Triumph

I keep pretty quiet about my intimate activities with my belovèd, both to respect her privacy (and mine) and in recognition of the fact that you’re not reading this blog for such details.

But a certain triumphant moment deserves to be shared with an appreciative audience — especially those of you who have enjoyed Cocksucking Considered as One of the Fine Arts.

During our get-away trip this week, my belovèd proudly reached a milestone we have both been patiently pursuing, with much happily dedicated practice and training.

She is a petite woman and… I am not petite, so there was always the possibility to be considered that this achievement would not be physically possible. I am happy to report a delightful, successful outcome.

I will just say: there is no longer any unconquered territory.

Thank you for sharing in my pride in her, and our joy.

— Frenulum

Reset and recharge

Photo style

Imagine a photographer, a specialist in the subject of nudes. He has a shoot today, with a model of stunning beauty and elegant form. The studio is prepared, and the lighting arranged to his satisfaction.

The model arrives. The stylist sees to every detail of her hair and makeup. Little scraps of hide-nothing lingerie are selected and fitted and adjusted; the properly dramatic heels are slipped on.

The photographer guides her to her first pose. She is breathtaking, sensual, sexy, beautiful.

And he says to her:

Scowl. snap! A little more discontent, please. snap! Good, good! Spread your legs a little more… ok, give me boredom. snap! Great! More — like you’d rather be anywhere else. snap! Beautiful. Cup your breasts in your hands… Sneer. snap! Super! Can I get that look that says you’re so far out of my league I shouldn’t even come near you? snap! Beautiful, beautiful. Lift your hair like this. Show me hauteur, contempt snap! aloof snap! snap! Arch your back… Can I get some of that runway petulance? snap! Oh, you’re doing great!

I seems ludicrous, written out like that. But I swear about one photo in four that I run across has been produced like this.

Advice to photographers: beauty is not in styling or shape, but in happiness, desire, and engagement. IMHO.

— Frenulum

Absence

Dear readers,

I apologize for posting so little recently. As usual, it’s a matter of allocating time to a cascade of priorities in which writing fiction and essays and blog posts falls regrettably low.

Next week, my belovèd and I are taking a few days away from ordinary demands, to reset and recharge. In the past, such adventures have been inspirational. I hope for more of the same.

And who knows… she has mentioned wanting to spend some time “helping me write” :o) If you’ve been following along, you will know what that means.

Thank you for your patience as always.

— Frenulum

Adage

“You can’t judge a book by its cover”

I ran into that old adage in a newspaper article yesterday. It has always struck me as one of the silliest things ever said.

Oh, I understand the intent. Don’t look at a woman’s hairstyle or hemline and think you can place her; don’t take a man’s handshake or skin color as hallmarks of his character. Fine.

But of all the ways to suggest that the superficial is not the essential, the worst analogy of all must be book covers and books. Because book covers are expressly designed to convey a sense of the contents.

A gold police badge, with a black mourning band; a backdrop of a cityscape, fire-red and smoking. Romance novel? Cookbook? Police thriller?

A lemon yellow cover with a cartoon wedding cake, a knife plunged into it oozing red icing. Auto-maintenance how-to? Civil War history? Village mystery with a woman sleuth and a few recipes tossed in?

A black background with two slanted, glowing green eyes; raised silver lettering. Belles lettres? Comedy of errors? Horror?

A beautiful woman in a torn dress on a windy tor at sunset, tattered cloth exposing an ample bosom and supple thighs… sorry, lost my train of thought there. But you get the point.

The message is valuable. The adage is bewildering.

— Frenulum

Expensive

One periodically sees on the net a ranking of the most expensive commodities: name brand perfume, plutonium, gasoline, what have you. Usually the aim of such articles is to point out the absurd price of ink-jet printer ink.

But it’s not really absurd. It makes economic sense along the lines of the razor/razor-blade model. Give away, at a terrible loss, a printer for $50, and more than make up the hit by selling $29 ink cartridges with a few ml of ink in each.

But… to return to my original theme… what do you suppose is the most expensive commodity available? Inkjet ink? Chanel #5? Gold?…

I don’t have the means in text to hold you in suspense, but think about it, if you will.

The answer is… (no, really, think about it first)…

Anti-matter. USD$62.5 Trillion per gram.

That’s right: $62,500,000,000,000 per gram.

And then… good luck figuring out where to keep it :o)

— Frenulum

Wilderness

Turing, as a 23-year-old graduate student, derived the principles of modern computation more or less by accident — as a byproduct of his interest in something called the Entscheidungsproblem, or Decision Problem. It can be stated as: Is there a formula or mechanical process that can decide whether a string of symbols is logically provable or not? Turing’s answer was no. He restated the answer in computational terms by showing that there’s no systematic way to tell in advance what a given code is going to do. You can’t predict how software will behave by inspecting it. The only way you can tell is to actually run it. And this fundamental unpredictability means you can never have a complete digital dictatorship with one government or company controlling our digital lives — not because of politics but because of mathematics. There will always be codes that do unpredictable things. This is why the digital universe will never be a national park; it will always be an undomesticated, unpredictable wilderness. And that should be reassuring to us.

— George Dyson

Holiday

Lindsey met Ashley at her locker amidst the din of four hundred excited girls banging locker doors, slamming books into backpacks, and talking, talking, talking.

“Hey, Ashley,” said Lindsey, glancing around the too-crowded hallway. “C’mere for a minute.” She led the way to an empty classroom, and the girls slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

“What’s up?” Ashley asked, recognizing a certain look on her friend’s face as portending mischief.

“Monday’s Presidents’ Day,” Lindsey replied.

“No duh. I’ve been dreaming of the long weekend all month.”

“Well, listen. My parents don’t get the day off.”

“So?”

“So… the house to myself for about eight hours and the ’rents all the way in the City.”

Ashley caught her drift and grinned. “So you’re planning somethin’. What?”

Lindsey bent over and whispered in Ashley’s ear. “I was thinking… some cuddling and kissing… some petting… some… nice, slow, undressing. And then…” Her voice got even softer. “Lots and lots of… oral sex.”

Ashley pulled away, shocked. “Oh my god! I — I had no idea — you… you and Jeremy were so… y’know… um, advanced.”

Lindsey smiled sweetly. “Oh, I’m not inviting Jeremy. I’m inviting you.”

— Frenulum

Spike

She slid one hand slowly, slowly, slowly down her leg, enjoying the smoothness of her skin and the way my eyes burned as I watched her.

She reached her shoe, a six-inch spike-heeled pump we call “trainers,” because they’re too tall to walk in without help. She slipped it off.

As I watched with the utmost intensity, she raised it slowly to her face. Our eyes were locked.

She held it close and licked her way slowly up the heel, inch by inch, as if loving the leather and the shape. She took her time, her tongue playing gently and urgently over the surface. That it was a promise, a surrogate for my cock, there was not the slightest hint of a misunderstanding.

That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening.

— Frenulum

Dance

My parents danced together, her head on his chest. Both had their eyes closed. They seemed so perfectly content. If you can find someone like that, someone you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind, even after all these years.

—Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

Extra-curricular activities

“Karla! Maryanne! What on earth are you two squalling about?” The rest of the cheerleading squad looked on, keeping some distance from their angry teammates.

Karla thrust out an accusing finger. “She’s not wearing maroon spankies! They’re bluuuue!”

“It’s practice, you moron, not a game,“ Maryanne spat back. “Who gives a crap what color practice spankies anybody wears?”

“It’s called a uniform for a reason, loser!”

Maryanne lifted her cheerleading skirt to show off. “You’re just jealous that I have sparkly blue practice spankies and you only have that dumb old maroon. Moron.” She added another epithet, but under her breath.

Both girls turned to Coach, fists on their hips, confident of a favorable ruling.

“Maryanne, take off your spankies.” Coach held out a hand for them, clearly not going to listen to argument. Karla looked smug and satisfied until she heard, “And Karla, I’ll take yours also.”

Two girls with deep-pink faces tugged their tight spankies off and reluctantly placed them in Coach’s unwavering outstretched hand.

“All right! Let’s hit the field everyone! We’re already late!“

“With — with no —”

“But — but Coach. We — we can’t —”

“Get moving, you two. Or I would be happy to remind you how spankies got that name.”

Bonded by the sudden sisterhood of mutual mortification, the girls scurried off. It turned out to be a very fascinating practice — for Karla and Maryanne were flyers.

— Frenulum

P.S.: practice spankies, practice spankies, practice spankies :o)

Law

They only had seconds to react to the flashers, but by the time an inquisitive flashlight beam swept the back seat, they were sitting up straight, on opposite sides of the car. Jimmy, squinting at the bright light, cranked the window down.

“License and registration, son,” said the deep voice behind the light. He took the cards and examined them, giving the teens some respite. The cop handed back the papers and looked at the far end of the back seat. “And who’s your friend?”

“It’s me, Sergeant Mason,” piped the girl in the corner. "Emma."

“Emma Grant? Well, I’ll be. You surely done growed a bit. Your momma know you’re parkin’ at the quarry?”

“We’re not parking… we’re just, like, talking.”

“I may not know much about girls’ fashion, Miss Emma, but I’m pretty sure the panties still go under the dress.” The flashlight beam picked out a pair of pink bikini panties on the floor by her feet. “Well, you two best run along now, hear?”

The Sergeant watched the teens scramble into the front seat and drive away. He walked back to the cruiser, climbed in, and killed the flashers. “Now where were we, Patrolwoman Lee?” he said, opening his trousers.

“Suckin’ some superior dick, I do believe.” She bent over from the passenger seat and got busy.

“Damn fool kids,” muttered the Sergeant, “Occupyin’ our spot.”

— Frenulum

Debate

Want. Don’t want.

I do not like pain. I don’t get off on it. I dread it.

I do like being spanked, which is painful in the extreme. I do get off on it. I melt just thinking about it. I play with my pussy, thinking about it.

I am a submissive. Submission is sex. Spankings are the most intense and powerful instances of my submission: therefore, the most intense and powerful sexual experience I can have.

I hate to make him do it. I know how truly he wants never to cause me pain.

But I know how directly it satisfies his dominance, which is his sexuality.

Oh… Don't want. Want. Need. A question that may never be:

Resolved.

— Frenulum

Civics

“I want to make love with you in every room of the house.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to wake you up in the morning by sucking your cock.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to take walks with you and hold your hand and come home and fuck like bunnies.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want you to cum in my pussy and my ass and my mouth, and on my face and in my hair and between my breasts and…”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to act like a bad girl and get away with it, without things like corner time and spankings.“

“Hmm… I’ll have to vote no on that one.”

“Well, then. Looks like every vote was unanimous.”

— Frenulum

Biology

(Thanks to my belovèd for the inspiration.)

He comes to the school for lunch every Wednesday. Lunch, meaning: I lock my office door and we do… whatever he wants. But I do usually end up getting fed, if you catch my drift.

Today he granted me a rare privilege: using my hands. I had my soft brown hair wrapped around his cock, and I was stroking it after a long time of loving him with my mouth.

Everything was fine but… we kind of lost track. And he… came in my hair. That’s ok, I love that because he thinks it’s so sexy, but… it was about three minutes before my next class.

With no time to spare, I grabbed handfuls of tangled, creamy hair and wrapped it into a tight bun on the crown of my head. Hoping like crazy all that cum wouldn’t show. I kissed him, and raced to my lab.

Just try teaching Bio with drizzles of cum oozing out of your sticky hair and trickling down your neck — with hyper-attentive schoolgirls watching everything.

Kristin told me privately after class that I had left some conditioner in my hair and that it had dripped onto my suit collar. A thoughtful girl, trying to be helpful.

Oh, if only they knew.

— Frenulum