Deliciously Naughty

Would anyone else like to pose a question?

I wanted to thank rose_coloured for asking a question and actually thereby getting a post out of me.

Anyone else want to pose a question...you can ask anything!

I will confess we're moving (again) in two weeks so I'm so preoccupied and tired that I'm just pulling blanks when I try to think about writing.

Don't give up on me...I promise that I have the rest of Haunted Dreams sketched out...it WILL be finished

Ask DN #1---How do you teach a guy to be good in bed?

A reader has asked the following...

Ok, I am 27 and until 2 months ago was a virgin, so I don't know what the hell I'm doing. My boyfriend doesn't seem to know what he's doing, and I don't know how to teach him because of my lack of knowledge and experience.

He just seems to want to kiss for about 10 mins, maybe touch my breasts for a little while, then stick his little man in and get it over and done with. Needless to say I'm not finding the experience enjoyable. I've tried to ask him to touch and kiss the rest of my body but he seems to think that is a strange request. What can I do to inspire him to touch me elsewhere and to actually try foreplay?!

Oh, I should explain, he's Korean, so there's a bit of a language barrier present too! And a cultural barrier...

Ah yes, the classic kiss, fondle, and fuck.  Who among us has not been unlucky enough to encounter this guy.  I certainly have met my fair share of them, and been unsatisfied by them.

But is it really their fault?  If you read romance novels, watch even mainstream tv or romantic comedies, or hell--even learned your tricks via porn, this is the classic progression.  He's probably wondering why you're not screaming out in delight.  After all he's doing what our culture has taught him that you want.  The only option is to educate him...if he's willing to be educated.

It seems like there are a couple of issues going on here....

1. The language barrier.  This is a BIG one.  While possible bordering on trite, the best advice I would have for a person in your situation is to sit down and have a frank and honest conversation about what you want.  I'm curious how MUCH of a language barrier is there.  Can you guys sit down and communicate in general...or is this one of those hot foreign guy flings?  I am assuming the former, as you're referring to him as a boyfriend and not a fling. 

2. Inexperience...yours and his.  It's hard to tell somewhat what you want when you're not really sure.  But it sounds like you have an idea...you note that you've asked him to kiss and touch the rest of your body.  It's important to know that most women can't come from what you've described, so don't feel as though there is anything wrong with you.  Even those of us who are more experienced wouldn't come from that.

3-Cultural barriers.  I've known enough Asian guys that I know where you are and how frustrating it is.  I don't entirely get it either, but I have a few theories about why guys from more male dominant cultures refuse to go down or otherwise put in a lot of effort to please their women.  It seems as though their raised in one of two schools of thought...sex is bad (so there's some amount of guilt or "get it over with") or sex is about masculine pleasure (hence the barely cursory effort to please you...it's more about him...he kissed for as long as he wanted, touched your breasts for as long as he wanted and now he's ready to fuck).

I do have some suggestions, but any one of those three problems could make the suggestions problematic.  So, for what it's worth, here are some ideas....

1. Set a timer.  Tell him you want to play a sexy game.  You can only make out and all clothes MUST stay on until the timer goes off.  In my experience, setting it as a game/challenge means you're being inventive and not critical.  Be VERY careful not be critical as most people shut down and can't hear what is being said to them once they perceive themselves as being criticized.  But this?  This is just a game.  Spinning out the making out for 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 60 minutes (don't jump straight to 60....set a reasonable goal first) is a good way to get your motor running.  Hands can go under clothes but they have to stay on.

2.Take a shower together first.  For some men the idea of oral or all over contact is unappealing because they view it as unhygenic.  Especially if you ask your partner to wash you and then you wash him, you're creating a situation where he can make the canvass as clean as he wants it before putting his mouth there.  It's ironic, especially as I have yet to meet a man who has the same perceptions about their own body, no matter how funky his junk smells.  But there's something about going down on you, licking near where you pee, where your period occurs that can freak some guys out.  Getting clean first can fix the problem for those men.

3. Tie him up.  Okay...this is a bit extreme, especially for someone who's new to sex, but it's an option if you're desperate enough.  Tie his hands and feet down.  If your bed doesn't have posters (as so few of ours do) you can thread rope under your bed, or between your mattress and boxspring.  Then climb on top of him and say that he has to lick you to orgasm before he gets one.

4. The 69 trick.  This is a personal favorite of mine, although in general I'm not a huge fan of the 69 position as I like to concentrate on the pleasure I am getting or giving.  But for a reluctant partner, especially when there is a language barrier, this is perhaps one of the most effective teaching tools out there because it's all about feedback.  Suggest a 69...you will give him the same amount of pleasure that he is giving you.  If he isn't doing a great job, you aren't enthusiastic about the head you're giving.  But when he licks your clit you go nuts on his cock.  You make pleasing you the impetus for his own pleasure...thereby incentivizing his effort. 

I have some other thoughts, like writing a dirty story, telling him a fantasy and then acting it out, etc but they all require possibly better communication than the language barrier allows for.

If he does any of the above, praise him over the moon for it.  It reminds me of my infant...when she does something like hit her hanging rattle, I praise her like she just invented the peanut butter cup.  It's all about encouragement.  Praise and gratitude make us more excited to do the thing that we were praised for in the first place.  Positive reinforcement wil help you on your quest.

As for his puzzlement over why you want it...

1-Most women do not climax from sex.  Porn lies. 

2-It makes you happy.  Any boyfriend worth his salt will want to make you happy.  If he doesn't, it should be a big red flag.

3-That you're not enjoying sex with him.  And you deserve to like sex.

If he is the right guy for now or for you, he will make an effort.  If he doesn't care enough to want to make you happy, it should be a big red flag and I will be so bold as to say it's worth re-thinking the relationship.  However, there are SO many guys out there who with coaxing and praise will make the effort and become great partners.  He could very well be one of those guys.

All the best...

XO
DN

Readers...do you have any additional advice for our friend?

I'm sorry

I finally was able to sit down tonight after the baby had gone to sleep, with plans to write....and I have nothing.

I'm sorry.

Survey Answers

I'm posting an email I sent a grad student who's writing a thesis on women, sex, and blogging. 

I've read your comments and will dedicate myself to finishing Haunted Dreams as soon as I can.  Right now we're on vacation--we'll be home next week and I'll get to work
x0
DN

Hi xxxx. 

I'd be happy to answer your questionnaire...my answers are in bold

Questions about Demographics
In which country do you live?
In the US

In what sector do you work?
I am currently a stay at home mom, but for the first two years of my blog I was a public school teacher

What is your relationship status?
I'm married

What is your age?
30

How long have you been keeping a blog?
Since Nov 06, so 16 months

How regularly do you update your blog?
I used to update daily, but with the baby, my posting has become more sporadic.  My goal (which I often fail to reach) is about 2-3 times a week.

Please could you give a brief summary of the content and aims of your blog?
The goal of my blog was to two-fold; firstly to have a regular place to write and secondly to explore my sexuality, starting after a long period of abstinence (I had a herniated disc in my low back and then surgery and did not have sex for several months as I was waiting for and then recovering from the surgery).  Over time it's become my outlet to speak publicly about issues of sexuality and politics (particularly politics relating to rape and abortion), my husband and my own exploration of our sexuality, and most recently my sexuality as a pregnant woman and now a new mom.  I sometimes include erotica that I've written. 

Questions about the community
Do you read other blogs within the community?
I used to.  I've had to cut way back since the baby, but I hope to pick up again as she gets older.

Why do you choose to read these blogs?
My primary reason in reading any blog, erotic or not, is quality writing.  If the writing isn't solid, it doesn't matter what kind of content the author includes; it's not worth it.  Secondary and tertiary reasons would include that those authors are writing about the types of sexual acts or relationships I am or hope to engage in (or conversely fantasize about engaging in but choose not for a variety of reasons), they make me think about sex and sexuality in new ways, or because they have become online (or real life) friends and it's my way of keeping up with their lives.

Do you read your replies/comments?
Always

Do you value the response of your audience?
Deeply.  When I've had negative comments, my feelings have been hurt.  Or conversely, when I have a positive comment, it can make my day.  If I didn't have a readership, I would still write, but I might not try as hard to write as frequently.

When you are writing do you consider your audience?
To a certain extent I do.  I want my entries to be coherent, to engage my readers, and occasionally I write specifically to get advice or opinions.  Other times I'm writing to exorcise my own demons and fears. 

Do you write with a specific audience in mind?
I suppose it depends.  At times I write to reach my female readers who have been through pregnancy, childbirth and renewal of sexuality post-baby.  At other times I want to reach readers who are interested in American politics, or BDSM, or erotica.  I know my audience is quite varied, so I'm generally optimistic that I'll reach someone on any given day.  But because my own interests are so varied, I don't keep my blog mono-focused and I don't expect my audience to be either.

Do you think the erotic blogging community is in the majority female?
Yes and no.  I think some of the most well known erotic bloggers are women-Mistress Matisse, Belle du Jour, Radical Vixen, etc.  However, some of the best erotic bloggers are/were male-Tom Paine specifically comes to mind.  It's such a large community that it's really hard to say.  I know that most of the bloggers I read are female.  I used to think my audience was mostly male, but now I think it skews female.

If yes then why? /If no then why?
I could make the argument that the internet is anonymous and allows us to talk about stuff we might not feel comfortable talking about in our day to day lives.  I know I'd freak out if the other moms in my mom group knew I was an erotica author/sex blogger and read my blog.  But creating an online community of women who are talking about sex gives me a safe space to talk about those issues and experiences.  Certainly not without judgment, but generally within the context of a supportive community.  In most cultures, women are expected to dress sexually, to project a sexuality, and we gain power via sex, but sexuality is also the quickest route to stripping a woman of her power.  It's often an uncomfortable dichotomy to exist in.  On the internet, at least, I am free to talk about whatever I want...and while I may get judged, it won't be by someone who will decide that I need to be fired from my job or be investigated by child protective services because someone who participates in the type of sexual activities that I do must somehow be deviant in all aspects of her life.  It's an important outlet and one that feels safe.

Do you feel safe in the community?
Yes

Do you have friends within the community?
Yes

Do you feel your blog is informative or more diary like?
More of a diary, but also informative

Personal feelings
Do you feel guilty about any of the issues you talk about on your blog?
Not guilty, but I wouldn't necessarily talk about them in my day to day life because of fear over repercussions

Do you feel you could speak about the content of your blog to friends/a partner in real life?
My husband reads and occasionally guest posts on my blog.  I have a few kinky friends that I knew prior to my blog or have met since my blog whom I am "out" to, but the majority of my friends either do not know about the sex blog or do not know where to find the blog

Do you feel the publicising your web log takes away from its privacy?
Certainly, but within certain communities I want to publicize it

Do you feel your blogs privacy is enhanced by your pseudonym?
Yes

Do you feel you act the same on your blog as you do in real life?
My blog is an account of actual sexual adventures, so I do act the same in real life.  However, I am often much more geeky or silly or less coherent than I am on the blog

Do you feel you enhance any aspects of your personality when writing in your blog?
I'm certainly more articulate on the blog

Do you feel you have created a character online?
Yes and no.  There are things that I do in real life that I'll only talk about as "Deliciously Naughty" but I don't feel like she's a persona that I take on and off, like "Hannah Montana" (sorry, elementary school teacher, so that's the metaphor I came up with)

Do you feel freer online?
Yes

Society
Do you feel it is acceptable in everyday society for women to talk about sex?
Not in graphic terms, or about less common sexual acts like BDSM

Do you feel is is acceptable in everyday society for women to enjoy sex?
Up to a point.  A woman can enjoy vanilla sex, but not the point where she would seek additional partners outside her relationship or drag her partner to sex shops, or be kinky...there are reasons we use psuedonyms

Do you ever feel censored by societies expectations or rules?
In my real life I do, which is one of the reasons I choose to talk about it online in my blog

And Finally….
Please feel free to add anything you extra you have to say around the subjects of gossip/chat, talk, women online, blogging, your weblog, sex, identity etc….
I think that the most positive aspects of the female sex blogger community is that we don't feel alone.  We create relationships, we give feedback, and we're talking about the things "good girls" don't talk about in terms good girls don't use.

I also feel that the female sex blogger community is less bitchy than other female blogger communities--the mommy bloggers come to mind.  I have a separate "mom blog" and there is constant drama and uproar over every little thing.  There are cliques in that community, and I don't feel that the same is true in the sex blogger community-perhaps because we're more "underground"?  Interestingly enough, I censor myself significantly more in the mom blogger community and on my mommy blog than I do as a sex blogger.

My blog started out as a whim one night when I had completed my NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month) novel and didn't want to lose my writing momentum.  Since then it has helped me process new sexual experiences, talk about fears, and generally connect with or speak out on a variety of issues.  I would hate to stop blogging, although I've had pauses since pregnancy. 

Will you allow me to use your pseudonym in conjunction to your answers within my study?
Yes

I hope my answers were helpful

Deliciously Naughty
deliciously-naughty.typepad.com

Haunted Dreams---what are your thoughts?

So having read the first 10 chapters, is it worth finishing or am I just wasting my time?

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 10

“What should I wear?” Maggie asked Selena.

 

“Do you own anything even remotely slutty?”

 

“You know I don’t.”

 

Selena sighed.  “I was hoping you’d have a few too many to-go cups while you were shopping one day, and you might have finally caved and bought yourself something tight and short.”

 

“Yeah, well, no.”

 

“What about tank tops?  The ones you usually layer under shirts?” Selena asked thoughtfully.

 

“I have a bunch still.  I wear them around the house because even with the a/c it’s so freaking hot here,” Maggie replied.

 

“Say fucking, not freaking.  Anyways, so…pair a tank top, no bra, with jeans and the strappy sandals I forced you to buy when the Barney’s first opened up here,” Selena said.

 

“What about the cobblestones?  Don’t you think heels would be treacherous?” Maggie whined.

 

“I think flats would look virginal and stupid.  Watch where you walk, and besides, it’s an excuse to hang onto guys.  They love that white knight bullshit,” Selena said.

 

“I’m going to get Kevin’s advice,” Maggie decided.

 

“Fine, he’ll totally agree, only he’ll tell you to wear a thong.  Good luck finding your inner slut.  I have faith in you, chica” Selena rang off.

 

Maggie put on the outfit Selena suggested and called Kevin.  When she described the outfit, his only comments were to put on a white tank to better show off her nipples and to make sure she had on a cute thong for a guy to peel her out of.

 

“If you’ll excuse me, I just met my future husband, and we’re going to go out dancing, after which I’m going to molest him on the cab ride home.  He claims to have never gotten head in a moving vehicle, which makes me wonder if he’s really queer,” Kevin drawled.

 

“Don’t you ever worry that you’ll run into a student at those clubs?”

 

“Baby, if only you knew…” his voice trailed off as he recalled a memorable encounter with a former student in the men’s room at Rain who wanted to show Kevin exactly how much better he liked math in high school now that he was in college…..so to speak.

 

“I don’t want to,” she said.

 

“So how slutty do you want to be?”

 

“I don’t want to come home alone,” she said.

 

“How choosy are we being?”

 

“I don’t want to fuck a freak, but not overly as long as he’s hot and manly” Maggie said to her reflection, who didn’t entirely seem to be buying this.

 

“Okay.  Once you’ve met your mark, finish your drink and palm a piece of ice.  Go into the ladies room, and rub the ice all over your nips.  It will totally make them stand out more, and if you wear the white tank, the liquid will make the cloth translucent and he’ll get to see some pink, which will make him think of your other pink.  You’ll have to fight to keep your jeans on in the cab ride home…which you shouldn’t…but baby steps, here.”

 

“I shudder to think how you know all that.”

 

“My future husband awaits.  Good luck, baby slut,” he said before clicking off.

 

Maggie took a long look at herself in the mirror.  She nodded, gritted her teeth resolutely, and picked up her id, credit card, and cash, and looked for her keys.  She couldn’t find them for a good hour, all the while she found herself questioning this plan over and over.

 

When she walked out the door, it slammed behind her.  She was surprised that she’d been that firm, but she shrugged and walked to the streetcar.  Destination:

Bourbon Street

.

 

Three bars and zero prospects later, Maggie was really getting tired of having tourist frat boys walk up to her, dangle cheap plastic beads in front of her, and staring at her tits expectantly.  One had even gone so far as to run them over her cleavage in his attempt as suaveness.  All would have been happy to service her, but she didn’t want any of their cocks near her.

 

She told herself that she’d try one more bar, and if there wasn’t anyone there, then that was it.  She took a left off of Bourbon, and found a very different bar.  Obviously a local hangout, the patrons were older than the bourbon street madness, but not so old that she’d be out of place.  This was a place with potential.

 

She ordered a beer from the bartender, and when she went to pay for it, she heard a deep voice say to put it on his tab.  She turned around and saw a hot guy dressed in ripped jeans and a Saints t-shirt.  He had three days (easily) of stubble on his face, and she could see the edge of a tattoo poking below the sleeve of the shirt.  This could be perfect.

 

“Thanks,” she said, turning to him.

 

“I’m Drew,” he said, his eyes sliding over her body, lingering on her breasts.  His arm came around her and he guided her to a table. 

 

“Maggie,” she said.

 

“So, you a student at Tulane?” he asked, his hand sliding over her ass, and squeezing it before sliding back to her waist.

 

“No, I’m a professor at

New Orleans

University

,” she replied, trying to give him the kind of smile she’d seen Selena use on guys a thousand times.

 

“If I’d had a hot professor like you, I don’t think I’d have dropped out of college,” he said, his eyes again lingering on her breasts before meeting her eyes.

 

Maggie forced back a blush at being called hot.  She’d never been called hot before, and it seduced her into continuing the flirtation.  “Really, so what did you do instead?”

 

“Fireman,” he said laconically.

 

Maggie ran a hand over his bicep and felt her nipples harden at the feel of his hard muscles.  He noticed, and smiled appreciatively.  He took her beer from her, and put their drinks aside.  Then he turned her so that her back was to the wall, and he took possession of her mouth.  A hand came up to pinch the nipple away from the room so that no one could see what he was doing, and his thigh found it’s way between hers.  She could feel his hard cock against her hip, and as his mouth found the same magic spot on her neck that had caused her to give up her virginity, she found herself saying something so totally out of character, she shocked herself.

 

“I’d love to handle your hose some time.”

 

Where the hell had that come from?  It was like she was channeling Selena or something.  Maggie quickly lost the ability to think because the hand that had been teasing her nipple moved to her jeans, and his middle finger began rubbing right over her clit, causing her to moan.

 

“How about now?”

 

“What?”

 

“How about you handle my hose right now?  I live a block away.  I’ll have you naked and coming in less than ten minutes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

What?

 

Her mind was fuzzy with drink and desire as he grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the bar.  They crossed Bourbon where some college boys yelled at her to show her tits.

 

“Do it baby, give them a thrill, and let them imagine you the next time they’re in class,” the fireman urged her.

 

Feeling reckless, she grabbed the bottom of her tank top and lifted it, giving the street a good long look at her full C cup breasts, and soft pink nipples.  The college boys shrieked their appreciation, and she was showered in strings of beads.

 

The fireman pulled her into an alley.  “I can’t wait, you’re too hot.  Fuck me here.”

 

“No!”

 

A fling with a fireman in his bedroom was one thing, but she wasn’t so far gone that she’d have sex on the street.

 

“C’mon baby.  You’re so hot, and no one will see us,” he begged.

 

“What’s wrong with your apartment?”

 

“Nothing.  I just want to live a little.  Fine, we’ll fuck at my place,” he sulked.

 

What had been so hot was quickly souring for Maggie, and when she saw the broken light outside his apartment, and the cockroach that scuttled under the couch when he opened the door, she turned and fled.  She heard him call her cock tease and a bitch, but she fled to the safety of a cab and then her home.

 

Shaking, she tossed her clothes into a pile and climbed into the shower.  This wasn’t the answer.  She didn’t know what was the answer, but this clearly wasn’t it.  Yes, she needed to get Philippe out of her head, but she had jumped in over her head.

 

The next day she confessed everything to Selena, who was genuinely shocked.  “Chica, that wasn’t safe.  You’re not even sure of his name.  There’s nothing wrong with it, but you jumped in over your head.  I thought you’d find a cute lawyer or something.  The flashing was a good thing, though.  Keep the positive, and don’t give the loser a second thought.  Besides, you were totally right to ditch-cockroaches are a sure sign that you should bail.”

 

Kevin was repenitent.  “Honey, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.  You’re safe, right?  You’re okay?  Okay, so no more bar hopping for you.  We should conference call and help you set up an internet dating profile or something.”

 

She told both of them that she appreciated their concern, but she was going to try to try something else.  Fully repressing herself by working so hard she’d fall over into a deep sleep each night should be effective.

 

That night she dreamed of Philippe lecturing her until she cried, and then disappearing.  After that, she broke out the sleeping pills again.  It was one thing to have an imaginary lover.  But when that imaginary lover began to yell at you for flirting with flesh and blood guys, it was time to move on.

 

It was time, she decided, to throw herself into her job.

 

To hell with Philippe, his fucking journals, and the sexy dreams.  It was time to devote herself to American Civ I.  Which, she noted, unfortunately meant she’d be researching the time that he was alive.  But she could research it without ever talking about Mr Philippe Bournet. 

 

Really. 

 

She could.

 

At least she hoped she could.

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 9

She was Julianna, crying over yet another miscarriage.  Her third in two years.  Her blasted sister in law was fat with yet another child, and seemed to get pregnant each time her husband hung up his trousers for the evening.  Julianna was infuriated at the idea that a woman like that could get pregnant so easily, and that she could not.

 

Her sister in law had hinted that her lack of fecundity was because she was lacking as a woman; evil words that had indeed hit their mark, and scored deep into her soul.  Worse, however, was when her sister had looked up over her tea, and casually wondered aloud if Philippe’s mistress had been to that witch, Marie Leaveau, and had Julianna’s womb cursed.  At least then, Felicity mused, it wouldn’t be Julianna’s fault.

 

Her sister in law had at last, thankfully, taken to her bed in anticipation of yet another “blessed event.” 

 

As Julianna wiped her tears, she found herself wondering if in fact, it could be that her husband’s slut had done such a thing.  Cursed her womb with that wicked voodoo?  If so, could she do anything to stop the spell?  She fell to her knees and began fervently praying, saying Hail Mary’s over and over until the words bled together.

 

It was like this that her husband found her; tear stained, on her knees, praying fervently, her eyes wild like those of a madwoman’s.

 

“What are you doing?” Philippe asked?

 

“Praying for my womb to be cleansed.  Surely there must be something wrong that I can not bear your child,” she replied.

 

“These things happen.  We’ll try again, as soon as you tell me to, I’ll happily return to your bed, cherie,” he said, trying to take her hand.  “Now you must get dressed.  It’s late in the afternoon.”

 

“Return to my bed?  From where?  Where do you spend your evenings?” Julianna lashed out.

 

“Wife, you have no right to ask me such things,” he reproached her, his voice growing deep with annoyance.

 

“With whores.  Perhaps it is because you sin so deeply that God punishes us so,” Julianna’s words lashed out with the force of a whip.

 

Philippe did not reply.  He merely turned and walked away.

 

Maggie sat up, shocked.  She had read in Philippe’s journal that his wife had had several more miscarriages, but there’d been no hint of any sort of fight or animosity.  This dream must have been brought of by the stress of the first week of class, and too much to eat before bed.  She sighed, had a glass of water, and returned to bed, noting that it was only three in the morning.

 

As her eyes closed, she felt herself drawn into another dream.

 

This time she was Claire.  Philippe had stormed into her home and was ranting about his wife, and how she’d accused him of causing her miscarriages by keeping a mistress.

 

“As if it isn’t custom, what every man, including her father in his day, has done.”

 

“My dear, women feel strongly about children.  And as her wife, she must feel worried that you might cast her aside,” Claire murmured, sitting in his lap. 

 

“She’s a good wife.  I care for her,” he murmured.  He looked and Claire, and kissed her deeply.  “I care for you as well.”

 

“And I for you,” she said.  It surprised her, but after almost ten years, she found that she did care for him.  She missed him when he was gone overly long, and looked forward to his visits and his touch upon her body. 

 

“I only wish she enjoyed sex.  You were a virgin when I first touched you, and you’ve always enjoyed my touch.  She resists me, acts as if sex is something awful when I try to pleasure her.  Perhaps what they say is true-wives are for company, mistresses are for sex,” he said, his hand opening the wrap of her dressing gown, knowing she was nude for him underneath.  “You certainly are a creature of lust.”

 

She moaned her assent as his hand slid between her thighs and two fingers plunged deep into her wet core. 

 

“Show me your lust,” he said, removing his hand from her, and spreading his legs.

 

She slid to the floor and unbuttoned his pants.  His cock sprang free, and Claire bent to suck him.  Philippe watched as her head bobbed, his hands tangled in her soft black hair.  She moaned her pleasure as her tongue swirled about his shaft, and her hands came up to tease his balls with feather soft touches.  He pushed her dressing gown off, and told her to kneel on all fours.  She did so, never removing her mouth from his cock.

 

Philippe watched her ass as she enthusiastically moved about his cock to pleasure him.  “Stop!”  He stood, and shed his clothes before kneeling behind her.  “Your ass is a work of art, ma belle.”

 

She impudently wiggled it at him.

 

“Such behavior makes me think you want me to mar that café au lait skin with red hand prints,” he warned.

 

She wiggled again.

 

Philippe smiled, glad that she had understood what he needed.  His hand landed on her ass with a loud smack, leaving behind a pleasing pink glow.  Over and over, his hand came down punishingly, taking out the anger he felt towards his wife, and channeling into his darker desires.  Claire encouraged this with gasps, with moans, and with the backwards thrusting of her ass, signaling that she wanted more.  The woman in front of him blurred, and in his mind, he punished his wife for never welcoming him to his marital bed, for never trying to enjoy tender lovemaking.  His Claire, his beloved Claire, was his equal in lust and in imagination.  He welcomed the sting of his hand on her ass, but  when Claire started to cry out in pain, and not pleasure, he slowed his rain of slaps, and ran his hands over the ass he’d punished so cruelly.  It was hot to the touch, which aroused him.

 

Philippe gripped Claire’s hips, his eyes on her red sore ass, his cock hard as iron.  She opened her stance wider, so that he could see that her cunt was dripping.

 

“Little whore,” he growled.

 

“Yes,” she begged. 

 

He growled again, and thrust deep into her hot, honeyed channel.  She welcomed him, thrusting backwards, the heat of her ass radiating against his stomach as he pumped.  His hands went to her breasts, pinching the nipples, thrilling as her cunt clenched him in time with her moans.  He fucked her as hard and as fast as he wanted, driving her over the edge, and into such an orgasm that she begged him to stop.

 

“Philippe, please, I need….a moment…please” she cried out.

 

“No,” he growled and slowed his pace not an iota.

 

She was driven into a second orgasm so intense she actually screamed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a servant burst into the room, take in the scene, and flee. 

 

“Your driver just saw us.  Every time he escorts you to one of your ladies’ charities, he’ll know what you look like naked and on all fours, taking a cock like a whore,” Philippe said harshly.

 

Claire sobbed as he finally came, her third orgasm almost causing her to lose consciousness.  When he let go of her, she slid to the floor in a boneless heap.  When she turned over, a hand between her heaving breasts, she saw Philippe looking contemplatively at her.

 

“What would you do if I ordered him to watch us?  Or another slave?  Perhaps a comely wench, who I would then ask to join us?” he asked, taking in her naked sated form.

 

Claire raised an eyebrow at him, and managed to gasp out, “Really, Philippe?  Not that you’re not capable of satisfying two women, but I am a greedy wench.  I’d hope that the idea that my driver saw me will be enough to fuel your desire.”

 

He laughed, and said “Perhaps another time.  When my finger is on your clit, you’d agree to almost anything.”

 

She laughed.  “Let me bathe you, and feed you first.”

 

They left their clothes on the floor of the parlor and sauntered upstairs together, Philippe taking pleasure in the female servants’ averted eyes (and stolen glimpses) and the men’s overt stares at Claire’s beautiful naked body.

 

Maggie awoke, shocked that her imagination could even come up with such a thing.  She blushed as she washed herself in the morning, and found herself wet.  She managed to keep herself focused during her classes, but each time she found herself alone, her eyes would close, and the intense sexual scene would play out again, in vivid detail.

 

Resolutely, when she arrived home, she did the only thing she could think to do.  She gathered up all of Philippe’s journals, including the last unread one, and dumped them in the trunk she’d found them in. 

 

“That’s enough,” she said.  “No more of this.”

 

She had cancelled the appointment with her therapist out of shame.  But, she decided, her therapist was right.  It was time to find a real man and to leave her imaginary man behind.  The dreams that had been so welcome when they had meant the introduction of sexual pleasure into her life were now a frightening occurrence that she wanted nothing to do with.

 

That night, she took a sleeping pill, and feel into dreamless sleep.  She followed that pattern for the rest of the week, doing everything she could to last until Friday, when, she decided, she would go out on the town, and do something that she’d seen Selena and Kevin do a million times-she was going to pick up a guy.

Haunted Dreams--Chapter 8

“So why are you here, Margaret?” the woman asked her.

           

Maggie blushed, and looked down at her twined hands, wondering just what she’d been thinking.  “I need some help.  I…”

           

The woman waited.  For an eternity, it felt.  The silence seemed to grow in the room like a living thing until Maggie couldn’t take it anymore.

           

“I’ve become obsessed with….”

           

“With?”

           

“My….work.”  Each word felt like it was being pried out.

           

“Your work?  What do you do?” she consulted a sheet.  “Ah, yes, you’re a professor, of history, correct?”

           

“Yes.” Maggie was relieved a simple question.

           

“In what way have you become obsessed with your work?” the psychiatrist asked.

           

“I’m studying some journals.  Of a man.  And I’ve dreamt of him…” she flushed again, embarrassed beyond words, “sexually.”

           

The doctor nodded and waited for her to continue.

           

Maggie had made the appointment after realizing that she’d gone to bed several times with one of the “sexy” journals under pillow.  That she’d started masturbating to the idea of Philippe, of her dreams about him almost daily.  That she’d found reasons to go upstairs to the attic now that her project was done and she was supposed to be working on her syllabus and lectures.  She would sit near his portrait and stare at it, even though it was August, and while the attic was cooled by vents, it was still significantly hotter up there than anywhere else in the house.

           

She was, in short, infatuated with a dead man.

           

While that was fairly humiliating, she would never have dreamt of getting therapy if it hadn’t begun to interfere with her work.  She tried to sleep multiple times a day, hoping for sex dreams.  She’d neglected her lectures and school was starting in just a few days.  And yet she hadn’t let herself finish his journals, to read the one she hadn’t read.  If she didn’t read it, she could hold out hope that it would initiate sexy dreams.  If she read it and didn’t, it would crush her.

           

So she decided to get some therapy. 

           

“Maggie, let’s talk about Channing.  Why didn’t you want to be with him?”

           

“Because he wasn’t what I wanted.”

           

“What does your dream lover offer you that Channing didn’t?” the therapist asked her, her laser gaze catching Maggie like a deer in the headlights.

           

“He’s stronger, more forceful, more….I guess manly,” Maggie said, playing with a ring on her right hand.

           

“What makes sex with your dream lover different from your previous sexual encounters?” she asked.

           

“I orgasm.  I like sex better.  I wish I liked sex like that in real life,” Maggie murmured.

           

“Maggie, I think this dream lover is an attempt by your subconscious to get you to acknowledge that you do enjoy being sexual, and that you’re looking for a different sort of man than you’ve dated in the past.  I think that you should do two things.  The first is to purchase a vibrator, and to try to masturbate to the type of man you imagine this Philippe to be, but put into contemporary terms.  The second is that I want you to try to seek this sort of man out to date.  Internet dating might be a good choice.  We’re meeting again in three weeks.  I want you to report back to me how your efforts are succeeding.  I think after you begin to accept that you could meet a man like that here, you’ll stop pretending that you need the dreams.”

           

The therapist dismissed her, after extricating a promise that Maggie would at least make an effort to separate her newfound sexual desire from her imaginary lover.  Maggie stepped into the sweltering heat, and walked down

Royal Street

, resolved in her search for a new sex toy.  She’d tried hard plastic wands, but this time she would purchase one of those Rabbits, like they had joked about on Sex and the City.  If

Charlotte

could get addicted to it, surely she could as well?

           

She blushed as she entered the first sex shop she found.  It was at the end of

Bourbon Street

, past all of the strip clubs, open even at ten in the morning.  Maggie wondered who besides drunk tourists would feel compelled to go to a strip club at ten in the morning on a Tuesday.  The sex shop had just opened, and thankfully there was no one in there but the cashier, who looked at her with bored eyes.

           

She headed to the wall with the vibrators and was a little taken aback at the selection.  She had bought her vibrator at a novelty store, not a sex shop, and had never realized how many choices there were.  She looked at vibrators shaped like eggs, butterflies, even a rubber duck.  There were vibrators of every color.  There were vibes that lit up, and one that even apparently vibrated in tune to your musical selection on your iPod.  Even among the rabbits, there were too many choices, and she stood there, staring and silent for what felt like an eternity.

           

“If you’re looking for a rabbit, this is the one I like best,” a woman’s voice drawled behind her. 

 

An older woman with long black hair gestured to a pink rabbit with pearls in the shaft.  She continued, adding “the pearls really shove you into overdrive when you start to orgasm.”

 

Maggie blushed, and took the package.  “Thank you.”

 

“No problem.  Have fun,” the woman wished her well, and returned to contemplating the other vibes as Maggie handed her purchase to the cashier, blushing furiously.

 

She wondered what it took to be like that.  Selena certainly seemed to be like that woman.  Maggie could imagine that woman and Selena bonding over vibrators and then going to a bar to chat, flirt with guys, and generally bond.  She couldn’t even get up the nerve to ask the woman how she knew so much.

 

As Maggie meandered back to the streetcar, pausing for beignets at Café du Monde, she contemplated all the ways in which she wished she were like her best friend.  Sure, Selena was gorgeous, and she had big breasts, but Maggie wasn’t convinced that that was the reason men flocked to her.  There was something carefree in her attitude that seemed to draw people to Selena.  She had a confidence that seemed impenetrable.

 

For that matter, Kevin was a lot like Selena.  Straight guys didn’t mind when his gaydar failed and he hit on them.  It was turned into a joke and before long, they were calling Kevin “dude” and buying him a beer.  Gay men adored him, as did the ladies.  He was flirtatious, and handsome as hell (with a body that no one would ever credit to a math teacher) but he had that same sort of confidence.

 

Maggie knew that they’d both been dumped, and more than once, so it wasn’t like it was a freak thing.  But it was like they’d found the secret to sexual happiness.  She just couldn’t figure out what it was.

 

Arriving home, the air conditioning felt like a god send after the soupy outdoors.  Maggie took her package upstairs and opened it.  She fished out the enormous C batteries that would power her new toy and turned it on experimentally.  The loud buzzing sounded obscenely loud in the quiet house.  Maggie turned it off, and losing her courage, left it on the bed and went downstairs to work.

 

That night, however, when she went to bed, she was confronted by the pink toy mocking her from her bedspread.  She turned off all the lights, got under the covers, and pulled the covers up her neck.  The toy, she hid under the covers with her.  Realizing that it needed to be inserted, she decided to try to warm herself up with her hand before using the toy.

 

Maggie closed her eyes to the darkened room, and tried to imagine a man like Philippe.  Of course, the first image was Philippe.  She experimented with dressing him in a cop’s uniform, a construction worker’s dirty wife beater and jeans, and a cowboy’s jeans and chaps.  She tried to change his hair to blonde, his eyes to blue, but the second she lost her focus, he morphed back to her 19^th century gentleman.  She went back to Philippe as the cop, but it wasn’t working.

 

Sighing, she let him be himself.  She imagined her Philippe pulling back the covers, exposing her busy hands to him.  She imagined his wicked smile, and the dimples that would appear.  His hands would cup a breast, and when she stopped touching herself, he would put her hands back and tell her to continue.

 

Maggie moaned as she contemplated the fascination with which he would watch her.  How he would undress as she slid the Rabbit into her pussy.  His eyes would hungrily watched as she fucked herself with it.  As she turned the ears on to tease her clit, he would offer her his cock to take into her mouth even as she filled her pussy with a toy cock.

 

She would lick at his head as the head of the toy began to twirl.  She would open her mouth wider to let the entire head in, and she’d flick his frenulum with her tongue as the beads began to brush her tightening channel.  One of her hands would delicately play with his balls as the other kept the toy tightly against her.  As her hips arched against her toy, he would slide deeper and deeper into her mouth until she had taken him all.  As her orgasm began to build, her mouth would eagerly slide up and down his shaft.  As it broke, and she moaned her orgasm around his cock, he would let go and fill her mouth with his salty sweet cum.

 

Maggie turned off the vibrator, her entire body tingling with the force of the orgasm.  Her therapist had been right that she was capable of intense sexual pleasure, but she hadn’t been able to think of anyone but Philippe.

 

“Why can’t I accept that you’re a figment of my over productive imagination?” she asked the room before turning over and falling asleep.

 

Unsurprisingly she dreamed of Philippe.

 

“Do not turn your back to me cherie.  You need to finish the story,” he said to her.  He was laying in bed next to her, holding her close. 

 

Maggie nestled her cheek on his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his sweat mixing with his cologne.  Her arm wrapped possessively across his chest, and she luxuriated in the feel of his arms about her.

 

“But what if I don’t dream of you?  I need to dream of you,” she said.

 

“Didn’t you prove to yourself tonight that I can come to you whenever you wish?  You don’t need the journals to have me.  But you must read them,” he said, kissing her forehead.  “Beloved, finish what you started.”

 

As the morning light streamed into her windows, Maggie awoke with a promise on her lips.  When she recalled the dreams, it wasn’t pleasure at having dreamt of Philippe that filled her heart, it was fear.  What was going on?

 

Her alarm went off just then, and she couldn’t remember why she’d set it.  She looked at the calendar and realized that it was the first day of meetings.  Like it or not, she had to go to work, and the journals would have to wait.  Classes began in a week, and she had to finish getting ready.

 

Resolutely, Maggie got dressed, and left for her first day as a college professor