Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts (2)

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Out of the box

When a story is inspired by or written for a particular person, it is my habit, when I feel it to be ready for publication, to send a private copy to that person as a gift. He or she is allowed to hold on to it for private enjoyment for a while. It seems only right.

Four Bars turned out to be in reasonably decent shape, so the editing process was not as lengthy as I anticipated. That story is now out of its box and in the hands of she to whom it is dedicated.

While she enjoys her exclusive position, I am experimenting with ways I might make the story available to the next tier of customers, my loyal blog readers, before it gets released into the general maelström of asstr. My first attempt to set up something automated didn’t work — perhaps the first instance ever in which gmail failed to offer a feature I want. I will keep working at this.

Of course, it might be a bad idea at that. I might find out there are only six of you here :o)

Stay tuned.

— Frenulum

To-do

Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts is the most-read post here. I should definitely get to Part 2. Thanks for your patience. Thanks especially to the girl who first wrote and asked for help and persuaded me to write something!

In the mean time: “Good Girls Give Sloppy Head.” Coming to a bumper sticker near you :o)

— Frenulum

Mentor

The young man, standing, asked, “How will I know, how can I tell, that I am owning her… as I should? Responsibly. Doing it well — perfectly for her?”

The old man, seated, spoke at length: about gauging her pride, her delight, her joy. About learning to tell what was in her open mind. About focused consideration; care for her body; care for her spirit. About making her so safe that she could look at the edges that fascinated her. About seeing to her comfort, her discipline, her excitement, her need, her flowering, and her exaltation. About adoration, devotion, respect, and love.

The young woman, kneeling at the young man’s feet, naked but for her collar, looked up at him and saw the passion and determination and resolve in his face. Her heart beat fast and full, and she was wet, and she knew she was home.

— Frenulum

Do the math

I was looking this evening at a photo blog I like. The fellow who maintains it posts some really fine images. A few couples, rarely anything very graphic; mostly artistic nudes or fancy dresses or lingerie (his taste in a fine pair of panties definitely fits with my own).

The women are stunning. I mean: if you passed one on the street you would stop dead and turn and watch, careless of being noticed, abandoning the social convention of not gaping slack-jawed in public, lest you miss one second.

Granted: I know nothing of their inner beauty, nothing of their worth as people. I can only know anything about the packaging.

But just do the math with me. This one blog adds, oh, 50 images a day — individual photos, not sets, so that’s 50 women. I have on my list of interesting photo blogs some 90 sites (I can usually make it to one or two a day). Round up and discard overlap (there is a little) and that comes to 5,000 photos a day of women one never sees in real life.

And the percentage of the net that I touch has to be minuscule. A tiny fraction of a percent?

And we are just talking about the realm of fine-art nudes, principally black-and-white.

Every time I try to work the numbers I come to the conclusion that the planet must be nearly overrun with eye-popping models, with elegant faces and warm inviting suggestive expressions and curvy bodies and very appealing taste in dress (or undress).

It seems inescapable.

Then I look around my workplace, and it’s like getting the sideline bucket of ice water over the head.

Where are they all?

— Frenulum

The boots that will not die

Fashion trends come and go. The industry depends on this: that people will discard serviceable garments and buy replacements because the style has changed. That that look is so last year.

Fine, no problem.

But please, someone give me hope. When will the unnecessary weather-is-fine ridiculous masculine ugly obscuring clunky awkward tall leather boots just go away?

The style lives on like the undead; nobody can find the garlic or cross or stake or silver bullet.

I just saw it again this afternoon. With a heat index of 98°F, a pretty girl with apparently nice legs and a short skirt, clomping around in leather up to her knees. “Miss? You seem to have lost your horse!” Or your phalanx of storm-troopers or your three feet of snow, or whatever.

Everything else changes. I have been told that the boot fad has died a deservedly horrible death in other parts of the country. Why not here? Why not now?

— Frenulum