Goody Two Shoes (29 page)

With one hand I reach over and grab one of the clothespins and snap it gently onto his balls, the pain will distract him.  I understand that now.  It’s the splinter he needs to slow his orgasm.  He’s learning control, and he stiffens as the full closure of the clothespin takes effect.  I watch in awe as he adjusts to the slight pain in his balls.  With a tightening of my lips I begin again, pulling him into my mouth like drinking a frosty through a straw.  But as I lavish him with my tongue I can feel him losing this battle.  His orgasm is back with vengeance, and he’s grinding his jaw again in an attempt to control his thoughts.  I realize I’m not a very good teacher; compassion for him matches my desire to feel his orgasm in my mouth.  Although I want to continue licking him, tasting the small stream of slipperiness that escapes his control, I realize there are two more men in the room.  I lift my head up, “You can come now,” I whisper as I release the clothespin. And he comes, and comes, and comes.

I’ve always said the reason southern men start their girlfriends on raw oysters right away is to train them to like come.  In my case it’s worked, and as his hot orgasm spills past my lips and chin, I take care to swallow what I can.  His body shivers with the last thrust and I lick it gently from his tip.  I hate to leave this beautiful man, after all I’m in love with him, but Vagina and Clitoris urge me to move on.  Softly, I peck his lips, allowing him a small hint of his juices that now belong to me.

The second man is on his back on a similar table, he’s dressed and bound the same except… and I scan his body… he’s fully clothed!  I search for something I’ve missed but his clothing is fully intact.  The only unclothed parts are his hands, but they’re bound tightly to the table and of course his nose and mouth.  That’s it.  His mouth!  Vagina and Clitoris jump for joy.  They’ve waited patiently through my soul searching blow job and are ready to take their turn.  I bend over and pull my dress over my shoulders.  I’ll leave the red bra on and I haven’t worn panties so I climb onto the table unencumbered.  Turning around I put my knees on either side of his head and my hands on his stomach.  His tongue shoots out to greet Clitoris as if they are long lost lovers.  They play Hide and Seek, and Ring around the Rosie as I swing them forwards and backwards with my hips.  I feel giddy, my skin crawls with tiny sparks each time his tongue touches me, and the sensation spreads straight to my breasts.  I push my head into his clothed crotch as I grind myself into his face, like the Tramp I am.  I can’t help but notice the faint scent of formaldehyde on his slacks.   But my every thought is consumed, taken away, leaving nothing but his mouth.  My strokes become longer and slower, allowing his tongue to slip inside me at intervals.  Vagina loves it;  I shiver with anticipation.  And swiftly that anticipation is paid in full beneath his strong tongue.  My body roars with orgasm.  On my hands and knees I must look like a lioness roaring into the wild, but I can’t control it.  It bursts from me without permission.  I feel my hair slap against my back as my head groans ecstasy into the air.

Even as I climb from the table and bend to kiss his lips with gratitude, I know that Vagina is nowhere near finished.  I step towards the third and final man and she dances with Pom-Pom’s as I see that his pants are open and a beautiful cock stands at her beck and call.  On the table next to him is a packaged condom.  Now I haven’t used a condom in my life.  I was a virgin when I married Simmons, or did I tell you that already?  Of course I was!  ‘Goody Two Shoes,’ remember?  Well, never mind, just know that I have no idea what to do with this.  I pull one side of the package and open it.  It’s one piece of thin rubber, how difficult can it be?  After a few moments of moving it around a bit in my fingers, I think I have a fairly good grip on the anatomy, so I lean over the hard cock and slide it slowly on.  A thin rubber band holds it in place at the root and I wonder if it’s not too tight.  I could ask?  “Is this too tight?” I whisper.  But my voice is gruff with need and I sound strange to myself.

The cock bounces high in front of me as if to raise its hand to say that it’s okay.  I giggle a little as I climb on top of it and wet it with my lips.  Strawberry flavored condoms?  Now I’ve heard it all.  But Vagina’s screaming and I can’t concentrate on anything else.  I lower myself onto him slowly, feeling the sweet pressure of being completely filled.  Sitting upright to absorb him fully, I examine the man below me.  He’s large.  I love large powerful men.  Actually he may be the same man in the bedroom when I was blindfolded!  Quickly I glance down at his hands, although I never saw them that day, I feel like I’d recognize them if I did.  But his hands are gloved.  Vagina puts her hands on her hips,
I guess that means you aren’t supposed to play with that part!  Now can we get moving?

As I begin to move slowly, grinding him deep inside me I realize that something is awry.  I look down at his groin and realize it’s shaved.  A man who shaves his privates?  Now this is interesting!  I rather like the closeness it provides me, feeling my own shaved skin against his.  It’s a truly intimate feeling and Clitoris revives herself to revel in the sensations afforded her.  I’m fully engulfed by this man now, and the urge to come is building so fast that I don’t want to stop.  But I lift myself high above him and lower myself slowly, each time using his thick chest to leverage my hands.  He’s a powerful man, I can feel it.  The fact that he’s thought to shave himself, down there, and add to my pleasure lets me know that he’s a generous man.  I want to pleasure him now because I’m in love with him.  I move slowly, grinding myself onto him so that each thrust is a sensual and important work of art.  It’s astounding to me that I want so badly to please him, to impress him.  But Clitoris and Vagina are urging me on and I find myself moving faster and faster.  Soon I’m like a gazelle on National Geographic, and find that my hearing is entirely centered on the sound of my juices slapping against his shaved groin.  The pop of the wetness between us grows louder and louder until the moans of my orgasm take over.  I reach down and grab his shirt and coat with my fingernails during my passionate release.

In case anyone hasn’t told you, acrylic nails are a good weapon when you need them.  In this case they ripped the lapel pin from the man’s coat as I gripped it during my orgasm.  When I find it in my hand I’m almost shocked to see it there.  Sitting on top of him I study it.  So all the men are members of the Sand Dunes Club and the women are Tramp Stamp Club members?  I’d like to take time to ponder this more but his pin is in my hand and I’m not sure how to go about returning it to him.  But he’d come too.  I’d felt him release into the condom inside me, so maybe he doesn’t realize its missing?  I lean forward and take care to pin it back onto his lapel.  Clearly he’s earned this small fraternity symbol, so I try to re-attach it the best I can.

Secrecy is important around here, that’s apparent.  I wouldn’t recognize a single one of these men if I saw them on the street tomorrow.  So as much as I’d like to think I can use the pin as an excuse to see this man again, I resist the urge to steal it from him.  My battle lines have been drawn between good and evil.  I’m still following rules, I’m good at it, but these rules are designed for my pleasure.  They aren’t speeding laws, but just the same they’re designed for my security and I must respect this man’s privacy no matter how in love I am with him.

Newbie my ass, you were born horny!  Hell I bet you’ve named your pussy!

Ellen Devereux

~Tara Townsend

Graduation Night

Handcuffed, Blindfolded, Nekkid, Gagged, in Jonathon’s living room.

As you know by now, my path to this pole hasn’t been easy.  It’s been so full of highs and lows that the memories seem more similar to the coasters at Carowinds than my actual life.  But this blindfold, along with a slight breeze from a ceiling fan high above, allows me to forget my Catholic chants about heaven and hell and concentrate on what really matters in this world:  Happiness, and to be more specific, my happiness.  And I deserve it because there’s been so little of it in my life before the day, by my backyard pool, when Patty explained the facts of life to me. 

My life was purgatory; the land of nothing.  Tonight I offer my BFF all my love and gratitude for convincing me to give my life one last hurrah.  Patty, take a bow please!

Truthfully, there was an awful lot of mental crap I had to discard before getting to this point.  BFF Patty laughed and called it my ‘Slut Wife Training,’ but I’m starting to think of it more as a rebirth; a second chance at life if you will.  Only now I’m fully equipped with a giant eraser for those imaginary rules.

I’m waiting for a touch.  I’ve heard the voices, the bodies wandering about the room for the past half hour.  But blindfolded, the concept of time has left me and I’m confused as to how long I’ve actually been standing here.  In my darkness I can feel everything; each muscle in my body reverberates with need.  Goose bumps race over me, covering my nudity with a clothing of the sort only my body can create.  Not much of a costume, but then again my body had zilch to work with.  As the voices filled the room I’d considered bailing, telling them all that I’ve changed my mind and no longer want to be a part of their little ‘Club.’  I could find my clothes, pull them on hastily, and race to the nearest Priest to confess, thus being completely absolved of the sins I’ve committed to get to this honorable position:  Tied to this pole.

Yet something had held me back, and now it was too late; they’ve all seen my naked body.  A newborn doesn’t scream for their clothes, and that’s what I am now, reborn.  I repeat this to myself as I continue to juggle guilt and pleasure.  I’ve even felt a few warm breaths as they wander about the room downing expensive bourbon and chatting so carelessly about their lives.  Does it not seem odd to them that the centerpiece of this gathering is three naked people tied to brass poles?  Does it not seem odd that I’m one of them?

Under the darkness of the blindfold I’m alone and can doddle with my thoughts.  I wonder what the women are wearing.  Real fur has been out for decades.  But without doubt, I’m sure that a few of the resistant factors are donning them with morbid pride.  That’s just how it is in the South; killing a live animal is still good sport.  And having them stuffed and mounted above the living room mantle is a sign of a healthy provider, thus a successful family.

And that’s how I feel at this moment, like an illicit mantle ornament.  Like a Kim Kardasian poster must feel on a teenage boy’s bedroom wall.  Alas, a hand touches me!  I want to jump for joy, but I’m secured with the finest silver handcuffs money can buy.  That’s Jonathon, only the very best for his women.  But the warm touch reminds me of how chilled my skin has become beneath the fan that continuously spins the cool night air in from the garden.  I can tell they’ve left the French doors open to absorb the overflow of guests on this most propitious night.  Having been in this room before I know that three doors face the garden, and now I catch the faint scent of slightly stale water flowing in the fountain outside.  I feel each small breeze that creeps past the tall brick outer walls, because without sight I’m forced to rely on the rest of my body for information.  I’m forced to think of this small touch as a token of warmth and a blessing, something meant to inspire me to reach inside myself and erase the imaginary rules that tell me this is wrong.  Each touch is a gift.  Am I nervous?  Scared beyond comprehension?  Of course I am!  That’s the excitement.  While I’ve never leapt from a perfectly working airplane (as I consider that downright dumb) I can tell you that being nude in the middle of a group of strangers is the same.  At least in my mind the adrenaline rush is comparable.

My family and regular friends (I mean those not standing nude in a room full of people they don’t know) would laugh hysterically if I stated that I’m in this for the adrenaline rush.  On the contrary, I have an anxiety attack at the mention of the word ‘carousel.’  There’s all that spinning and those insane looking horses are downright terrifying.  I’m afraid normalcy and compliance are two words that are infused into my DNA; I’d earned them with ‘ruler scaldings’ on the palms of my hands and hard paddles on the back of my Catholic school uniform.  They’d beaten me into submission somewhere around kindergarten, and later celebrated it with my Confirmation.  So trust me when I tell you that I had to hit absolute rock bottom before I decided that being handcuffed to this pole is my single option.  I really didn’t have another choice did I?  I could either bow to some Broad Street divorce attorney (not that either of us has hired one-yet), or I could kick and scream, tear all the normalcy and compliance from my veins with my acrylic fingernails until I bleed.

As you can tell by the mere fact that I’m relishing in every small touch offered to my body, I chose the latter.  Of course I give gratitude to BFF Patty.  If she hadn’t convinced me to let go of my puritan ways, I might still be clinging to the ravages of my marriage.  Probably halfway through a box of wine dialing Simmons’ cell number to see if I recognize the woman’s voice who answers.  But you know, at the time Patty explained it I ignored the math, I was only interested in the result.  She was happy, I wanted to be happy.  Exactly how much longer could I go on in a lifeless marriage anyway?  To what depths must I go before enough is enough?  GGGGmamma had to make colossal changes and the time has come for
me
to piss or get off the pot.  It wasn’t one single thing Simmons did that delivered me here to The Tramp Stamp Club tonight, but it damn sure wasn’t thirty years of marital bliss.  Without realizing it, I’d become the Walmart robed wife who should have bought Clairol while she was there but never did.