Here’s the link to my article on SPH that appears in ’s My Kink Monday’s series. Thank you Sloane!!! ❤️Paul

Sloane's Sex Ed

My Kink—SPH by P.K. Hofferman

It was a cool morning last spring when I dressed for my morning run. I heli-cocktered in the closet doorway to impress my wife…

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9 days ago · 22 likes · 3 comments · Sloane Black and P. K. Hofferman (Kinky Ink)

Meghan and I were walking back to our respective locker rooms after a rollicking round of racquetball. Gen-Xers might be the last generation still pretending this sport matters. To everyone younger, those courts probably look like an aquarium for the middle-aged — khaki-shorted, knee-braced, chasing tiny blue balls with the grim determination of people who peaked athletically in 1994.

At the corridor between locker rooms, Meghan grabbed my coconut water, took a swig, made the most horrendous expression, and spat it into the water fountain.

She always forgets.

“My god! How do you drink that shit?” She grimaced, wiping her chin. “Whoever drinks coconut water definitely swallows!”

I was mid-gulp. The laugh that exploded out of me was disastrous. While I tried to wipe off my shirt in front of strangers, Meghan disappeared into the women’s locker room still cursing the alkaline aftertaste.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the private showers. We all know why I don’t disrobe in public.

Water pressure easing the muscles one by one.

As I soaped up — the lather warm and slick across everything — with the taste of alkaline still on my tongue, I thought of Zora.

Zora gave me several firsts.

She was a high school hook-up on repeat. Always too much. I could only handle her in small, dangerous doses — like a 45rpm single I couldn’t stop playing even when it scratched. Every encounter a banger. She always left me reeling when she disappeared.

She was a dark-skinned diva. Intimidating. Always horny. Always down for whatever. She taught me about bodies. Mostly mine.

Track 1: The Snowball

Usually we’d drive out into the sticks. Some rural off-road, park in a field, open the moonroof. I’d slip from the driver’s to the passenger’s seat. Recline all the way. She’d prairie-dog out of the open moonroof to gain leverage — her cunt on my face, grinding while I licked and sucked. Then she’d maneuver to kneel in the driver’s seat and return the favor.

She always demanded I service her first.

This one particular night was one of her many surprises. Not her first way of shocking me. Not her last.

She gave me an especially filthy, perfect blowjob. When I came hard in her mouth, she didn’t swallow. She crawled up my body, pressed her lips to mine, and fed it all back to me in a long, sloppy snowball kiss.

Shocked.

Surprised.

Fair.

I moaned. I swallowed. She laughed into my mouth. Kept one hand behind my head. The other cupped around my balls. Her tongue dancing deep, making sure I received her gift of myself.

“You should know what you taste like.”

She wasn’t wrong. About anything. Ever.

Track 2: Dean’s Bottom Bunk

I purchased my first box of condoms because of Zora. Three Trojans. Red-faced. Nervous. A pathetic little rite of passage.

We’d been at a party that night at Simone’s house. Zora and I making out on the staircase — her above me, arms around my neck, the whole architecture of that arrangement telling me everything I needed to know about how this dynamic worked. I was completely owned. Shivering with lust. I knew I was going to lose my virginity to her that night. She wanted to take it from me too.

There was pot. There was Led Zeppelin, AC/DC — hard classic rock rattling the windows. Eventually Dean and Simone were ready to head back to his place. We tagged along.

Dean’s room. Lava lamp the only glow. He and Simone climbed directly onto the top bunk of his own bed without ceremony or discussion, the way people do when the evening’s logistics are already understood by everyone except the nervous virgin.

Zora and I slid into the bottom bunk.

Prince played on the tape deck. Lovesexy had just come out. I couldn’t tell you which track. I was grateful for the noise. Zora didn’t need it. Dean and Simone didn’t need it. The bunk bed was already making its own music — four sets of springs in conversation, the whole structure creaking.

I was the only one counting the beats.

I whispered to Zora, under the already creaking frame, that I’d picked up condoms. She grinned and bit my ear.

“I can’t wait,” she whispered.

Our hands undid each other’s jeans, snaked them down our legs. I went down on her — she was my first for that too, though not that night technically. She came under the lava lamp. Muffled in the pillow.

I crawled up her body. She’d already opened and unwrapped the condom. She rolled it on me in the most tender foreplay. Eased me into her heat.

I’ll always remember how it felt — the warmth through the latex, the encasement of condom and cunt, her squeezing me inside while she held me outside. We kissed as she undulated her hips, grinding against my slow gentle thrusts. I groaned into her hungry mouth. She moaned back into mine.

I picked up the pace. We both held the creaking bedframe above her head. I felt her body shudder all around me. She came.

I never did.

Too nervous. Too overwhelmed. Too in love with the idea of her.

She never knew.

Track 3: Alphabet Street

Zora loved giving head. She’d unzip me anywhere — driving, on the couch, in bathrooms at parties. She said I was “good practice.”

Good practice.

I had heavy petting before Zora. Late nights on bus rides home after track meets. Movie theaters. Under blankets on the couch. But I’d never tried oral. She was my first for that too.

I’d shown Zora my favorite pictorials from Penthouse and Variations. Confessed I’d always wanted to try 69. It looked amazing in the photographs.

She pushed me down. Swiveled around. Placed her blue-jeaned crotch over my face.

“Well, it goes like this...”

She ground her denim-entrapped pussy on my nose while she unbuttoned my shorts. I attempted to navigate her Calvins from an awkward angle. She laughed, arched up, shimmied out of them, and planted her cotton panties directly on my mouth.

She freed me in seconds.

I had smelled pussy on my fingers before. On swimsuits on the bathroom counter. But never directly from the source. The ripeness. The muskiness of her sex. I didn’t know what to do. She already had my cock in her mouth. She pulled off long enough to instruct:

“Just lick.”

So I reached around her thighs, spread her open the way I’d seen in the magazines, and started licking. Up and down. Enthusiastically. Possibly aggressively.

“Slow down. You need to savor me. Slowly. C’mon — you’re a passionate romantic poet who seduces me with words. Now just use your tongue.”

I thought about Prince’s “Alphabet Street.”

“No. Not like that. You’re moving around too much.” A pause. “Are you doing the Prince thing?”

She laughed. I died. She continued.

“Just establish a slow up and down rhythm. Don’t worry, I’ll get there.”

I followed her instruction. She taught me how to eat her — slow, deliberate, worshipful. I was so focused on not fucking it up that I barely registered the incredible blowjob she was giving me at the same time.

Yeah. 69s were too complex for me at seventeen.

She forced my mouth into a rhythm she rode out. She came on my face, thighs shuddering, moans and sighs abounding. Sat up. Smothered me. Stroked me off.

Track 4: The Rorschach

“I’m on the rag,” she smirked, stopping me from going down.

“Oh...” I pouted. I really wanted a taste. “Can I finger you? Or—”

“No.”

I pouted harder.

“Can I at least get a handjob?”

“No.” She got up. “Give me a minute.”

She went to my bathroom. Came back without her jeans. Held them in one hand, her panties in the other. Threw them at me.

“I want to fuck. But it might get messy.”

She looked around my room. Spotted the large pad of watercolor paper on my easel. Flipped to a blank canvas, ripped it out, let it fall to the floor. Positioned herself on top of it.

“Here, poet. Let’s make some art.”

She stopped me from reaching for a condom. “No need. You get to come inside me, baby.”

Period sex felt different. Not as slick. She was wet but wet in a different way. More friction. I had no frame of reference. I had no frame of reference for anything. That was rather the theme of our entire arrangement.

We fucked on the blank canvas. Sunny summer afternoon. Heat of the sun striping our backs through the blinds. I came inside her. Unprotected. Another first delivered without ceremony.

I pulled out. Red and slick.

She was anxious to see the canvas.

A small red Rorschach butterflied beneath her.

She soaped and toweled off my spent cock. Studied the canvas with genuine artistic interest.

I still think about that painting sometimes.

Track 5: Palm

Her handjobs arrived without announcement.

Driving her car — she’d just reach over. I’d unzip. She’d palm my face, wait for me to lick or spit, then wrap her hand around me and stroke while she steered with the other. My spit was always thick. She used it accordingly.

VHS movies. Fuzzy blankets on the couch. Same move. Same efficiency. Same palm presented to my mouth first.

When we made out, she noticed that my mouth went ice cold when I was close. She’d start kissing me forcefully when I was right at the edge — wanting to feel the contrast. The heat of my cock’s pulse in juxtaposition to the cold flooding my mouth.

“It’s the wildest sensation,” she said.

She was conducting experiments. I was the willing subject. The lab and the laboratory assistant simultaneously.

I didn’t know what I was participating in. I just knew I never wanted it to stop.

The water had gone lukewarm. I’d edged myself with soap without entirely meaning to — the lather warm and slick, the old muscle memory finding its way home. Like the old days with Zora, I didn’t finish. Held off. The slight sting of soap in my urethra brought me back to the present.

Besides. It seemed rude.

I sorted out. Rinsed. Toweled. Dressed.

Meghan was waiting in the foyer. Phone. Impatience.

“What the fuck took you so long?”

“I just lost track of time,” I said.

In more ways than one.

“Well, take me to dinner.” She rose from her seat. “That’s the least you can do for losing our match.”

“Hey, I held my own,” I countered.

“I’m sure you did,” she cooed.

She always does.

Meghan has never told me this story.

Not really. Not all at once.

She’s dropped it in pieces across twenty-nine years of marriage. A detail over black bean lasagna and bottles of Pinot Grigio on a terrace in year three. A confession whispered in the dark sometime around year nine. A small admission last fall, unprompted, while we were folding laundry. I always take her panty pile.

Small erotic breadcrumbs left on the trail of a life together, each one arriving when she wasn’t quite expecting to leave it.

I’ve been collecting them. Assembling the picture slowly, the way you come to know someone… not all at once but incrementally, her portrait emerging detail by detail until one day I realize I’ve been looking at it for years.

This is what I’ve assembled.

This is what I believe happened in a dorm room in 1992, before I entered the picture, before she was mine, when she was just Meghan, twenty years old, curious, brave in ways she still doesn’t give herself credit for.

She still says I make it more exciting than it really was.

I still don’t know how that’s possible.

It started with pot.

This much she’s confirmed. A Friday night in late October, crunchy leaves, fuzzy sweaters, and a weekend stretching open ahead of them. Meghan and Eric, her boyfriend, tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, that strong scruffy jaw she’d always been a fool for, and a loose crowd of friends passing a bowl around someone’s common room until the edges of everything went soft and golden.

Eric’s roommate Mike was there. He usually was. Sandy brown hair, blue eyes that caught the light in a specific way she’d noticed more than once, stocky and solid in a way that was different from Eric’s lean height. Strong jaw too, which she’d also noticed, which she’d filed away in that private inventory every person keeps and rarely discusses.

She’d had a crush on Mike for months.

Eric didn’t know this. Or if he did, he hadn’t said.

The crowd thinned as crowds do on Friday nights, people peeling off in pairs toward other rooms, other plans. Until it was just the three of them — Meghan, Eric, Mike — drifting back to the boys’ dorm room the way you drift somewhere when nowhere else presents itself, when the night still has momentum and you’re not ready to let it stop.

Someone put on music. This much I know. Depeche Mode bleeding through small speakers, Violator maybe, or Songs of Faith and Devotion — something with that specific weight, that slow dark pulse that fills a room without demanding anything of it. The Cure would follow. It always did in 1992.

They settled on the floor. Meghan against the entertainment center, her back to the shelves, knees loose. Eric to her left, leaning against his bed. Mike to her right, leaning against his. The triangle already drawn without anyone drawing it.

They talked. Passed the bowl again. The music continued its patient work.

She doesn’t remember who moved first. This detail she’s never confirmed, possibly because she doesn’t know, possibly because she does.

What she’s confirmed is this: at some point the talking stopped and she was kissing Eric. Deeply. The particular quality of a kiss that has nowhere to be, that isn’t moving toward anything specific, that is content to simply be itself. His hands in her hair. The scruff of his jaw against her face.

She pulled back. Looked at Mike.

He was watching. Not intrusively. Not like someone who’d stumbled into something. Like someone who’d been invited to something and wasn’t sure yet what the invitation covered.

She didn’t want him to feel left out.

This is how she’s always explained it. The most Meghan explanation possible — the generosity of it, the consideration, the instinct to make sure everyone in the room was accounted for. She didn’t want Mike to feel excluded from whatever was happening.

So she kissed him too.

And here is where the story gets interesting.

Because Mike kissed differently than Eric. Not better or worse — she’s been careful about this distinction across twenty-nine years of breadcrumbs, careful never to rank them in a way that would require me to have feelings about it — he just kissed differently. Where Eric kissed with confidence, a kind of easy authority, Mike kissed with attention. Like he was listening to something. His kiss had patience.

She pulled back from Mike and looked at Eric.

Eric looked at Mike.

Nobody said anything.

She kissed Eric again. Longer this time. Then Mike again. Then Eric. The comparison running underneath each kiss like a current she was following to see where it went, the experiment she hadn’t planned to conduct now fully underway.

The music kept playing. The room kept its particular golden dark.

At some point — she’s never been precise about when, whether it was her or one of them or simply the accumulated pressure of the moment reaching its natural conclusion — things shifted. The kissing had moved something through all three of them. The air had changed quality. The triangle on the floor felt charged in a way it hadn’t twenty minutes earlier.

She leaned back against the entertainment center.

Her hands moved to the waist of her jeans.

Eric watched her. Mike watched her.

I think we all just knew, she’s said, on more than one occasion, in more than one version of this story. Nobody had to say anything.

Nobody said anything.

What happened next she’s described in fragments across many years. The specific details arriving one at a time, each one a small gift, each one landing in my imagination and staying there.

Her jeans pushed down her thighs. Her hand finding its way inside her underwear with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly what she’s looking for. The specific knowledge of her own body that she’d been accumulating since long before either of these boys existed in her life — now performed, offered, made visible.

She was already soaked. The wet sound of her fingers moving between her lips was unmistakable in the quiet room.

She touched herself slowly at first. Building. The specific pleasure of being watched by two people who both wanted her, the knowledge that the room’s attention was entirely hers, that she was the center of the triangle and everything was running through her.

Eric to her left. He opened his jeans and pulled out his cock, stroking it slowly while he watched her. Dark eyes moving between her face and her hand. That jaw set in concentration. Mike did the same on her other side. His jeans open. His cock in his hand — different from Eric’s, she’s mentioned this without ever elaborating, which has left the detail permanently suspended in my imagination at its most generous interpretation. Blue eyes soft in the dim light, focused on her with that same quality of attention she’d felt in his kiss.

I imagine his cock thicker, heavier in his hand. Both of them breathing harder as they stared at her fingers circling her swollen clit.

Meghan didn’t hide. She spread her legs wider, working two fingers inside herself, then pulling them out to rub her slickness over her clit in messy, urgent strokes. Her breathing turned into soft, needy whimpers. The wet sounds grew louder, more obscene.

Eric’s hand moved faster on his cock. Mike’s grip tightened, his eyes locked on her glistening fingers and the dark wet spot spreading on the crotch of her panties.

She came first — back arching hard against the shelves, thighs shaking, a long broken moan spilling out of her as her pussy clenched visibly around her fingers. Eric followed right after, groaning as he spilled over his fist. Mike came moments later, thick ropes landing on his stomach while he kept staring at her.

Eric’s want for her. Mike’s want for her. Her own want for both of them and for this — for this specific configuration, this strange tender charged evening that nobody had planned and nobody would be able to adequately explain afterward.

Three people on a dorm room floor in 1992, Depeche Mode on the speakers, the night wide open, and what held the shape of it was basic human decency. The restraint as its own acknowledgment — we all want this and we’re choosing not to. The wanting made more charged by the not-crossing, the tension held deliberately, the triangle maintained.

The particular silence afterward.

She’s never told me what happened next. Whether they talked or laughed or simply reassembled themselves in the warm dark and let the music continue. Whether anyone slept. Whether the morning was strange or ordinary. Whether she ever kissed Mike again.

Some breadcrumbs she’s kept.

I’m lying in a mountain cabin in the dark, my wife asleep beside me, the key to my chastity cage on her nightstand.

I’ve been thinking about this story again. The way I always do when she leaves a new detail — turning it over, fitting it into the picture I’ve been assembling for twenty-nine years.

You make it more exciting than it really was, she always says.

Three people on a dorm room floor. The music. The dark. The triangle.

Meghan at the center of it, twenty years old, brave in ways she still doesn’t give herself credit for.

I reach over and pick up the key. Hold it for a moment in the dark.

Set it back down.

Some things you just get to keep thinking about. Some breadcrumbs lead somewhere and some of them are just beautiful on their own.

She shifts beside me. Finds my hand under the covers.

I let her have it.

We needed the mountains.

Thirty years into a marriage and sometimes you just need altitude. Fresh air. A bed that isn’t yours. The specific permission that comes from being somewhere else entirely.

We needed to reconnect. We needed to fuck like we used to. We did our best.

As she slipped out of her hiking clothes and into lingerie, I awaited her under the sheets — eager, aroused, ready. She approached with that particular look. The side-eye that means she already knows something’s up. She threw back the covers.

Completely naked. Compression socks. Nothing else.

She died laughing.

“Oh, I expected to find you in a pair of satin panties! But this? This is hilarious!”

I filed that away. The fact that satin panties were her first guess. The fact that she said it so easily, so knowingly, without a moment’s hesitation.

The weekend created several memories to retain.

”I’m nipply and cold, so I’m wearing a t-shirt with panties,” she shivered the second night. “You’ll just have to pretend I’m one of your college girls.”

Who the fuck is this woman and what did you do with my wife?!?

I’m starting to suspect she’s reading my Substack. One of my biggest fans, unbeknownst to me. A true “Escape: The Pina Colada Song” scenario.

We enjoyed rollicking foreplay that felt like rediscovering a favorite song we’d somehow forgotten that we knew all the words to. At some point during one of these rounds, she noticed the suction cup dildo on the nightstand.

“Is this for you or for me?”

Gulp. Beaming.

“How about for both of us?”

“Me first,” she giggled.

Of course she did. Thirty years and she’s still one step ahead.

But the moment that sealed the weekend — that one requires a little backstory.

About two years ago I stumbled into a collaboration with Key Barrett,MSC on a chastity coloring book. It started simply enough — Venus Cuckoldress posted on BlueSky that Key was looking for an artist, I jumped. Mainly out of curiosity.

I will never yuck someone’s yum.

Before working on this project I’d seen chastity in the hotwife and cuck videos I’d stream and jerk to. Always found the sight humiliating in a way that didn’t particularly move me. More clinical than erotic. A prop. A punchline.

Key and I have worked on this coloring book as our strange, beautiful, surprisingly tender side project.

Somewhere along the way, the prop started to look less like a punchline.

Last fall I purchased a cage. You know, for posterity reasons. Research. Due diligence. I wanted to know what it felt like.

I enjoyed it more than I cared to admit.

My wife had known about the coloring book from the beginning. Like me, she initially didn’t see the appeal. We were in agreement on this, two sensible adults with no particular interest in plastic hardware.

Last night was the first time we tried a position from the collaboration.

Here is Key’s fantastic write up of the position:

The Sex Doll

Level: Beginner
Tags: Female-focused, submissive male, CFNM, Male orgasm.

The What:

This one is a twist on the reverse cowgirl. Only she’s got a pommel and she’s going to use it! This is one of the simplest moves in the book but allows for a lot of variation, and as it is easy both on the locked and the keyholder, it’s really one you can take your time with, and allows for much re-interpretation. You can use vibrators, strap-ons, whatever your dirty little heart desires because it’s a stable, easy position for both of you.

The How:

The locked partner lays down on the bed or the ground. If you’re into BDSM, they can have their legs and feet bound for this one. It is best to keep their feet together so the keyholder can more comfortably straddle their partner. Before getting into position, make sure you have laid out all the toys/weapons you wanna use. The keyholder straddles the locked partner’s tummy, facing their feet. They should move down towards the cage until it rests comfortably against their vagina and clit.

Once in the position, a favorite of ours was to take my wife’s Hitachi ‘Magic Wand’ vibrator and place it between my testicles and locked shaft (put it on LOW, for heaven’s sake). She could then press my shaft up against her clit and use my locked cage as her vibrator. It was overwhelming for me, and a twisted powerful delight for her. It will be the same for you. The locked partner can place their hands on the keyholder. It is a fun position to explore areas not traditionally explored with the hands during sex: The back, the shoulders, the outside edge of the thighs.

Here’s my illustration for the position:

It looked like a lot of fun… why not try?

I was already locked under the covers, in the dark, when she slipped in beside me. We started making out the way you do after a day of hiking and altitude and the specific tenderness of being away together. Her hands traveled down.

She felt the cage.

A surprised laugh broke into our kiss.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

“Yep. What do you think?”

“Where is your cock in this thing? In the plastic part?”

“Yeah, that’s where it is.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It’s a delicious pain.”

“My god, what this does to your balls!” Her fingertips tickling, tapping, exploring with the curiosity of someone who has just discovered an unexpected room in a house she thought she knew completely. “What color is it? I bet it’s hot pink.”

I lifted the covers. Flicked the flashlight on my phone.

She saw the pink plastic and roared with laughter. She fondled me and raised me into the light. It felt like college. Like rummaging under the sheets at two in the morning just to see what we could find.

“It’s sooo cute!” she cooed. “And, seriously, this doesn’t hurt?”

“It hurts in a good way.”

She considered this with the focused attention she brings to things that genuinely interest her.

“I wanted to show you a position from the coloring book,” I said. “It looked fun.”

“Mmmmkay. I’m game. What is it?”

I showed her the illustration. Handed her the Hitachi.

She looked at it. Looked at me.

“So this is why the battery died on me the other day.” A sexy scolding.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. Embarrassed. Completely unrepentant.

“This has been my favorite way to cum lately,” I admitted.

She climbed on top of me. “So I straddle you like this.” She fired up the Wand.

“Position the cage where it feels comfortable. Where it hits the right spots.”

“Hmmm.” She shifted slightly. “I like how this feels.” Grinding on the plastic with the focused expression of someone running a very satisfying experiment.

“Then apply the Wand to the cage. The vibrations go through me to you.”

The rattle filled the room.

“Wait, this has a LOCK?!?” Her joy knew no bounds.

“Yeah. The key is on the nightstand. That’s what’s meant by being a keyholder.”

“Hmmm.”

I couldn’t tell if the sound was a response to the vibration or the information. Possibly both.

Probably both.

“Damn, this feels… really good.” She shifted again. “How is it for you?”

“Oh, I love it,” I whimpered. Already shaking.

“I need more though.” She pressed harder, then adjusted, bringing the bulbous head into direct contact with both her clit and the cage simultaneously. A moan escaped her. Loud enough, probably, to interest the room next door.

We didn’t care.

Her orgasm built slowly and crashed over us in powerful waves. We were both shuddering, electric, undone.

Afterward she stayed on top. The particular stillness of two people who have just discovered something together.

“I like this control,” she grinned.

She reached past me to the nightstand. Lifted the key. Dangled it in front of my eyes with a smile I recognized… the side-eye from the compression socks moment, the giggle from me first, the laugh into our kiss. All of it distilled into this one expression.

“I think I’ll enjoy our new dynamic.”

I beamed.

“I wish I would’ve shared this with you earlier,” I said.

“You’ll be punished for holding out on me, that’s for sure,” she smirked.

I lay there in the dark of a mountain cabin, locked in pink plastic, my wife holding the key above me, thinking:

Why did I wait this long.

And then, softer, underneath that:

What have I unlocked?

What have I done?

📚 Medium | 🦋 BlueSky | 📚Amazon | 💬 X (under_the_suit

What you’re about to read are true stories from my kinky life, recounted at my own expense. I have emerged from each incident technically unharmed and significantly wiser. Whether that wisdom was worth the tuition is left as an exercise for the reader.

Enjoy.
P.K.H.

The Blue Bottle (circa 1990)

I’ve always been sensual as fuck.

At seventeen I owned gun metal gray satin sheets. Yes, in high school. I have no explanation for this except that I was already deeply, hopelessly myself. They felt like sliding into a massive pair of knickers every night. I slept completely naked, slipping around my twin bed like a satisfied seal. No wonder I was constantly horny. The sheets were essentially doing foreplay without my consent.

I had a system. Strip down, slip in, open an issue of Penthouse Variations, and grind against the sheets until touching myself became not just acceptable but medically necessary. Grab the tissue box. Grab the Jergens Cherry Almond lotion. Pump. Then pump.

I had the most moisturized cock in the continental United States. Girls repeatedly commented on this. How soft I felt. Even when rock hard. This is not an SPH thing. This is a skincare thing. I was a trendsetter.

This particular evening I grabbed a new bottle I’d purchased. Light blue. Didn’t read the label. Didn’t think about what light blue might mean in the context of a lotion previously known for smelling like a scone.

That was my first regret. There would be others.

I was fully prepped. My girlfriend’s worn panties on my head — sideways through both leg holes, gusset positioned directly on my nose like an erotic aromatherapy device. Variations open to a femdom story. Precum already making an unsolicited appearance.

Four pumps of blue lotion. Cold slick coating my shaft.

Ice-plunge. The kind of chill that makes you shrink.

Okay. This is different.

A few strokes in. The warming begins. Head first, spreading down the shaft like a very bad idea finding its full potential.

Then the afterbite.

The BURN.

Lake of Fire burn. Apocalyptic napalm burn. Fine sandpaper abrasion on every nerve ending I owned and several I didn’t know about burn.

What the FUCK did I just put on my dick?!?

I untangled myself from the satin sheets — a process requiring more athleticism than I’d like to admit — and flailed across the room to the bathroom like a man on fire. Because essentially I was. Splashed water. Soap. Rapid scrubs. Internally chanting get it off get it off get it off like a man performing an exorcism on his own genitals.

Towel dried. The coolness returned. Arctic blasts. My cock, confused and betrayed, had opinions.

I ended up sitting in the shower. Wash, rinse, repeat until everything was completely numb and dumb and I’d had sufficient time to contemplate my life.

When everything settled, I went back to tidy up. Picked up the blue bottle. Read the label for the first time.

What sick FUCK makes mentholated lotion?

It’s not like I’d ever intentionally dip my dick into Vicks VapoRub, but this was disastrously, humiliatingly close. I want that on record. I was a victim of inadequate product labeling.

LESSON LEARNED: Read the label. The whole label. Before anything touches anything.

The Candle (Circa 1993)

Early twenties. Winter break. Back home, alone.

I was dry stroking in the bathroom. Eyes closed, trying to summon something useful from memory. Regrettably, I’d left my porn back at my college apartment. A genuine hardship. My imagination was doing its best but kept buffering.

Going under the sink for lotion (regular almond/cherry!), I spotted a bag of hand-dipped candles shoved in the back. Long. Smooth. Tapered to a point.

I closed the cabinet. Stood up. Looked at myself in the mirror for a moment.

You’re going to do this, aren’t you.

Opened the cabinet again.

The candles were still there. Patient. Willing.

I had an idea.

Legs spread wide, heels on the wall, back against the cabinet. I lotioned one up. It slid in so easily. Slowly savoring the feeling. Goosebumps everywhere. My imagination, previously buffering, now had absolutely nothing to do.

Until.

My ass started sucking in the candle. Just decided it wanted more. Slipped from my lotion grip and began migrating northward on its own initiative, with purpose, like it had somewhere to be.

Panic.

Fortunately my other hand wasn’t slick. I grabbed the base before having to explain myself to an ER nurse at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday in December.

Sir, how did this happen?

Well…

Pulled it out immediately. Cock whimpered. Adrenaline pumped.

Heavy sigh. Dodged bullet. Valuable education received at no additional cost.

LESSON LEARNED: Anal toys have a flared base. This is not decorative. You’re welcome.

Demi (Circa 1994)

If you watched VHS porn in the 90s, you knew it arrived in ridiculously big boxes. Practically a coffee table portraying tits and ass. I lived in a state that banned penetrative porn — a fact I still find constitutionally questionable and frankly un-American — which meant everything available locally was the cable version. Bad edits. Strategic angles. Tremendous disappointment. The good stuff required mail order.

I was a devoted Vivid Video customer. They had a significant portion of my student loan money. I regret nothing, not even the interest rates.

One afternoon I anxiously grabbed the mail. My shipment had arrived. I raced upstairs, ripped open the package, stared momentarily at the lipstick lesbians on the box like a man reviewing a fine wine label, and slipped No Man’s Land Vol. 74 into my all-in-one TV/VCR. A sophisticated setup for a sophisticated man.

Fast forward.

Shorts and boxers at my ankles.

Great girl on girl scene. Lots of kissing. Lots of panty rubbing. Lots of licking.

My girlfriend and I maintained what I can only describe as a lusty library — a rotating loan program of her worn panties, curated for my specific tastes. No late fees. Excellent collection. I was a loyal patron. Fresh pair across my face, gusset at my nose, both leg holes framing my head like the world’s kinkiest crown.

Slid down the side of the bed onto the floor.

Cock in hand.

Moans from the TV.

Fuck, this is hot.

Double tap on the door.

It creaks open.

Demi’s voice — my roommate, one of my closest friends — “Oh! Fuck! Sorry!”

Then laughter. Immediate, delighted, completely unrepentant laughter. All the way down the hall.

She left the door cracked open. Deliberately. I’m certain of it.

I scrambled to close it. Third-person humiliation narrowly contained.

She brought it up that evening. Of course she did. Said something snarky and perfectly calibrated to make me want to disappear through the floor. I’ve blocked the exact words, probably for survival reasons. Demi had a gift for locating the precise thing that made me squirm and deploying it without mercy, without hesitation, without any regard for my dignity whatsoever.

She was a really good friend.

LESSON LEARNED: Lock the door. Always. Non-negotiable. No exceptions. Yes, even then. Especially then.

The Latex Question (Circa 1986)

I’ve always loved shiny materials. The latex goddesses in my dad’s Penthouse Variations owned me completely. Sleek. Slick. Architectural. I didn’t have the vocabulary for what I was responding to, I just knew that something in my nervous system stood at full attention every time a woman appeared in latex. My body understood things my brain wouldn’t catch up to for years.

I was too young to know what latex actually was, but old enough to want it badly. A dangerous combination in a small Southern Baptist town with absolutely no infrastructure for this kind of thing.

No dominatrices. No sex shops. No reference points. No one to ask, obviously. The internet didn’t exist yet. I was working from a single data source: my dad’s magazine collection and my own feverish imagination. Both excellent resources, frankly.

One afternoon, helping with yard work, I found myself handling thick black industrial garbage bags. Bagging leaves. Very glamorous work. The trash bags were kinda shiny. Crinkly. I developed an engineering problem I needed to hide behind the rake.

A few days later, home alone, I retrieved a bag from the storage room. Grabbed scissors and duct tape. Went to my bedroom. Stripped down.

I fashioned a pair of boyshorts like a kinky contestant on Project Runway. Cut leg holes in the bag, repurposed the drawstring as a waistband, applied duct tape to make it shorter, tighter, approximating something I’d seen in Variations. The craftsmanship was, objectively, impressive for a guy working without a pattern, a budget, or any legitimate reason to own latex underwear.

I stepped into them.

The slick. The sound. The sensation against my cock — magical. I taped them tighter. Refined the fit. Iterated like a professional. Then teased and rubbed myself for a long time.

Until I came.

Then the post-nut clarity arrived like a Southern Baptist Sunday morning. The overhead fluorescent light of small-town conscience switching on all at once. What are you doing? Shame. Guilt. The holy ghost of every sermon I’d ever fidgeted through, suddenly very present in my bedroom.

Looking back… the shame wasn’t mine. It was on loan from every pew I’d ever occupied.

The ingenuity, though.

That was all me.

The Empath (Circa 1989)

Want to know the downside of being an empath? You get curious about stupid shit.

Watching my girlfriend Ryan give me blowjobs in the backseat of my Prelude offered mental recordings I’d return to later. I wanted every detail. My hand in her blonde curls. Her big blue eyes staring up at me with pride. Her tongue pressed hard against my shaft. Her smile. Her drool dripping down my balls. She’d stroke me, lightly play with my ass — that’s when I could tell her jaw was about to fall off. Instant explosion.

We ran track together. She was fast. She was thorough. I was grateful.

One night, alone in the bathroom, stroking with spit for lube, I found myself staring at my cock.

I found it cute.

So cute I wondered what it would be like to kiss it.

I wondered what it was like for Ryan to put me in her mouth.

I wondered what it would feel like to suck a cock.

My cock.

No one else’s cock.

So I bent down. Folded over as best I could. There was an infinite distance between my lips and my goal.

I climbed into the tub. Went sideways, heels up the wall, body shaped like a J. Arched my hips toward my lips. This felt closer. I felt the possibilities.

We had potential. I just wished I was longer. If I were more endowed I could probably pull this feat off. And if that were the case, I’d never leave the house.

I crawled out of the tub, stretched out on the rug. Still felt the cold tiles on my back. I began lifting my legs, feet pointed forward, hands cradling my lower back, rocking like a perverted pendulum — feet farther and farther over my torso, then up over my head until I hit the cabinet.

Then I had an idea.

I opened the cabinet. Rolled up a towel to cushion my neck. Flipped my legs over my head, anchoring my heels inside the open cabinet. That gave me enough leverage to hinge myself — splayed like a frog. Road kill kink. Spread and folded and completely committed.

My cockhead touched my lips.

It was fiery hot. Feverish against my mouth. I wasn’t expecting that.

I parted my lips. Eased a little ways in. My tongue swirled. I could taste myself.

I tried to feed more into my mouth but I just wasn’t made that way. My breathing labored. Rattled in my throat. I couldn’t hold the pose.

I had to ease up.

There — my little cyclops staring right back at me at nose level.

I jerked myself slowly, watching from this impossible angle. So close to my face. I readjusted, locked my heels back in, hinged again. And again. Each attempt a little more deliberate. The heat surprised me every time — that feverish pulse against my lips, the taste of myself, the strange thrill of finally knowing what Ryan knew.

I wish I could’ve held it longer. I wish breathing was optional.

That was a long time ago. I’m less flexible now. The bathroom cabinet is in another state. The Prelude is long gone and so is Ryan, her blonde curls, her proud blue eyes.

But sometimes I still dream about it. Literal dreams. Hips arching toward my mouth.

Tongue out.

The Amazon Pillowcase (2025)

Those gun metal gray satin sheets didn’t survive into adulthood. Casualties of moving, of growing up, of whoever decided thread count mattered more than pure animal sensation. Philistines, all of them. But the pillowcase made it. One survivor from the high school swank era, holding on in the back of a closet like a faithful lieutenant waiting for new orders.

Orders eventually arrived. From the internet. As they do.

A JOI domme had given me precise instructions: slip into satin panties, grind on a satin pillow. I do as I’m told. This is perhaps the most consistent thing about me. The old one wasn’t big enough for the pillow I wanted to use, so I ordered a larger satin pillowcase from Amazon that same evening. Prime shipping. Some purchases cannot wait.

I pulled on the panties. Positioned the pillowcase over a firm pillow with the quiet confidence of a man who has thought about this for several decades. Prostate plug already in — I’d planned ahead for once in my life, a personal record.

The first sensation, slick and slippery across my balls and shaft. The plug shifting and pressing with every movement. The domme’s voice steady in my ear, telling me exactly what I already wanted to do. We were in complete agreement.

Eventually I curved the sides of the pillow around my cock. A hotdog bun situation. And fucked it properly and without apology.

Made a mess in my panties. Took them off. Licked them clean.

The gun metal gray satin sheets were long gone. Muscle memory, apparently, is forever. So is Amazon Prime.

Coda: Zed’s Dead (Yesterday)

Current day. College kids back home. Both at work.

I arrived home early. Thirty, maybe forty minutes of solitude stretched before me like a gift from a benevolent universe. I felt kinky as fuck. Lately my favorite go-to is to strip, get locked, slip into satin panties, and rattle my cage with the Hitachi. Simple. Elegant. The masturbatory equivalent of a capsule wardrobe.

That was the plan.

I bounded up the stairs. Stripped. Opened the laptop and pulled up a JOI vid — a domme who instructs me to do exactly what I’m about to do. Lock it, wear panties, vibe the cage. A woman of impeccable taste who truly gets me, even if she doesn’t know I exist.

Locked my cock in the pink plastic chastity cage. Slipped into purple satin fullbacks. Grabbed the Hitachi.

Locked the door. A man who learns from his mistakes. Eventually.

Settled at the base of the bed. Hit play.

Technical difficulties.

Click. Click. Click. Impatient, increasingly desperate clicks. The clicking of a man whose window is closing.

Rainbow wheel.

Fuck.

Reboot. I played with my balls while waiting for the digital mistress to reappear, like a man checking his phone at a bad restaurant. Except the restaurant was my bedroom and I was wearing satin panties and a chastity device. So. Similar. Like a caged cannellini.

She returned. Vocal. Unfrozen. We were back in business.

Sparked up the Wand.

A few glorious, promising, deeply encouraging vibrations in.

Died.

FUCK.

I sat there for a moment in my purple satin fullbacks and pink chastity cage, a vision of thwarted elegance. The universe, apparently, had notes.

Fine.

I unlocked my cock — keeping the panties on, I have standards, this is not a negotiation — and retrieved my male masturbator from the bang bag. I call the male masturbator the electric eggplant. It sucks and vibes, and it’s as big as an eggplant. Obviously. The bang bag is a dignified black leather satchel, once carried to meetings, now home to vibes, plugs, panties, fuzzy cuffs, lube, and one prostate massager with a full charge. A career pivot I don’t regret. Not even a little.

Slipped on a condom for easy cleanup. A professional touch. Pressed the buttons.

Nada. Zilch. Not even a polite buzz. The eggplant had nothing to offer.

Retrieved my wife’s second favorite vibe. Tested it first this time — I’m not strictly Pavlovian, I learn things. Dead.

I’m guessing she’s getting off more than I realize. Good for her. Truly. I support this.

At this point I knew I could go medieval. Just use my hand. The oldest technology known to man. Reliable. Portable. Never needs charging. Free with purchase. No firmware updates. No compatibility issues. No betrayal.

But I wanted something kinky.

I felt like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction, rummaging through Maynard’s pawnshop for a weapon while the clock ran down. Except instead of samurai swords and chainsaws I was holding up dead vibrators and silently interrogating them.

Why have you forsaken me!

I emptied the bang bag completely onto the floor. A crime scene of uncharged ambitions. Found the prostate massager at the bottom like buried treasure. A loyal soldier. The last man standing.

Flicked it on.

It hummed. Healthy. Vibrant. Faithful.

Yes!

Settled back down with my digital mistress. Mere minutes of solitude remaining. She was instructing me to hold the Wand to my balls. If only, babe. If only. We’re doing the best we can up here.

I awkwardly angled the massager, hunting for my frenulum — that devastating strip of sensitivity, the clit of a man, the one spot that makes my eyes cross and my vocabulary disappear — until contact was established. Not as powerful as the Wand. Not even in the same area code. A Toyota where I’d wanted a Ferrari.

But this improvisation worked.

I came. I conquered. I cleaned up just in time.

LESSON LEARNED: Charge your toys. All of them. Regularly. Make a schedule. Put it in your calendar. Your hand never needs a firmware update — but where’s the fun in that.

Also, masturbation is fucking healthy! Go. Enjoy yourself!

📚 Medium | 🦋 BlueSky | 📚Amazon | 💬 X (under_the_suit

Before we make your naughty bits all tingly, there’s a playlist for Elise and Ryan. This has become my go-to while writing/drafting/sketching. Check it out.

And now, onto the erotica!

Come-fuck-me-boots are the gateway to pegging. Next beat, it’s tease and denial, then chastity.

Ryan would like to say he clicked on it by accident. The algorithm. That’s what did this.

One night, in the glow of his laptop, dick in hand with his usual rotation of lipstick lesbians; heteronormative threesomes with two women slobbering over a cock that frankly made him feel inadequate; all of it got interrupted by a sidebar. A blonde. Black latex. Come-fuck-me-boots and something that could’ve been a bustier or a bodice or a teddy; Ryan didn’t know the vocabulary yet.

He clicked. Because of course he clicked.

(He watched it four times.)

The algorithm knew what Ryan wanted. Knew him better than he knew himself. His vanilla-sex-for-males feed melted. All his thumbnails glitched into a multitude of dominatrices in shiny latex wielding silicone cocks, offering chastity cages, and taking control.

For a flash of a second, Ryan thought one of the thumbnails was his girlfriend, Elise. It looked a lot like Elise… just in thicker eyelashes and heavier makeup. His mouse hovered, activating the gif of the scene.

He blinked.

Uncertain.

His cock didn’t know whether to shrink or throb.

He gulped. Held his breath. Clicked.

404.

Page not found.

When he navigated back, the thumbnail disappeared, too.

That was 404.

This was 420.

A holiday, technically, if you observed it. Ryan observed it. Elise observed it. To Ryan it looked as if she even decorated for the occasion. Green party lights draped over blackout curtains. Narrow slits of sun sliced through the haze. Candles flickering on every surface. There was an incense Ryan couldn’t name; one he’d never forget. For Elise, this was a typical Monday.

He moved through her living room like it was sacred ground. Bookshelves heavy with spines he couldn’t quite read in the low light. Strange decks of cards stacked like little cairns. Then a pair of glowing eyes startled him from the top of the bookcase — a dark calico gargoyle staring down.

“Oh, that’s Jupiter,” Elise said from the couch. “She loves high places.”

“Um… hi, Jupiter.” Ryan gave a small awkward wave.

By the time the bong had been packed twice, Ryan’s filter was basically vapor. He asked the thing he’d been not-asking for three months.

“Have you ever heard of femdom?” Ryan said femdom like fem-dumb.

“You mean, femDOM?” Elise corrected.

“Is that how you say it?”

“That’s how we say it, yes.”

“We?”

“For those who practice.” A flickering flame illuminated her evil smirk. “Are you curious?” Her hand rested on his thigh in a way that offered solace and ownership simultaneously.

Ryan settled under the weight of her touch. “Yeah… maybe…” Suddenly he found himself embarrassed that he even brought it up.

Elise shuffled cards.

Ryan shifted on the couch. “I sorta stumbled upon some videos a little while ago.”

“Oh, yeah?” Elise knew to act a little distracted. It was a surefire way to pull the confession out him. Instead of doomscrolling, she was Tarot reading.

Whose forecast? That remained uncertain.

She drew The Devil first. She planted it on the coffee table. Ryan glanced. Gulped. He turned his eyes away from the Adversary’s gaze. Ryan tried to focus on an object at the base of Elise’s stereo cabinet. Was that a butt plug?

It owned the shape of a butt plug. There, on the carpet, buzzing to the subwoofer’s vibrations.

Maybe it was the angle.

Ryan shook his head. He noted Elise placing The Tower next. The Devil’s accusatory stare forced Ryan to survey the room again.

The butt plug had shifted. The shape slightly different.

“You were saying you stumbled upon something,” Elise softly reminded him. Her fingers fondled the cards. The gleam of the edges.

To Ryan it looked like the border of existence.

“Um, yeah…” He blinked. There was this heaviness in his chest. Head swirled. He struggled to form the words, so he just let them spill out. “There was a blonde in latex. She looked sexy, shiny, and mean.”

Elise placed The World upon the table. Ryan stared at it. This card equaled the gravity of his confession.

He glanced to see if the butt plug shape-shifted again. No. This time, it was gone. Empty carpet and the low thump of the subwoofer. Some perverse shadow play. Was this some Jungian layer of his unconsciousness coming through the high?

“I clicked the thumbnail. I don’t know why. Something about her…” he stalled, “Something about… her…”

An odd-looking device appeared on the coffee table beside the last card Elise drew. The Fool’s salacious grin mocked the bulbous ripples of the sex toy set beside it.

The Fool stepped off a cliff.

The device changed colors.

Ryan squinted. The candlelight was playing tricks.

“She?” Elise gently called Ryan back to her.

“Um..” He turned to meet her inquisitive gaze. “What’s that on the table?”

As he pointed and turned his head back, the squiggly device disappeared.

“These are Tarot cards,” she laughed lightly.

“Oh.” Ryan decided not to bring it up. “What are the cards doing?”

“They’re forecasting.” Her fingers tapped The Fool “You were telling me about the video, remember?”

“Yeah… the video…” He ran his fingers through his hair. The high wasn’t helping. He noticed Jupiter now perched on the mantle, wondering when she got there.

“You were saying you found the woman in the video sexy,” Elise urged.

“Right. She looked…” He stammered. He locked in with Jupiter. “C’mon Jupiter, help me a little.”

Jupiter stared. Posed like a little indifferent god.

“She’s not going to help you find what you need,” Elise teased.

Ryan sighed. “The woman… the dominatrix?”

“Yes.”

“Well… she looked a lot like… like… you.” He cleared his throat.

“Oh, did she?” Elise bantered. “And that’s why you clicked? That’s why you watched?”

“I was curious.”

“Sounds like it.” She smiled. “And what did my doppelgänger do?”

Ryan watched her fingers play with The Fool. They danced a little in his descent. Likewise, Ryan squirmed a little on the sofa.

“She had her boyfriend kneel in front of her.” The scene etched in his mind spilled out before him.

“Boyfriend?” Elise laughed softly. “You mean, slave.”

“Slave?” Ryan raised an eyebrow.

“Slave.” She confirmed and reached over to brush something invisible from his shoulder.

“There’s so much I don’t know.” He sighed.

“That’s okay.” Her hand stayed on his shoulder, fingers tracing lazy circles. “Some men try to fight it. You… you wear it so beautifully. I can see it in you.”

“See what in me?” He shifted.

She waited.

“The need to submit to a powerful woman.” He meant to frame it as a question. Would’ve been rhetorical. Now it’s just true.

Elise sparked the bong. Took a deep drag and passed it.

Ryan wasn’t sure he needed another hit, but he took one anyway.

“Hold that thought,” she said, still holding her breath.

She rose from the sofa, crossed the room, and disappeared down the hallway. Ryan sat staring at Jupiter.

“Wonder what she’s up to,” he whispered.

Something you’ll need to ease into came Jupiter’s reply.

“Just don’t watch,” Ryan begged.

Don’t worry. I won’t. You’ll have other things to worry about.

“Goddamn, I’m really stoned right now!” He laughed on the edge of an existential crisis; eyes lost in the universe of Jupiter’s golden glare. He completely melted into the couch, orbiting several revolutions, catatonic in her cat’s eyes.

Elise emerged. Or Ryan thought it was Elise. Her transformation was severe. The once hip-hop-hippy chick was now a full-fledged Domme wrapped in glossy black and blood-red latex that caught every flicker of candlelight.

His secretive thumbnail here to humiliate him IRL. His hidden lust made manifest. He didn’t know what to do. This felt like a ‘422: Unprocessable Entity’ flashed upon the screen in his brain.

“Are you real?” He whined.

She crossed the floor. He backed into the couch.

“What did my doppelgänger do?” She purred. Calm. Controlled.

Ryan’s mouth went dry. “She had her boyfr—slave kneel before her.” He slid off the couch. Involuntary. He knew what to do.

He did what she expected.

“Lick,” was all she said. She pulled his hair, and his head, into her center.

The sulfurous notes were the first to hit the back of his throat. The heat from her body softened it: rubber, then musk, followed by floral undertones. His nose bounced and slid across the slick surface. His breath, warm and humid, trapped between his face and her folds.

The latex creaked commands of its own with each slight shift of Elise’s hips. Secretive squeaks told Ryan’s mouth where it belonged.

Slightly bitter at first. Dry on his tongue. Claiming his saliva. Then it slowly yielded, growing slick and warm as he pressed and drooled against her bud.

Her hands held his head firmly in place. She rolled her hips, grinding her latex-covered pussy against his face. Marking him. Claiming him.

He already was hers. He had been for months. He just hadn’t admitted it until now.

She looked down at him. Blazed. Consumed by heat and power, her grip tightened, pressing him deeper into his own submission. Into her pleasure.

Ryan’s tongue landed on her latex covered clit. Taut between his teeth. The barrier offered little friction. She answered with sighs.

It was all slick and sloppy by this point. Inside and out. Her arousal seeping through the edges of latex. His face glazed with effort.

Elise rode Ryan’s mouth to her first orgasm. Holding his head in place, grinding as her thighs shuddered.

He shouldered her imbalance. Grinned through the grimace. Knowing all the while, somehow, that he was doing it right.

“God, how I love that tongue of yours,” she praised, patting him on the head like a good pet. “Follow me.”

She turned. Ryan started to stand.

“No. No. No.” Her voice was calm but absolute. “Slaves don’t get to walk. They crawl.”

Ryan found her incredibly intoxicating when she was cruel.

He dropped back to his hands and knees and followed her down the hall. When he turned the corner into her bedroom, he simply stopped crawling.

It wasn’t a bedroom.

It was a lair.

Candles flickered, reflected in multiple angles. Deep purples and burgundies. Velvet. Satin. The same incense from the living room, denser here. More concentrated. Like it had been accumulating for years. Sensory overload didn’t cover it. His nervous system filed a formal complaint.

A suction-cupped dildo hovered above his reflected face in the mirror across the room. This one didn’t shape-shift. Didn’t disappear. Wasn’t a trick of the candlelight.

It was the real deal.

Ryan stayed very still on his hands and knees. Processing.

“Strip,” she said.

He peeled off everything. Knelt again. The carpet under his knees was suddenly very present.

Elise approached, harness secured, working her dildo with slow commanding strokes. Ryan’s eyes moved over her and snagged on her fingernails. Red. Matching the latex bodice exactly. A red thumbnail gleaming in the amethyst glow of the lava lamp.

He went very still inside.

The thumbnail. His fantasy. Her plaything.

Three months of incognito tabs distilled into one image. The algorithm hadn’t found him at all. She had. She’d always had him. The 404 was never a dead end. It was a delay.

“You look so nervous,” she observed.

Nervous didn’t cover it either. His whole taxonomy of self was being quietly rearranged.

“Don’t worry. Relax. We’ll take it slow.”

The silicone cock head hovered inches from his face. He could smell the latex from here. That sulfurous chemical warmth. The same smell that had been in his nose since she emerged from the hallway. Since the algorithm first served him a sidebar. Since before that, maybe.

“I know you’ve wanted this. It’s okay. I’m going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before. Just relax.” She teased the tip against his lower lip. Barely. A question. “You look so eager to please. You want a taste? You want to suck on this big cock, don’t you?”

Ryan moaned. The ache in his chest had weight now. Mainly humiliation. Which was most of the excitement. He opened his mouth to receive her and she didn’t miss a beat. He felt the soft yield of it against his lower lip first. Pliant in a way that surprised him. Not flesh. He had no reference point for that. His mouth was eager to learn anyway.

His tongue swirled the underside as he eased his mouth down its shaft. Elise held still, watching him find his way. Giving him the gift of her patience. She’d been patient for three months already. A little longer cost her nothing.

“Go ahead, Ryan, let go. Suck it like you mean it. This is what you’ve dreamt about. It’s okay. You’re with me.”

That’s all he needed.

“Give me one of those sloppy blowjobs you watch in porn. Act out your favorite scene, baby.” She pulled his hair gently this time. A different kind of pull. Permission rather than command.

Ryan’s hand started working the shaft as he bobbed. Mentally he replayed his favorite scene. Not from the femdom playlists — those came after. This was before all that. Back when his algorithm was still vanilla and uncomplicated. A starlet gasping, pulling back with thick strings of saliva bridging cock and chin. Spitting, stroking, sucking his balls. Full control.

Funny, he thought distantly. She had full control. Now so did Elise. The difference was Ryan finally knew which side of that equation he belonged on.

He pulled off the cock, spat on the head, smeared it down the shaft with his hand, then took it back into his mouth. Nerves settled in his newfound hunger.

“That’s it. You’re a natural little cocksucker.” She flexed her hips. He accommodated nearly half its length. A small gag. A small cough. He could do better. Eyes watered.

He looked up.

Elise was watching him in the mirror. Not his body — his face. Reading him the way she’d been reading him all evening. The Tarot cards. Jupiter. The confession she’d extracted card by card. She’d known what this moment would look like before he did.

He held her gaze for exactly one second before looking away.

She let him.

He surrendered to his reflection instead. Safer somehow. Elise had him at this angle all along. Now he watched this scene they were creating in real time. Something he’d return to for years.

He watched himself from somewhere outside himself. Three months of incognito tabs suddenly very present. All those private hours collapsed into this one mirror. The shadow self he’d kept in dark browser windows now performing in candlelight.

He watched himself pull the cock from his throat. Drag his tongue along its shaft. Suck on its balls while he stroked. He could smell Elise’s excitement underneath all the silicone and latex. His nose pressed to her covered cunt.

The mirror didn’t look away.

“You love sucking cock, don’t you?” She purred.

Her words rippled through him. She felt his moan around the silicone balls — that specific vibration she’d been waiting for. She gently pushed his head past the dildo and onto her soaked cunt.

She hovered right at the brink of another orgasm, then fought it back. She wasn’t ready to fall apart yet. That wasn’t the order of things. She tugged his tousled hair, knelt down, and gave him a long, sloppy kiss.

“Crawl to the mirror. I want you to meet someone.”

Ryan crawled forward. As he got closer, he noticed another reflection of himself pooled on the floor mirror. He stopped.

There he was. From below. A stranger wearing his face.

Elise positioned his knees on either side of the floor mirror, then gently pulled his chin up so his mouth aligned with the thick suction-cup dildo on the wall mirror. He was bracketed now. Mirrored above. Mirrored below. No angle offered escape.

This is what you clicked on, his brain supplied helpfully. Great. Fantastic. Very useful observation.

“You’re going to watch yourself suck cock while I get your ass ready.”

The snap of the latex glove made him twitch.

She applied cold lube to her fingers. He hissed at the shock of it. With one hand guiding his mouth back to the toy, the other found him. One finger — easy. A second. He exhaled slowly, the way you do at altitude, adjusting to new pressure. She curled them forward and pressed.

Something detonated quietly inside him.

“Oh—” was all he managed around the silicone.

She worked him open with slow, deliberate care, watching his face in the mirror the entire time. Three fingers deep now. Gently stretching him like something that had always been meant to open. The fullness was overwhelming. Strange. Good.

“That’s it. Relax,” she cooed. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmmhmm,” Ryan moaned. Eloquent as ever.

“Do you want this cock in your tight little hole?”

“Mmmhmmm.” He nodded, eyes wide. Any performance of hesitation had completely burned away.

“Beg me.”

He pulled off the dildo with a wet pop. “Please… fuck me. I need your cock.”

He meant it. That surprised him more than anything.

“Hmmm, good pet.” She slicked more lube over her strap-on. “Now look down. Look at your reflection. You’re going to watch me pop your femdom cherry.”

Ryan looked down into the floor mirror.

There was his chest. His throbbing, neglected cock swaying helplessly between his thighs. Elise’s hand slowly stroking her well-lubed phallus into position behind him. The whole obscene geometry of what was about to happen laid out below him like a diagram.

His brain, to its credit, had nothing left to say.

He watched the thick head press against his opening. Felt the cool, blunt pressure. She teased him with soft, patient strokes before easing inside. The stretch burned sweetly as she gradually sank deeper. He marveled at the sight of the shaft disappearing inch by inch into his own body. His cock leaked steadily onto the mirror beneath him, leaving shiny trails.

She took her time. Making sure he adjusted. Making sure he felt every single second of it.

Once she was buried to the hilt, she paused, holding him there, letting him feel the full weight of her inside him.

“You good?” she asked softly.

“God, yes,” he whimpered.

“Well… let’s enjoy the show.”

Elise began to move — slow, deliberate strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out before pressing back in. Ryan couldn’t look away from the mirror. The sight of her hips rolling, the way his body opened for her, the way his own cock dripped with every thrust… it was too much.

Ryan’s head remained down, witnessing her calm, controlled thrusts. Her hands firm on his hips. He relished being completely owned. Completely hers. He hadn’t known he needed that until thirty minutes ago.

Gradually Elise picked up the pace. Goosebumps rippled across his entire body.

“Fuck, that feels amazing!” He couldn’t look away. Seeing and feeling it at the same time. His brain couldn’t decide which to file it under.

“Just wait,” she said. Her silicone balls slapped rhythmically against his real ones. She pulled his hair so his head came up. Their eyes locked in the mirror as she guided his mouth back onto the suction-cup dildo.

Ryan moaned around the thick shaft. He’d dreamt about feeling full from both ends. Now it was happening. As if she’d had access to his bucket list the entire time, quietly ticking off boxes he’d never dared write down.

He thought of himself as some perverse, spit-roasted Narcissus — lost in hinged reflections of lustful degradation. Face to face with his own surrender. Transfixed. Narcissus never had it this good. She was Echo getting her revenge. Everywhere he looked, he saw his own submission. No more incognito tabs. The shadow self made visible.

“This is what you clicked on, isn’t it?” She was fucking him properly now, deep and steady. “Look at yourself. Look at what you are. You love this. Say it.”

Ryan groaned around the silicone.

“How many times have you watched it, Ryan?”

He pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Four.”

“Only four?” She landed four sharp, stinging slaps across his ass. He jolted with each one. “I don’t believe you.”

“I watched that one four times… I watched others too.”

“Am I better than your thumbnail?”

“Oh god, yes!”

“You still think it was me, don’t you?”

“I…”

Swak!

“Yes! Yes, I still think it’s you!” Ryan whimpered.

“When you look in the mirror, is that who you’re thinking about? Your sexy, shiny thumbnail?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Another sharp slap landed.

“Feel that? Right there. That’s me owning you from the inside.” She was driving into him now, relentless and sure. “Your cock is leaking all over my mirror and you haven’t even touched yourself. Look at that. Your body already knows who it belongs to.”

Ryan looked down. Strings of precum pooled and spread across the mirror beneath him.

“That’s your prostate talking, pet. You’re going to cum for me without touching yourself. Let it build. Don’t fight it.”

Ryan began moaning louder, head down. His whole body trembled as the sensation spread from deep inside — a warm, fluttering pressure that kept growing, expanding, turning into something electric and terrifying. Holy fuck, what is this? It’s too much. It’s not enough. I’m going to break. The pleasure rippled outward in hot, relentless waves, lighting up every nerve he didn’t know he had. His cock throbbed painfully, untouched, leaking in thick strings. His thighs shook. His vision blurred at the edges.

“Oh… fuck!” he groaned, voice cracking. I’m not going to survive this. She’s going to ruin me and I’m going to thank her.

“That’s it. There it is,” she cooed, never slowing down. “Your body knows what your mouth couldn’t say for three months. Come for me, baby.”

The wave finally crested. Ryan nearly collapsed. He teetered right on the brink of blacking out as a massive, full-body orgasm slammed through him — not from his cock, but from somewhere deeper, something primal and devastating. Pleasure exploded outward, radiating through his chest, his spine, his fingertips, past Jupiter, past the candles, past everything. His untouched cock pulsed and spurted helplessly onto the mirror in thick, rhythmic ropes while his whole body convulsed around her strap-on. He cried out, raw and broken, lost somewhere between heaven and total annihilation.

Elise eased her strap-on out of him, unfastened the harness, and gathered him up gently. She helped him onto her bed and pulled him close.

“You did so well for your first time.”

“You… you are a goddess,” he sighed, still floating somewhere far away.

“Have you ever come like that before?”

“I didn’t know that was even possible.”

“Trust me,” she whispered, kissing his forehead, “this is a sensation you’re going to chase for the rest of your life. Welcome to the other side.”

The thumbnail that once went 404 was now lying beside him, lazily peeling off her red and black latex.

For Elise, this was a typical Monday.

Ryan always ended up in unusual places whenever Elise planned their dates. Their first? An erotica reading tucked in the back of a dank, used bookstore, surrounded by teetering stacks of vintage porn. The second? A lecture on safe pegging practices in their university’s small black box theatre. T…

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Read Part I here:

Kinky Ink

Kneeling Among The Lockers: Paul Propositions A Bull, Only To Receive A Mouthful Of Cock

“Go talk to him!” Meghan said, wringing her black hair out inside a towel. We’d just climbed out of the pool after our workout when she spotted her HIIT instructor, James, striding across the tiles toward the men’s locker room…

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2 months ago · 8 likes · 4 comments · P. K. Hofferman (Kinky Ink)

My phone buzzed the second I pulled out of the gym parking lot. Meghan’s text lit up the screen: “Hurry home. I want to taste him on your lips.”

I almost ran the stop sign.

Her words hit like permission and punishment wrapped in one breath. I hadn’t heard from her since the locker room… since Jam…

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“Go talk to him!” Meghan said, wringing her black hair out inside a towel. We’d just climbed out of the pool after our workout when she spotted her HIIT instructor, James, striding across the tiles toward the men’s locker room.

She dropped onto the bleachers, twisting the towel around her head like a turban. The second she saw him, she arched her back, pushed her tits out, and let her legs fall open in a slow, slutty spread. He couldn’t miss her in that tight black one-piece.

James flashed a smile across the water before disappearing around the corner.

“Right now?” I hesitated. “He’s headed into the locker room. That’s not exactly the best place for a conversation. Most guys want their privacy.”

“Stop being such a pussy about it,” Megs shot back. She crossed her legs properly now and looked up at me with those big brown eyes. “If anything, the locker room is the perfect place.”

“Hmm. You might have a point,” I conceded, drying my legs. I stood and wrapped the towel around my waist, trying to hide how my tiny package was already half-hard inside the clinging wet Speedo. I stared at the locker room entrance and let out a shaky breath. “Wish me luck.”

“Oh please, you don’t need luck. Your charisma has everyone eating out of your hand,” she winked. “I’m hitting the showers. Text me his answer. I’m sure you’ll find a way to convince him.” She gave my ass a firm little pat as she walked off.

My stomach twisted into knots and my cock made a pathetic little tent in my Speedo as I padded poolside toward the locker room. The second I rounded the corner I slammed straight into James’s bare, muscular chest.

“Oh! Excuse me! I didn’t see you,” I stammered, stumbling backward.

“No shit,” James grinned. His big hands caught my shoulders, steadying me. “You all right?”

“Yeah… thanks,” I managed, looking up.

“No problem.” He started to walk past me toward the showers.

“Actually,” I said quickly, “I was looking for you.”

He stopped just short of the shower entrance. His broad, rippling back flexed as he turned his head. Those tight red athletic shorts hugged his perfect ass, and his shirt dangled from one hand. “Really? What can I do for you?”

I swallowed. “I know this is forward, but… my wife Meghan thinks you’re incredibly hot.”

“Is that so?” James turned fully now, eyebrows raised, and stepped closer until he towered over me. “Meghan from my HIIT class?”

I nodded, throat dry. “That’s the one.”

“Well, I can’t blame her,” he chuckled, voice low. “She’s got damn good taste.” He winked. “So what brings you back here? Looking for some… personal training too?” His finger traced slowly down my damp chest. “You’ve got a nice swimmer’s build. Fit, but not jacked.”

“Oh, um… I think my wife could use more of your expertise than I could,” I babbled.

“Really now?” His finger paused on my flat stomach, pressing lightly. “And what kind of ‘expertise’ does she have in mind?”

I bit my lower lip without thinking. “The kind only you can deliver.”

“I see.” James smirked and grabbed my chin firmly, tilting my face up. “You’re trying to pawn off your sexy little wife on me, huh? This is getting interesting.” He backed me up until my shoulders hit the cold metal of a locker. One thick arm braced beside my head as he leaned in close. “So tell me… what exactly does your wife want from me?”

His masculine musk mixed with the chlorine still clinging to my skin. My modest cock throbbed harder at the thought of him inside her.

“We think you could… fulfill her in ways I can’t,” I whispered.

James noticed my eyes flick down to the massive bulge stretching his shorts. “Like what you see?” He took my hand in his and pressed my palm against the thick, heavy outline. “I bet I could give her feelings she’s never even dreamed of.”

My fingers curled around as much of his girth as they could through the fabric. He slowly moved my hand up and down the staggering length, letting me feel it swell and thicken.

“But maybe you need a little demonstration first,” he murmured.

“Sure,” I hedged, voice shaky. “I’d like to see what you’re packing. I can already tell you’re way bigger than me. Meghan’s gonna lose her mind.”

James hooked his thumbs in his waistband and slid the shorts down with deliberate slowness. Nine thick inches sprang free, already half-hard and pulsing. “Go ahead. Get a good look. See how much better I can satisfy your wife than you ever could.”

I stared, mouth watering. “Fuck… you’re so sexy. I wish I had even half of what you’re swinging.”

“Half?” James gave a dark little laugh. “Small guy, you couldn’t handle a quarter of this.” He cupped his heavy balls, letting them rest in his palm. “These alone put most men to shame. Now why don’t you drop to your knees and worship what your wife is about to enjoy?”

I was gone—cock-drunk, mindless, watching myself from somewhere above as I sank down and wrapped both hands around his massive cock. My fingers didn’t even meet around the girth. “God, you’re so thick,” I breathed, then leaned in and took the fat head into my mouth.

The heat, the weight, the real pulsing life of it—nothing like Meghan’s strap-on. I swirled my tongue, sucking greedily, lost in the taste and feel of a real man.

“That’s it,” James groaned, sliding his fingers into my hair. “Take it slow. Show me how bad you want to please me. Work that tongue… yeah, just like that.”

I lost the towel around my waist, fished my puny five inches out of the Speedo, and started stroking with three fingers while I licked him from tip to balls. “Megs would never believe what I’m doing right now…”

James moaned deeper. “Fuck yes. Suck those balls like they’re your last meal.” He tapped his heavy cock against my cheek. “Such a good little cuck. Your wife’s gonna be screaming my name soon.”

He guided my slutty mouth back onto his shaft, thrusting gently at first, then deeper. “Feel how much bigger I am than you? This is what a real cock feels like.”

My phone slipped off the bench and clattered to the floor. James reached down, picked it up, and held it to my face to unlock. He opened my photos and started scrolling.

“Well, well… aren’t you a naughty boy? All these pictures of your sexy wife. Does she know you jerk off to them?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I mumbled around his cock.

“But does she know you’re sucking cock now?” He smirked, scrolling further. “Mmm, she really is gorgeous. No wonder you’re so desperate to keep her happy.” He swiped to the camera and aimed it at me. “I think she’d love to see exactly what that mouth of yours can do.”

The shutter clicked several times while I stared up at him, lips stretched wide around his thick shaft.

“We should send her a preview.” He turned the phone so I could see the shot: me on my knees, eyes glassy, hungrily devouring him. “Think she’ll be impressed seeing her husband like this?”

All I could do was moan around him.

James typed quickly and hit send. The reply came almost instantly. He read it aloud in a mocking tone: “Oh my god, Paul! What the fuck?! You were only supposed to invite him to be our bull!”

His hand tightened in my hair and he started fucking my throat in slow, deep strokes. “Sounds like she’s a little surprised. What do you think we should do next to really blow her mind?”

He tapped out a reply: “Hey babe, hope you enjoyed the pics. Want to see more of how I’m wrecking your husband?” Then he turned the screen to me. “Should I send it?”

I nodded frantically, drool running down my chin.

The phone dinged again. James grinned. “She wants more. Shall we indulge her?”

“Mmm… yes. Send her video,” I gasped when he pulled out long enough for me to speak.

“I like the way you think, small guy.” He hit record, then guided my mouth back onto his cock. “Keep those eyes on the camera while you suck me. She’s gonna watch you make me cum… watch me paint that pretty little face.”

I sucked harder, stroking him with both hands, tasting the salty pre-cum as his shaft swelled even thicker. James’s grip tightened in my hair.

“That’s it… don’t stop. I’m close.”

He thrust deep, groaned, then yanked out at the last second. Hot, thick ropes of cum erupted across my face—splattering my cheeks, lips, and tongue. I kept my mouth open, tongue out, slurping and licking him clean as the last spurts landed.

James stopped the recording, handed me a towel, and hit send with a wicked smirk. “Let’s see how your wife likes that.”

While I wiped my face, his phone buzzed again. He read Meghan’s reply and let out a low laugh. “Holy shit, Paul… I can’t believe you actually did that. I’m so fucking turned on right now. Seeing you like that? Usually I’m the one marking your face.”

James’s eyes sparkled. “Sounds like someone’s eager for her turn.”

“She’s wanted you since the first HIIT class,” I admitted, still catching my breath.

“So tell me, little guy… you ready to share your wife properly? Or do you need more convincing?”

“I’m ready, Sir,” I said, voice hoarse. “We’ve roleplayed you a hundred times in the bedroom. I thought I’d just watch you fuck her senseless on that cock… I never imagined I’d end up on my knees too.”

“Consider it an unexpected bonus.” James checked the time and handed my phone back. “We should get out of here. Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting too long, would we?”

“Definitely not. She’s probably in the car right now with her hand down her panties, replaying that video.”

James grinned as he pulled his shorts back up. “Then let’s not disappoint her. Come on… let’s go home and surprise your wife.”

Originally published in Veronica’s Smut August, 2025. Slightly revamped in Substack.

Read Part II here:

Kinky Ink

Kneeling Among The Lovers: Permission, Punishment, And The Pleasure Of Watching

Read Part I here…

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2 months ago · P. K. Hofferman (Kinky Ink)

I still can’t believe I said that stupid shit out loud.

We were in bed, late night, post-orgasm glow fading after our usual lazy mutual masturbation session. We’d just jacked and jilled to our favorite cuck porn. Recollecting the scene, I blurted:

“Squirting isn’t real. It’s all a porno gimmick.”

Meghan’s silence was dangerous.

She slowly sat up, eyes narro…

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Daniel and I crammed silently into Dad’s wardrobe during the soccer sleepover; eight boys scattered throughout the house playing hide-and-scare. In the dark, his knee sank into a cardboard box at the bottom; apology already forming on his lips when the pale, gold glow of his flashlight caught a hint of stockinged leg.

We’d found it. A teenage gold mine. Dad’s Pandora’s box of porn.

Daniel yanked the top Penthouse free. There she was: Linda Kenton bent over a white fluffy bed, red chiffon hiked high, black satin panties clinging to the curve of her ass, garters taut like bowstrings, pearls swinging from that warm, off-camera smile. She was inviting… someone. Someone standing just out of frame, someone who wasn’t us.

I didn’t know shit about chiffon or Pandora. I only knew my chest hammered so hard it hurt, something unnamed twisted below my waist, incandescent and insistent, like my body already understood what my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

Of course we were easy to find. Yellow light leaked from the wardrobe’s cracks, hurried whispers cut the dark. The air turned thick: all cedar and sweat and nervous breath. Matt yanked the door open. I tumbled onto the carpet, Dad’s glossy mags spilling at his feet like exposed secrets.

“Oh, shit!”

“Oh, shit!”

“Oh, shit!”

Each one different: an apology, an accident, and mind-blown awe.

It didn’t take long. Eight of us circled cross-legged on the beige berber, flashlights jittering over spread thighs, splayed breasts, parted lips. Daniel passed issues hand-to-hand, fingers trembling, palms slick. Stifled gasps with every page turn. A chorus of “holy shits” binding us in this secret pact. We’d crossed a line together. No going back.

Steven flipped too fast. A small pile gathered at his ankles.

“Dude, slow down,” I muttered. Why wasn’t he savoring it? This was something to linger over.

Kevin leaned over Daniel’s shoulder. “Wait, what is that? Is that a dick?”

We stared at the woman dominating the page with a full-frontal power pose looking straight down the lens, fingers spreading herself wide, pink, slick, framed by thick dark hair, everything we’d never seen before, nor understood.

“It’s too small to be a dick,” Daniel said, half-laughing.

“I wasn’t talking about yours,” kidded Kevin.

A creak in the hallway. We froze. Terror stitched us tighter, hearts in our throats.

I snatched the spread-shot pages from their greedy fingers, re-stacked everything with shaking hands; pages smoothed, corners aligned, spines straight. Box pushed back to the exact dusty spot. Wardrobe doors whined shut. We swore silence.

I didn’t sleep. I replayed images I couldn’t fully comprehend: mouths in mysterious places, bodies twisted into puzzling, interlocked positions. One scene especially burned behind my eyelids: a nerdy guy on his back on a hardwood library table, one sultry librarian smothering his face while the other rode his hips with slow, deliberate rolls. No penetration, just heat and overwhelming female confidence.

That scenario hit a geeky soccer striker like me who always leaned more bookish than athletic. It felt unreal. Dangerous. A brand-new fantasy that quietly pushed Catwoman, Hutt-slaying Leia, and Debbie Harry off their thrones.

My cock stirred half-hard under the sleeping bag, repressed by the nagging worry I hadn’t put the mags back perfectly.

And already plotting how I’d get back to that wardrobe. Alone.

I raced home that Monday after school, pulse pounding, hall pausing to strain my ear to the fridge’s hum and clocks’ tick before the wardrobe’s whine welcomed me back.

The box sat right where we’d left it, dust undisturbed, corners aligned. Afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, catching glossy covers like candles on hidden altars. Linda Kenton’s smile winked eternal from the top. My trembling hands extracted her. Pages parted slow in daylight clarity. No flashlight jitter now. Black satin panties gleamed, I traced them with my fingers.

The tent rose unbidden in my cotton shorts. An unnamed ache coiled hotter, insistent, like my body already knew the prayer even if I didn’t.

A car rumbled close. I froze. The magazine half-open, pulse roaring in my ears. Shoved it back, smoothed pages, aligned corners, closed everything. Tried to will the erection down. Nonchalant. Nothing happening here.

Just the mail.

Threat averted.

Of course I went back. Mere seconds later. Harder. More desperate. The exhilaration already familiar, already mine.

Dad must’ve been a collector. Deeper in the wardrobe sat another trove of issues stacked neat and chronological, years of glossy secrets waiting like our own private library. I shuffled through them slowly, pausing on the covers that tugged harder than the rest, each one pulling me further into his world.

One stopped me cold. April 1981. Joanne Latham. By the time I found her, the cover was already ancient history, but she looked timeless. Blue cyclist’s hat tipped low, bill shadowing her eyes so I could only see the tip of her nose and those parted lips. Stray strands whispered across her neck. The shadow from her head poured down the valley between her breasts like spilled ink. And that gold bikini: shiny liquid melted to her skin, nipples faint under the sheen, one hand splayed stomach flat while fingers plunged hidden into bikini promise. One thigh angled up diagonally, skin radiant and tanned against the bright orange terry-cloth towel, as if she’d been caught mid-tease… and simply didn’t care. There was strength in her indifference.

I stared until my eyes stung. The shine of that gold material hypnotized me—smooth, slick. My cock thickened fast, pressing painfully against my shorts. I shifted on the carpet, thighs squeezing together, trying to ease the ache without touching. But the ache only grew. I imagined those hidden fingers moving, pressing. Imagined the heat under that gold fabric, the way it would slide against her skin with every breath. My own hand hovered over my shorts—hovering, not quite committing—then dropped away, guilty. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Not here. Not in his space.

But my body didn’t care about ready. Pre-cum soaked the cotton in slow, traitorous pulses, breath ragged, every blink searing gold’s molten promise deeper: shadowed gaze, fingers vanishing from frame to tease unimaginable sins.

I ached to feel that slick metal warmth under my fingertips. I burned to slide my hands between those thighs, chase her hidden gasps: teach me, I begged silently, show this boy how to worship a woman’s supremacy.

I sat there, hard and leaking, drowning in the almosts. This wasn’t just looking anymore. It was hunger to understand: to taste the forbidden fruit my father had hidden like his own private Eden. Not to take, but to worship the mystery and dominance those women radiated. Sex a total obscurity, each page cracking open sacred-sinful Eden, not to claim her, but to kneel and learn pleasing over possessing.

My trembling hand peeled the pages. The other slipped into my shorts. First tentative strokes sent shudders rippling through me. Slow, teasing glides along the shaft, matching the rhythm I imagined her hidden fingers keeping. I devoured the next: pubes wild under hazy filters, thighs splayed slick, inviting.

Then the garage door rattled and groaned.

I froze mid-stroke. Heart leapt into my throat. Magazine snapped shut. Pages smoothed in frantic seconds. Box shoved back. Wardrobe doors whined closed. I plunged down the hall, erection still raging, and buried myself face-first into the mattress. Ground against it hard, desperate, pretending to nap while the gold bikini burned behind my eyelids and pre-cum smeared sticky trails inside my shorts.

Keys rattled then clanked into the tray by the door like God’s own gavel. Boots kicked off at the foot of the stairs. A long sigh. Cigarette smoke drifting up the hall. The tinny clink of his belt buckle echoed judgement as he walked into their bedroom. A profane chime that stole my first strokes under her gold tease.

I lay there rigid, pulse roaring in my ears, suddenly terrified I hadn’t shut the wardrobe all the way. That the boxes weren’t aligned. That one corner was out of place, one spine crooked. Panic bloomed hot in my chest.

This was neurosis. Obsession. And once I named it, I couldn’t stop wondering: what other hiding places did he have?

The house hung heavier now, every shadow a potential trove; I stretched flat under the leather sofa, arm snaking into his ritual void, fingertips grazing three fresh Penthouse barely creased. Dad must have spent hours here, feet propped, flipping pages while the TV droned. The thought spurned something low in my gut—not disgust, but recognition. This was his spot. And now I was in it, breathing the same air, touching the same glossy skin. My shorts tightened before I even pulled the first one free.

The garage was next. Behind the workbench, two massive plastic bins sat like forgotten tombs. I dragged one out, dust clouds rolled slow from the creaking lid, unleashing a decade of musty heartbeats, centerfolds static in the oil-faint air, my timeline bleeding into his. I knelt there on the concrete, heart thudding, flipping through year after year of frozen desire. Each cover felt like a timestamp on Dad’s life, and mine was now overlapping it. The shame burned, but so did the heat pooling in my lap. I didn’t touch myself. I just looked, and looked, and let the images sink deeper than they should.

But the linen closet changed everything.

Tucked between folded towels—soft, clean, innocent—was a smaller stack. Penthouse Variations. Thinner, book-like, almost discreet. I pulled one out, the fabric whispering trespass as I cracked the spine. Ropes coiling women, canes kneeling men, the word “submit” stark as a slap. I devoured her blindfolded plea twice, breath shallow, inhaling ink-dark laundry ghosts.

Here “mistress” meant more than just another woman in my father’s betrayal. It was unadulterated dominance wrapped in latex, whips that stung in ways that felt chosen. My father’s real mistress wasn’t clad in latex; she was a woman whose name I learned too young, her perfume still haunting our hallway long after the divorce papers dried.

Yet in these hidden pages “mistress” became something purified — a ritual, a controlled burn where pain was offered and surrender was scripted. It was the only version of his betrayal I could stomach: power that was undeniable, wreckage that looked like art.

I’d watched my father’s infidelity splinter everything. Watched my mother disappear into silence and absence. And still these pages made something in me hungry to understand that command instead of just fearing it. Hungry to learn how to hold desire without destroying what I loved.

I turned the page. A letter about a husband watching. Something uncertain coiled deep in me. I recognized the voyeur, not the betrayer — a witness trying to understand, a boy desperate to rebalance the splintered structure of his own fractured home. This letter whispered of kneeling in the loyal shadow, cock denied while dominance danced untouchable. A kind of rebalance my family never got.

I pressed the open magazine to my face for a second, breathing in ink and soft fabric, as if it might whisper what I was becoming.

My throat tightened. This wasn’t just bodies anymore. This was power. Submission. The kind that made my stomach flip and my cock ache in a way the glossy pictorials never had.

I put it back exactly as found: towels smoothed, edges aligned, door clicked shut. Walked away with those words still gnawing at my skull, already plotting the next hunt in a body that felt newly rewired for surrender.

“Dude, you’ve got to come over!” Kevin’s voice crackled over the landline, practically vibrating. “I found my dad’s secret stash!”

I didn’t even say goodbye.

We crawled through the tiny attic door like a couple of Alices tumbling into Pornoland. On the other side lay pure chaos: tits and ass strewn everywhere in a glorious, discarded heap. Hustlers, Ouís, Genesis, High Society, Cheri — magazines tossed like used PBR cans, pages crumpled, spines broken, no care at all.

I was instantly offended. These weren’t treated like treasures. They were used for quick tugs and thrown aside. Nothing like my dad’s meticulously hidden, carefully replaced Penthouses. His felt like a private library. Kevin’s dad’s felt like a landfill.

I picked up a Cheri because the French title sounded exotic. Two pages in and the difference hit like a slap: no tease, no slow reveal, just clinical close-ups of spread legs and glossy pink, everything on display at once. The covers held more seduction than the insides. At least the cover models got to wear lingerie and strike seductive poses. Inside it was all parts. Catalogued. Impersonal.

Kevin’s dad didn’t even pretend. He just threw them up here and forgot about them.

That was the moment it clicked, even back then: my old man was a connoisseur of smut. He catalogued his desire like a sommelier. Kevin’s dad just wanted to get off and move on.

I left Kevin’s attic feeling strangely superior… and hollow. That night, alone in my room, I pulled my own Penthouse Variations from its hiding place. I didn’t just look. I studied: the deliberate composition, the shadowed suggestion, the mistress’s commanding gaze. My hand moved to my cock with slow, devout reverence.

I wanted to be rewritten.

I wanted to kneel.

I wanted to beg.

I wanted the kind of slow surrender that would ruin me for anything ordinary ever again.

I’m no longer just that boy in the wardrobe.

I’m the man who took his father’s hidden hunger and made it something deliberate, something chosen.

The Variations didn’t rewire me. They simply gave me the words for what had always been wired into my blood.

And now, every time I kneel, every time I slip into satin and ache for surrender, I’m still answering that first quiet call… only this time, on my own terms, in my own words.

George Michael’s Faith was big that summer, and so was the hair. “The higher the bangs, the closer to God,” she’d say, teasing the already teased-up blond curly crown while I tried not to stare at how the hairspray made it catch the light like lacquered armor.

Her Ralph Lauren perfume mingled with my Drakkar Noir in the backseat of the Honda Prelude. The sweet floral musk crashed into sharp cedar spice, the way everything about us collided that afternoon. We bubble-smacked sloppy kisses, lips swollen and sticky from Lip Smackers gloss. Tongues tumbled like we were learning French.

Hand stuff: tight, slick, slipped. Awkward angled wrists and ankles twisted. Her button-fly pop, pop, popped tiny confessions in the lull between songs. Fingers fondled, slid under denim and cotton and silk until we both gasped heavy against each other’s necks. She left strawberried hickies along my collarbone. The kind that bruised purple. Broken blood vessels spidered out like small losses of innocence.

She finally released my skin, with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, she whispered she needed to change. “Soaked,” she giggled, shimmying out of my car and toward her house. I stayed slumped in the backseat, heart hammering, berry lipgloss and her lingering on my tongue, replaying every clumsy second.

Later, as the sun dipped and the house came to life, I slipped into her bathroom. There they were, crumpled on the edge of the hamper. She’d left them waiting for me. Emerald satin fullback g-strings, the crotch still dark and damp.

I didn’t think. Just lifted them. Pressed them to my face.

Her smell bloomed warm, musky, a little salty-sweet. The edge of her excitement had nowhere else to go. Mixed with strawberry Lip Smacker, the faint vanilla trace of her lotion, and that lingering Lauren perfume, it was dizzying.

Mine now, if I dared to ask.

I creaked her bathroom door open, adult conversations trickling from the dining room. “Hey…” My whisper was all flushed cheeks and trembling courage. “Can I take these home?” The glossy green twisted in my damp fist.

Cutlery clanked as she spun from the hallway mirror. Her teased blond bangs now fallen angels. Eyes wide, they released flirty sparks. My dirty-minded girl at eighteen. “My panties?! Oh my god, you’re such a little pervert!” Her laugh bubbled bright with adoring mockery. A giggle that wrapped my shame in thrilling shivers.

“Sure, perv. Take ‘em. Just don’t get caught.” Her hip checked mine, a playful bump that sent a hot swell straight to my shaft. She clicked the door shut. I stood there, dazed, my cock stirred, confused, eager, and utterly claimed.

I folded the silky fabric into a neat, guilty square. Tucked them in my shorts pocket. The bulge screamed giveaway, not only my erection, but the silken weight against my keys. I tried rolling the pair, folding them into tight triangles. Futile. They still stuck out like teenaged contraband.

Stuffing them into boxers was stupid. They slithered down like a green slippery snake, coiling at my ankles.

I’d have crammed them in my mouth if her parents weren’t waiting for goodnights.

So, I did what any sensible horny young man would: I stripped off my shorts and boxers, cool air kissed goosebumps, and I stepped into her emerald silk.

Pulling the pair up my legs shocked electric. A new taboo blossomed heavy in my chest. As that glossy glide slipped over my cock and balls, my brain unlocked. New chemistry flooded slippery synapses mapping my permanent kink.

I looked down: shiny green cradled me diagonally, cock’s head peeked above the waistband. A forbidden thrill stared back at me from her panties, my body reshaped by her scent.

I pulled my boxers and shorts back on, a flimsy shield. The slippery silk became a secret second skin, the g-string biting into my hips with every sultry step toward the living room. Each casual remark from her parents felt like an interrogation. My awareness laser-focused on the emerald slick against me. The diagonal pressure of my trapped cock.

Outside, she pushed me against my driver’s door, but she was the one taking the wheel. Her fingers frisked my pockets for the contraband, finding nothing. Surprise flickered across her face. Then she hooked her thumbs into my waistband, pulling the front of my shorts and boxers toward her. The night air hit that gleaming green.

Her smirk was both evil and sweet. “I hope you don’t get in a wreck on your way home.”

Fuck!

The engine hummed to life as George Michael spilled from the tape deck. His voice a hazy accomplice to my unraveling. Her wreck warning echoed, planting a vision of twisted metal and paramedics peeling layers to expose my jaded secret.

I gripped the wheel white-knuckled. Every red light a cautious breath. Paranoia spiking as streetlights swept my lap. The silk shifted with each throttle. G-string’s vicious nip on the hips synced with thuds from the heart. The diagonal cradle stroked my cock’s underside in taboo caresses, pre-cum slicking the fabric into pleasurable aches.

Shame flickered, hot and fleeting: what kind of guy steals panties, wears them home like a fetish flag? But her bubbly “little pervert” laugh wrapped it like a gift. Her adoration mocked the guilt away. Hormones surging not in embarrassment but titillating surrender.

Home. Parking brake. Fumbling keys. The stairs bounded two at a time. Bedroom door locked, I stripped down to her panties, falling back on my bed, hips arching into empty air. I stared deeply into the trapped eye of my cock head, weeping joyfully back at me, her delicates newly dampened with my lustful leak. Pre-cum strung my fingertips as I pulled them to my lips for a sweet, alkaline taste.

My hands caressed chest, sides, inner thighs knowing once fingers found that glossy edge, it was over. I arched higher, thrusting hips into oblivion, wondering what she’d think seeing me now. The magic of buttery softness against aching skin. The simple naughtiness of it all. Feeling sexy, powerful, tempted by lingerie, breaking every taboo I’d ever known. Would she call me names? Teasingly mock me? I think I’d beg her to.

I couldn’t wait. I had to feel it—the slick, the glide. I was always enraptured by it on her ass cheeks. That was my happy place: nose pressed against her silky core, inhaling her before devouring her through slippery fabric.

Feeling my cock through the satin delivered a delirious paradox: the external sleekness under my fingers, the internal tease of pressure, the exquisite ache of grinding against my palm.

Greed clawed at me. Why hadn’t I snatched a second pair? One to inhale her musk while stroking raw. I craved peeling them off, burying my face in her essence, but that silken trap held my ache captive in throbbing uncertainty. I rolled over, grinding my covered cock into the mattress, face plunged into pillows. Hands roamed my satin-sheathed ass, fueling shameful thrusts deeper.

I moaned her name into the muffled mound of feathers. Her voice echoed in my skull: “Cum for me, my little panty boy.” I imagined her hand pressing my hips down, feeding the frenzy. Shudders rippled through me, into her emerald slick, absorbing my surrender.

I let the waves subside, and that’s when the post-nut guilt crept in. My ego judged the neurosis. What’s wrong with you? Why would any normal guy wear panties? As I slid the weighted, cold-slimed silk down my legs, I stared at the evidence of my lust—streaked, spent, undeniable. I’d lost my mind on hormones; a traitor to whatever “masculinity” meant. My spent cock had no answers.

But then her driveway smirk flashed behind my eyes. Not disgust; just delighted surprise. She’d let me take them. She’d frisked for the contraband, found it, and her smile held only a bubbling, possessive thrill. My little pervert. The guilt fractured, and through the cracks seeped truth: slipping into her panties wasn’t weakness. It was transgressive beauty. I hadn’t betrayed anything; I’d stolen a piece of her power, the secret sexiness that curved over her ass, and claimed it as mine. Closer to her than ever, in a way no one else could touch. The fabric wasn’t a shackle; it was a flag.

I stashed the panties in my dresser. An artifact of evolution I’d launder and return someday, for another pair. Next time, I’d ask for two.

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“Hey babe, I have a surprise for you,” Paul gleamed as he entered the kitchen. The early light of golden hour cascaded across Meghan’s face. H…

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I watched scrambled porn on cable; pubescent, pre-dawn rubdowns to flickering images. Groans faded in and out, fluttering like static-ridden gasps. I muffled them with the volume control.

Even then, I didn’t understand how sex worked. I pieced together those puzzling shapes from glitched images on “skin-a-max” and Playboy channels.

Scenes spun in static revolutions, shifting, vibrant forms caught in an erotic kaleidoscope. Occasionally the bodies embraced clarity for minutiae moments when the bandwidths paused on suckling privates. Fingertips traced uncertain paths that smeared the smut of colors back into static.

It was alien. Like watching sex underwater. Like plunging into an electric, erotic ocean. Televised waves of pleasure, rising tides spilled toward the top of the screen. Legs literally contorted by my attempted theft of watching. The theft of knowing. The sin of wanting. The risk of getting caught.

The flickering glow from the cathode-rays flooded the den in a cold, brisk-blue electric light. I’d lay on my stomach, hide my lust… under Downy-scented, fuzzy tiger-print blankets… and involuntarily grind against pillows. One hand on the remote. The other… well. Ears on watch — divided between looking out for hallway creaks and figuring out the ecstatic, distorted moans emoted from the display.

Every particle tingled.

Nerve synapses misfired. Shivered with uncertainty. I attempted to grasp what happened outside of me, on the scrambled screen, in contrast to what occurred inside of me, the blended tensions of emotional and physical response. My breath and pulse patterned their coupling. My mind in orbit.

I lost the hallway. Fell through the pixelated surface. Encapsulated by the blue wave. My focus turned to the writhing limbs and distorted facial features that rolled back with gaped mouths emitting technicolor echoes. The rolling waves rippled through the floor, rippled through me to crescendo in mysterious quakes.

A misfire in my head. A self-projection arcing through my skull.

An electrical short of sorts.

Flicked off.

In that dark stillness, the images burned into my mind’s eye. Temporary blind spots.

It would take years to tiptoe through the house, traverse the pathways back to my bedroom, and to make sense of it all.

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Here’s my entry for Blowjob erotica.

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Some of this is true…

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FEMDOM | BISEXUAL MALE | GLORYHOLE | SMALL PENIS HUMILIATION

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“I Pale in Comparison” a redux of one of my old stories.

Chloe’s humiliating task for me this week was a venture down the gloryhole. She wanted me to feel a stranger’s cock in my hands — a real one…

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cuckolding | hotwife | confessional kink | gloryhole | FLR

Elias received the sleek and insidious Swat! VIP invite on his phone: Elias, your devoted Serena has enrolled you in the exclusive Penitence Package at the Swat! Boutique. Discretion assured. Arrive promptly at 8 PM. Use the Black Door. No questions. Sur…

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