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Which would have been fine with her at that point—oh, she wanted it bad. But it was so much more delicious to be teased beyond the point where she could stand it.
Jacob switched off the vibe and set it on the bed nearby.
Julie felt Jacob’s weight on the bed, bearing it down, making it jiggle. Every motion was excruciating; every touch made her tremble. His heat was all over her. She smelled his sweat. His naked body pressed up against her from behind. She felt his hand still in her hair, pulling. She felt his other hand coming down harder—much harder—on her ass, no warm-up, just a trio of strokes again—enough to get her attention...as if he didn’t have it already!
He guided his cock to her slit; he teased her first with the stroke of his cockhead—then with another hard series of spanks. He ran his hands all over her hips, her thighs. He caressed her back. He tickled her. She jerked in bonds. He spanked her some more.
“Just what I like,” growled Jacob fiercely, “a birthday girl who can follow instructions.” It was the first thing he had said since he entered. Then he entered her, and the loud series of moans she uttered as he penetrated her told Jacob that his wife was having a very good birthday.
In fact, it was such a good birthday that when he brought the vibe to her clit, she exploded almost instantly; he felt her pussy clenching savagely around his cock as he fucked her. She came so hard the spasms of her muscles almost pushed him out of her. Almost.
He said, “Happy birthday, honey. And we’re just getting started.”
Julie moaned softly and tears trickled out of her eyes.
Jacob delivered long, rough strokes deep inside her. If she knew Jacob, the night really was just getting started.
Julie relaxed into her bound position, moaned into the dildo gag and let her husband take control. Jacob’s note had been the best birthday card ever.
ANY LIGHTNESS BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE
Dante Davidson
You seem confused.”
I was standing in front of the wall of hankies, thinking, Damn, there are a lot of screwy people out there. When I say wall, I mean I was facing a fucking floor-to-ceiling wall of different-colored bandanas. Each bin was labeled with the code. Some of the labels made me hard—I’ll say that right away. But others made me shake my head in wonder. Blue/teal = cock & ball torture (when worn on the left) or cock & ball torturee when worn on the right. I actually mouthed the word “toturee” as I’d never seen it written before. Mauve = “into navel worshippers” if worn on the left, or “has a navel fetish” if worn on the right.
Lavender meant “likes drag queens” on the left or “drag queen” if worn on the right. Would you really need a hanky for that? I wondered. Would a drag queen, all dolled up in finery, deign to wear a hanky?
I must have been standing by the wall for a while, because suddenly I felt a presence behind me.
“Need any assistance?” a man asked me, his voice an undeniably sexy rumble.
I turned my head, startled from my reverie. The stranger was tall and lean, dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I wondered if there was a color for what he was offering—and if that imaginary hanky were worn on the left would it mean “provides assistance” and if worn on the right mean “needs assistance”? Clearly, I was out of my league.
The man smiled at me. He had a nice smile, dark curly hair, the type of gray eyes that have always made me think of stained glass—as if an inner light is shining through.
“Are you looking for something special?” he asked, and his voice caressed me once more. His fingers strolled through the different bins, lingering on the various “wants head/cocksucker” (light blue), “wears boxer shorts/likes boxer shorts” (paisley).
“How do people keep these things straight?” I asked.
“We don’t get a lot of straight here,” he said, grinning.
“No, really.”
“There are a few main popular ones,” he said, shrugging, “the rest are more for show.”
“And the popular ones are...?”
He faced me again, and he said once more but in a more suggestive voice, “Are you looking for something special?”
When I first considered cruising the gay scene, I knew I would be at a deficit. Not only am I shy—ungodly shy—but I’m also color-blind. I don’t mean that in the “we are the world” way—although I honestly don’t care about a lover’s nationality as long as there’s chemistry. No, I mean, there are colors I can’t see. Or colors I see wrong. So that if I were to walk into a bar and note a pale-blue hanky in a guy’s back pocket, and think, Oh, cocksucker—I could be way off base. The blue might be pink, and I might accidentally pick up an “armpit freak,” or a “cowboy’s horse.” Not that there’s anything wrong with those desires—they just don’t happen to be mine.
The hanky code—which could have helped me get around what my shyness prevented me from discovering—was truly the bane of my existence.
I lamented my problem to the stranger at the sex toy store in the Castro, and he asked matter-of-factly, “Why don’t you simply buy a hanky, slip it into your back pocket and wait for the right man to find you?”
“I can’t wait,” I said, and I knew I sounded breathless. Then, worried, I asked, “Does that sound stupid?”
