me, but let me get used to it… oh." It felt huge inside of me. I felt like he was splitting me open. My ass was throbbing but wouldn’t you know, I wanted more.

"Can you take it, bitch?" he asked. Him calling me "bitch" just made me want it even more.

"Yes, please, oh, please, slide it into me. I need to feel it!"

He was happy to oblige. He pushed into me. My insides gripped at him and my cock spasmed as he buried himself deep. I could feel the heat from his body against me. I could feel the weight he was putting onto me. He began thrusting, fucking me. I was his now, completely. My hands clutched at the feet of the ottoman while he slammed me, again and again.

His hands grasped my ass, wrapping around to my hops, pulling me against him. Fucking me, grunting like an animal, possessing me.

"Oh, yes," he moaned and I felt his cock twitching inside of me, pulsing, cumming.

He started to pull out. "No, wait! Tony! Keep it inside of me, just for a little longer," I begged. He waited, his cock slowly getting softer, sliding out naturally, his breath going from ragged pants back to normal.

I lay there a little while longer, feeling his cum dripping out of me. I asked, "Will you do that again to me? Next time we’re together?"

"Sure," he sighed. "Can’t get enough, can you, fag?"

This made my cock twitch again. I could only answer, "Yes, sir."

And that’s how it’s been since. On occasion he’ll want things outside of our nights together. When he was going through a rough patch with his Marsha, I would meet him in the parking garage after work and suck him off before we both went home to our wives. I’m still all man to my Missus but when Tony and I get together, I’m his bitch, completely.


Interestingly enough, I recently created a fantasy very close to Mr. Friend’s scenario.  In fact — with a certain few twists here and there — I’ve conjured two entirely unique quasi-versions.Great minds think alike?  Or maybe it’s just that we — Mr. Friend, myself and , of course, my kinkster callers — are just intrepid gutter rats at heart.  Either way, fun was had by all and, if I do say so myself (and, believe me, I certainly do) two very kinky callers just love me to pieces.  Of course, the feeling is reciprocated.

You might wonder, considering their shared interests why I wouldn’t introduce one to the other.  But Angela, you may be asking, wouldn’t that be a Queer Boy’s dream-come-true?  Nah, not really.  Because, you see, neither want to be Tony.  They want to be the submissive friend who takes it up the ass. 

And did you notice the narrator-sub did not get to have an orgasm?  It’s what I call The Paradox of Submissive Phone Sex.  It goes something like this:  In REAL LIFE when a man is submitting, he might very well serve as a footstool, administer foot worship and be fucked by the Dominant.  And, as the story illustrates, the Dominant usually at some point uses the slave to sate their own sexual desire, culminating in the Dominant’s orgasm, while the submissive does not get relief.  His role is very much objectified; he is a means to an end, and it’s all about the Dominant’s satisfaction. 


In a Phone Sex Fantasy it is exactly this fact that the Dominant is using the submissive for his own selfish needs, without any regard for slave’s sexual fulfillment, that cause the Phone Sex Submissive to have an orgasm.  

Which I guess could lead to the conclusion that, if you want to orgasm when serving a Master, it’s better to do it as a fantasy.  Lucky for me, eh?

xo, Angela

BDSM Transexual Bedtime Story

Monday, March 31st, 2008

Riding the Wave

by Porn Person

I don’t think that I give off a "BDSM Vibe" but apparently I do.

The real I think that I emit this peculiar wavelength comes from an incident at my first "real job" — one that wasn’t held down part time while attending classes, or where I had to wear a uniform. The company I worked for hired a new office manager, Marla Strom. She was an unimposing slip of a woman. She was likely in her fifties (but where I was in my twenties, I had yet to gauge what could be considered "middle aged"). She looked like she would have fit in best at one of my mother’s Book Club discussion.

There was little cause for me to interact with Marla. She spent most days on the phone in her office, managing supply vendors, repairmen, and who knows what else. Yet, occasionally Marla would play "Den Mother" to the pack of web developers. She’d make an appearance, going through the rank and file to socialize. I had engaged in a few pleasant conversations with Marla, nothing out of ordinary, until about two months after she’d been there when she was bemoaning how empty her social life had been since moving to our metropolitan area.

"I just don’t know where to find the kind of fun I’m used to," she said. I suggested that she take a gander at some of the free newspapers that were available at the record store (dating myself) in the neighborhood. This seemed to pique her interest. She asked if they had any "club listings" and I started to jaw on about the music establishments downtown. "No, not that kind of a club," she said. She left this door open wide, waiting for me to step into it. More than a statement, it was a question and she was awaiting my answer.

Oddly, I knew that I wasn’t reading too much into her question. Whatever wavelength I riding, I knew she was sharing the same ride. I don’t flaunt who or what I am, so the moment it took me to decide what to say next seemed to take an eternity. I felt like I was standing at a precipice.

I plunged over the side: "I think I know what kind of club you mean. There’s one downtown, The Grasshopper, at Debussy and Bartok. It’s only open Friday and Saturday night after eleven."

She nodded, knowingly. "And what night can I count on seeing you there?"

"I haven’t been in months but was thinking of going there this Friday, as a matter of fact." It wasn’t the most truthful answer. I had no prior plans of going there but now it seemed suddenly to be in my best interest.

"Great, hopefully I’ll see you there," she said, touching my arm as she walked past me on the way back to her office.

It didn’t take more than a second for a hot cold flush to come over me, one that made me question both my judgment and my sanity. I’d let the cat out of the bag about my proclivities and I got the image of Marla putting in a call to the Human Resources department in Washington to file a complaint about the pervert in her local office. My head was swimming with ill-fated scenarios but, still, in the back of my head I wondered if Marla were simply just a "freak" like me.


The rest of the week I didn’t see Marla in the office more than just catching a glimpse of her. The debate went on inside my head as to show up Friday night or not. Yet, somewhere inside, I knew that I would be doing so, no matter how many reasons I gave myself not to.

Friday found me in the smoky shadows of the Grasshopper with the thump, thump of house music matching the nervous patter in my chest. I was nursing a drink when I saw Marla across the room. She was talking to a rather striking, tall brunette. Marla was barely recognizable outside of the context of our office and in a rather revealing outfit that included a leather skirt and a blouse that revealed her brassiere from certain angles beneath translucent black material.

Before I could think to do anything, Marla noticed me and nodded. She flagged me down with a wave and I made my way through the crowd of twenty-to-sixtysomethings that comprised the Friday night crowd.

It was more than a little difficult to make conversation over the music. I caught that Marla was with her friend, Dee, and that they were glad out on a Friday night for a change. Dee wasn’t one for making much eye contact, I noticed, as I tried to listen to she and Marla. After one particularly lengthy speech, Marla leaned into my ear and asked, "You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?"

I sadly shook my head and she smiled wide. "Okay," she yelled. "Let’s get our of here." She said something to Marla who slugged down the last of her drink before adjusting her purse and nodding her ascent.

Outside in the crisp winter air Marla seemed happier than I’d ever seen her. I don’t throw this word around, but she seemed "giddy." The same couldn’t be said for Dee, who was far more reserved. After walking with the two women for a while I realized that I hadn’t a clue where we were headed. They were walking with a purpose and destination in mind and I tagged along like a puppy hoping to get a treat.

We walked for only a few blocks (though the uncertainty of the destination made it seem longer) to what looked like a warehouse. Marla produced a set of keys and unlocked the door saying, "The best thing about that club, it seems, is that it’s so close to my space."

She unlocked the door and we went inside. I still didn’t know what was in store for me, at least consciously, but I think I knew on some level that Marla’s ‘space’ was her ‘placespace’. An elevator ride later, my inkling was confirmed. Without even needing to explain, Marla and Dee ushered me into a large loft which sported a decorative theme somewhere between medieval torture chamber and college student apartment.

There was no negotiating or verbal sparring. There was no polite offer of tea, coffee, or wine. Things fell into place like a puzzle piece finding its slot.

Without ceremony, Dee began liberating herself of most of her outfit. Marla started to do the same, simply stating, "Put your clothes on the shelf by the radiator" as she did.

I had been trained well enough by the women that I had served previously to know better than to affect an attitude of shock and awe. I knew my place in this kind of situation, despite never having been in one before, and did what I was told, removing every inch of clothes and, with it, any artifice of control. Naked, I knew I was not in charge of anything any longer and belonged completely to these two ladies until told otherwise.


It was chilly in the loft at first. I wasn’t cold for very long after the blows began to fall. I was bound to the crux decussata. Marla and Dee took turns using various implements on my flesh, starting with a flogger and moving on to a riding crop, small belt, and even a wooden spoon. They started off slow but soon were determined to see how long and hard they could beat me until I begged for mercy.

Marla’s body was incredibly tight. Her gray hair was cut short in a spiky ‘do that gave her a lot of sass. Her blue eyes shone with glee as she administered blows to my ass; I could see the look reflected in the mirrored wall before me. I prayed that neither she nor Dee would blindfold me; it was wonderful seeing them strut their stuff, working up a sweat as they beat me. Occasionally Dee would opt out of the beating and stand in front of me, my eyes level with hers. She’d reach between the crux of the St. Andrew’s Cross to find my penis, half hard between being turned on and being in pain. She’d take me to full mast with her hand, staring me down while she manipulated me expertly.

"You like that, huh slut?" she hissed, her husky voice making me harder. "Did you get hard when you saw us at the club tonight? Did you think about getting down on your hands and knees right there and kissing our feet? Did you want to put your face between Marla’s asscheeks and lick her tight hole? Tell me, slut. Tell Miss Dee everything."

And, as the lash fell across my stinging, hot bottom, I confessed my sins. I admitted to how flush with excitement I was when I saw them and to the carnal sins I committed in my mind. Her skilled hands took me up the flights of stairs of my orgasm building but stopped just before I jumped off the roof. She repeated this process several times as Marla continued to redden my flesh.

The slap of the lash was replaced by an odd buzz. I looked in the mirrored wall to see Marla with a new toy — a long white-handled tool topped with a purplish globe at the end. She applied it to my backside and I wailed out of surprise and a newfound sensation of pain as electricity seemed to rip through me.

"Shhhhh," Marla chided as she put her cool hand on my warm neck. Her touch was reassuring. I realized that this was the first time she had touched me. Her hands were soft but firm. She grasped to steady me as she applied the violet wand once again to the backs of my thighs. I tried to not wail as loudly as before, pushing air through my clenched teeth as the electricity crackled over me.

She held the wand to my thighs, my low moan turned into a sharp cry and finally I begged for mercy. She continued to shock me as she decided if she would show me any or not… Finally, she stopped the current. She began unbuckling me from the cross while Dee did the same. Weakened, they lead me to a low table in the middle of the room, laying me down on the padded surface.

Dee moved my feet up so that my knees were bent and my legs were open. I stared dumbly at the ceiling until I felt something cold and hard pushing against my anus. I looked down to see Marla holding the full bag of an enema in one hand while she inserted the nozzle with the other. I felt so vulnerable and humiliated as she opened up the flow and allowed water to enter me, flooding my bowels. I was even more embarrassed when the sensation set off my cock, making it hard enough for she and Dee to comment about.

Dee lackadaisically masturbated me as I filled with fluid. I began moaning from the pleasure of Dee’s hand mixed with the pleasure / pain / discomfort of the enema. Marla squeezed the bag to flood me with the last of the liquid.

"Hold tight," she said, while slowly pulling the nozzle free. I clenched as tight as I could, trying to hold the liquid inside of myself.

After she put the equipment down, Marla moved to the head of the table. She put her hands on my cheeks, lightly caressing me as she looked down into my eyes. She could see my panic and excitement. "You’ll feel the pressure build, almost as if the water never ceased. When it gets to be too much for you to handle, you need to ask for release. When that time comes, I may or may not allow you to use the restroom by the entrance. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head as much as I could, my voice struggling to get out of my throat. She smiled and patted my cheek before walking out of my field of vision.

Despite Dee’s hand on my cock, I felt utterly isolated, staring up at the ceiling and thinking only of the rumbling in my gut. I was torn between the pleasure of manipulation and the discomfort building inside. Finally, I had to plead for release.

I was granted the privilege of using the loft’s restroom. I was mortified by the sounds that must have been coming out of that room but managed to get over it with the sheer relief of evacuating.

When I sheepishly returned, Marla had me get back on the table. This time she strapped me down; one across the chest, one at the waist, and one at the neck. My legs were free only momentarily before they were pushed back and Dee wrapped a strap around each ankle that were then put behind my thighs, effectively keeping my knees bent. She smiled at me after she did this, the first time I had seen her truly smile all evening.

Dee then removed her underwear, revealing a steadily hardening circumcised penis. She continued to smile at me and I jumped as I felt the cool wetness of lubrication being applied to my now-exposed opening by Marla’s sure hand.

Dee moved closer to me and ran her stiffening cock across my lips, pushing insistently against them until I opened my mouth and allowed her access the the warm wetness. I felt the smoothness of her hot flesh against my tongue as she grew inside of me. She took the back of my head in her hands and began pulling me, still restrained against the bonds, back and forth along her shaft as she effectively fucked my mouth.

Why this particular act of debauchery affected me so, I’m unsure. Being taken by Dee in this manner sent me reeling, especially to be used like this in front of Marla. I felt as if the rest of the night’s events could have been "laughed off" as an amusing bit of play but having my mouth violated like this took things to a different level…

Let’s not kid anyone, I loved the feel of Dee’s cock in my mouth, and hearing her breathe through her clenched teeth as I grew to suck her with as much vigor as my bonds allowed. Meanwhile, Marla teased and played with my asshole, opening it with her fingers until a signal passed between she and Dee at which time, Dee removed her cock from my mouth and made her way to the end of the table which was at the right height for her to enter my waiting rosebud.

As she pushed her cock towards my waiting hole, Marla climbed up onto the table and rested her pantied pudendum on my mouth and nose, allowing me to smell the heady aroma of her excitement. This helped ease the discomfort I felt as Dee entered my behind, her hands grabbing onto my legs and pulling me onto her. Around the sides of Marla’s thighs, I heard Dee grunt as she went deep inside of me sending a shudder of pain mixed with pleasure through my entire body. Someone, I’m not sure who, held on tight to my cock.

Marla pushed herself harder against my face until she reached a point where I knew my nose must have been against the clitoris under her panties. She pressed harder, then lighter, then harder again, fucking herself against my proboscis as her friend fucked my ass.

Dee began to get more intense, her thrusts harder and deeper, while Marla continued to bump her love button against my nose faster. The hand on my cock gripped tighter. I couldn’t take it anymore and, despite trying to ask permission against the gusset of Marla’s pants, I erupted. The hand on my cock squeezed and milked me through orgasm and soon my ears were filled with the muffle stutter cry of Marla as she reached her own climax on top of me. Dee followed suit just a second thereafter, her cock twitching and jerking inside of me.

The ladies slowly got off and out of me. I lay there, dazed, while Marla fetched a warm washcloth for me to clean up with. Play time over, she walked me downstairs and gave me directions back to my car. I was both turned around and boggled by the events of the previous two hours.


The following Monday at work, Marla didn’t say anything or act any differently towards me. We continued our pleasant working relationship from then on, but every Friday night (until the company relocated her) we would meet at Grasshopper and adjourn back to her loft for more extracurricular activity.


As you should know by now, me and Porno Person are thick as thieves.  At least on occasion and let me tell you, what an occasion it is!  I like Porno person bunches and for a lot of reasons, one of which is that he can weave a mighty dirty story, and I like that it a person.  I like it a lot.  So sue me.  (or call me)

As I’ve noted before, I’m never sure which of his stories are "fantasy" and which are the real deal, because he is a practicing and mighty real-life-kinkster.  But I’m pretty sure this one actually happened.  So to my readers and callers who can only dream?  Eat your heart out.  *wink*

xo, Angela