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

Penmanship

Abby got up from her desk and skipped to the front of the classroom, her too-short kilt swirling around her bare thighs and her ponytail bouncing. With a triumphant gesture, she put the papers on my desk.

“There you go, Mr. Franklin,” she chirped. “Five hundred lines.” She sounded awfully cheerful for a girl who had been kept late at the high school, and given lines to write as punishment for misbehavior.

She turned to leave. When she was half way to the classroom door, I stopped her.

“Abby. Come back here, please.”

She walked back to stand in front of my desk. “What is it, Mr. Franklin?” she asked, with every appearance of innocence.

“The line I assigned you to write was: ‘I will not touch myself inappropriately in class.’”

“That’s what I wrote!” she protested.

“That’s how you started,” I replied. “Then half way down the first page, ‘touch myself inappropriately’ turned into ‘touch my panties.’”

“Well… that’s what you meant, right?”

I gave her a stern look. “By the end of page one, you were writing ‘touch my pussy’… here, it morphs into ‘play with my pussy’… and by the last page, ‘play with my hot, wet, needy pussy.’”

“Well… it’s just as clear, isn’t it?” She gave me a smoldering look that no 17-year-old had any business knowing. “You always tell us that clarity is important.”

“Finally, Abby,” I continued, trying to ignore the come-on look, “You forgot the word not in every single line.”

She put a foot up on the edge of my desk. My view up her kilt was unimpeded as she began to stroke her pussy through snug white panties. “I didn’t forget,” she said in a whisper. “Because I’m not going to stop. Because… you don’t really mind seeing me do it — not one little bit.”

She put her foot down, grabbed her books, and turned again to leave as I sat there, speechless. Then she stopped, turned to face me, and added, “But tomorrow in class, I might forget something. Like… my panties.” With a wave she skipped away, looking quite pleased with herself.

— Frenulum

Economics

Jessica brought the coffee to the table; she served Cait and took her seat. The wince and the sharp gasp as she sat down did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, my! Looks like somebody got a spanking,” Cait said with a sympathetic smile.

Jessica sipped coffee, then met her best friend’s eyes.

“Yeah. A long time last night, freshened up this morning before he left for work.”

“Ouch. What for?”

Jessica sighed deeply. “Last night, with his hand, for maxing out a credit card.” She paused, and her eyes began to puddle. “Tonight, with the bamboo spatula, for having a credit card he didn’t even know about in the first place.”

“Oh no!” said Cait, eyes wide.

“Tomorrow night, with the short strap, for trying to lie about it,” Jessica continued, “And Friday night, with I don’t know what, for taking up last night and tonight and tomorrow.”

Cait contemplated her friend. Then she said softly, “And knowing you, just telling me all that has made you completely horny.”

Jessica blushed furiously. “Yes. Um… excuse me for a minute?

Cait grinned. “Sure. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or… like when we were roommates. Do it right here, and let me watch.”

Jessica paused, and then her hands crept to the hem of her skirt. Remembering when they were roommates, she knew that watching would not be enough.

— Frenulum

Spelling

Angelyn let my cock slip from her mouth so she could give Zoë some advice.

“Something you can do to make sure there’s lots of variety, when you’re licking Sir’s balls, is to move your tongue like you’re writing letters… spell something.” Then she swallowed my cock again.

Zoë looked up with a twinkle in her eye. “What should I spell, Sir?”

“Antidisestablishmentarianism,” I replied with an answering grin. She got busy on my nuts right away. A… N… T… Angelyn started laughing, which was particularly pleasant because she had my cock buried to the root down her tight little throat. I enjoyed Zoë’s tonguemanship for a while before I grabbed her by her soft curls and moved her mouth to my asshole.

With her face buried between my cheeks, I told her “Try… pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.” As her pretty tongue got busy in my ass, I wrapped Angelyn’s ponytail around my other hand.

My turn to drive.

— Frenulum

Math

(From a conversation with my belovèd. An episode of fantasy/story-telling, I hasten to add, not something personal.)

He carried her leather paddle, a terribly sting-producing instrument, and an embarrassing one, for the words “For A Naughty Girl” were burned into it.

The memory of the past times he had used it caused her eyes to prickle with hot tears, and she felt two escape down her cheeks.

“Is there any doubt in your mind that this is necessary and earned?” he asked. Redundantly, since their discussion had been quite thorough.

“No, Sir,” she replied, her voice choked.

“I have in mind the number of smacks you deserve in response to your behavior,” he said. “I want you, right now, to tell me how many you think you deserve.

“If your number is higher than mine, I will use it.

“If your number is equal to mine, I will use it.

“If your number is less than mine, I will double mine and add yours.

“Tell me now.”

— Frenulum

Wait for me

I opened the front door, stepped inside, closed it, listened. The house was quiet. Not empty-quiet, waiting-quiet. That’s an appealing, arousing, erotic sound.

I hung up my coat. Left the laptop bag in the hall. Wandered into the kitchen. There was a glass of wine on the counter. I smiled, raised it in a silent thankful toast, and sipped. Deep flavors: blackberry, chocolate, oak. I took another sip.

Quiet. She was waiting for me. Just a matter of hunting for treasure.

I found her in my study. Kneeling, eyes lowered. In heels too high to walk in, stockings, garter belt, and a ribbon around her neck. We call that ribbon a depth gauge.

Her hands were behind her head, with her fingers interlaced. I wondered how long she had been waiting. She was so still.

I took one more sip of wine, put the glass down, and unbuckled my belt.

— Frenulum