Nadia The Evil Great

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cydytame056.jpg If Michelle exemplifies one type of woman to whom I feel an immediate attraction, the woman who serves for exemplar of my other type would have to be this stripper on whom I had a terrible, burning, yearning, puppy-dog completely unrequited crush, so unrequited in fact that I’m quite sure my existence barely registered. Her name was Nadia; she was Russian, and she was tongue-lollingly gorgeous.

Nadia serves as exemplar for a type of female beauty that infallibly slays me and of whose unquestionable slaying ability I am not proud. Nadia was stereotypically beautiful, though stereotypically in a somewhat razor-edged way. She was tall, about 5′9″, with long vodka legs-strong, high-proof and liquid-that flowed into the dual curves of her ass and then into her sinuous back. She had a narrow waist, strong, wide shoulders, and esculent breasts, big, ripe and mango-shaped. Her skin was white, her hair blunt-cut, her cheekbones predatory, her lips fulsomely red, her eyes calculating narrow almond slits.
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Marta, the Loved

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cydypotd114.jpgThe summer between high school and college, the first go at college, anyway, I spent as a counselor in an all-girl’s Catholic summer camp. I taught swimming, sailing, canoeing, and other water-related fun to a hundred or so really very good girls from around the world.

I also taught one twenty-two year-old half-Ecuadorian, half-El Salvadorian woman named Marta that she was, in fact, really a dyke.

I was seventeen. I had joined the proud legion of consenting adults about a year and a half previous, and I’d been diddling girls since around fifteen. So, yeah, basically I remember I landed at Camp VirginCrest, immediately surveyed the moldering 1920’s hotel that served as its bunkhouse, meetinghouse, and dining hall, and I thought: so where the boys at?

There was one. And he was, to his credit, pretty hot. Tall, athletic, lean and…blond.
I’ve never had an affinity for the blond man, and Mr. Tennis counselor wasn’t going to do it for me.

And then, as if almost to the sudden song of wicked angels, I saw Marta. Read more

Nipple Clamps & the Pleasurable Pinch

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My nipple clamps: I have a love/hate/love relationship with them. (Although to be honest, sometimes it’s more of a hate/love/hate relationship.) I am myself often profoundly passionately ambivalent, and my nipple clamps embody this dyadic intensity with exceptional and excruciating precision.

They’re a simple machine, really. Just two alligator clips yoked together by a slender chain. Some nipple clamps seem kinder with their adjustable screws set in their metal centers, but it’s a sham kindness really, for where the lies the gentleness so rests the cruelty. You can open the alligator mouths wider by manipulating the screw, but you can also make their jaws shut tight. Too wide and the clamps slip off your nipples erect and hard as pencil erasers. Too tight and, well, you can imagine.

Or can you? There is a fine line between pleasure and pain, as has been noted with such repetition as to render the aphorism nearly banal. The nipple clamp surfs that fine crest. It limns the line, as much as it blurs it. Because the simple and inescapable fact is that when you—or someone you trust—carefully places first one nipple, casually rubbed to tiny tumescence, and then the other within those small alligator jaws, something painful and something pleasurable will happen.

The best way I can describe it is this: the nipple clamp draws the shortest distance—a straight somatic line—between your nipple and your clit. The pinch of the nipple sends the electric shock of new recognition to your more pleasurable bits, and even as the nipple hurts, even as it screams in its small silent voice, you’ll find an opposite and corollary reaction occurring in your genitals. It has a nearly mathematical beauty, and it feels as perfect, as frustrating, as inexorable as algebra.

Nipple clamps do more than shock anew the pleasure bits. They adorn you. Nipples beg to be dressed, poking out as they do, whether perched on the modest slopes of a flat breast or the abundance of a full breast. The nipple clamp, shiny, glittering in candle light or street light, looks beauteous, the slight weight of the chain tugging the breasts down in graceful tandem. The chain swings gently between the breasts as the body moves. It begs to be pulled.

The thing about me and my nipple clamps is that when I put them on, or when they are put on me, their tiny bite wakes some sleeping beastie. It’s a feral pain, and make no mistake about it, it is pleasurable. The clamps rouse me from complacence. They intensify everything I feel—good, bad, and exquisite. They make an ordinary round of rogering something more visceral, more total, and more impassioned.

Which is not to say, as I began, that I always love them. The nipple clamps are not for me an every day thing. They are a treat and they are a trick. They are something that I both look forward to and that I dread. They make every fucking moment that much more immediate, and they can not be removed fast enough once I, exhausted and wrung pleasure wet and sighing, have come unto completion.

Fucktoy

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With the blindfold over my eyes and the ball gag in my mouth, I find the smell of leather and pussy is inescapable.

My arms are bound in thick white rope Jeannie-style: before my chest and under my boobs. I look like I just have to nod my head and blink to make my wish come true, but perhaps I already have and it already is.

My lover has piled pillows pasha-high on the bed. I am unceremoniously bent over them; my chin is propped up on my rope-bound wrists and my ass, which I cannot see, which I must imagine, forced as I am in this nose-down, coccyx-up posture, a position that not so much suggests my submission as it enforces it, my imagined ass flowers large and glowing, a hot-house blossom, large and mysterious and faintly dangerous. My ass, exposed as it is to My lover’s eyes and my fecund imagination, embodies both fascination and revulsion.
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The First Girl

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cydytame102.jpgThe First Girl had an apple-fresh name, like “Sue,” like “Annie,” like “Betty.” She looked like  a Holly Hobby doll, all shiny long russet hair and fair skin stippled with freckles. She was quiet and shy, so her self-assured pronouncements to me always came a kind of a shock, despite the fact that she made them rather regularly.

“Priscilla covers her insecurity with Sweet Honesty,” the First Girl said, linking a classmate and an Avon perfume that always smelled to me redolent of pineapples.

“Mr. O’Brien makes Elsinore seem like a medieval XHS,” she said, astutely joining the castle of Hamlet and the name of our high school.

“I think people aren’t heterosexual or gay. They’re just sexual,” she said, laying the foundation for our eventual hooking up.

“Hooking up” is, of course, an anachronism. In the late 1970’s, no one “hooked up,” at least not sexually. We “got together.” We “made out.” We even “got it on.” We only “hooked up” if we were buying drugs, which I never did. Drugs have never been my thing. My thing has been, of course, sex. Or ice cream. Sometimes it’s been exercise. But mostly, it’s been sex.

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My Michelle That Wasn’t

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cydytame161.jpgCrushes weren’t unusual when I was stripping. Surrounded by so much female flesh gyrating and writhing, airfucking for cash during those everlasting, carnival-lit nights, crushes on girls flitted like butterflies. I had them; others had them on me. Sometimes the stripclub crush resulted in mercurial sex or longer-lasting relationships; more often, they came to nothing. Just those warm fuzzy feelings shooting warming the dark, the natural progeny of faking sex, hot bodies, casual conversation, and the us-against-them, foxhole mentality of strippers awash in a world of customers.

There was one crush I had that felt different from the fast-burn lusts I had for other girls. This crush remains, even now a decade plus later, to sit apart from my erotic memories of other girls. This crush felt special.

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Vagina Usuria

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There’s this way I’m feeling right now. Right now, every third, maybe second, maybe fourth, maybe every other woman, I want to pour myself on her like melted butter. Right now, the way I’m feeling, I see women and I want to pry them open like oysters and pour them down my throat. I could sink my teeth into that chick’s thigh, him, right there, believe it or not. I imagine shucking her of ers clothes and nibbling her to wet, sweet morsels. Right now the way I’m feeling is omnivorous. I see a woman and I could devour her whole.

My vagina, maybe it has grown teeth. It is that voracious.

Right now, it’s been over two months since I’ve been properly laid. Over eight weeks, more than 56 days, or 1,344 hours, or 80,640 seconds have passed since I’ve been licked, kissed, touched, probed, penetrated, fornicated, fucked, in short. In the grand scheme of time, it’s not that long. Intellectually, I recognize the relative brevity. But in my panties, it feels like an eternity.
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