Some motel room bondage sex from Joy’s Compost, with a moral — if you play bondage games with an army girl who’s been through Mountain Rescue training, don’t expect to get loose:

I threatened him. “For taking my picture *and* for laughing, you’re getting tied to the bed.” “With what?” he asks. He didn’t take me seriously. I let him know I was serious with an evil look. To his credit, he didn’t even pause to consider being a chicken shit and saying ‘no’. Now, I should insert that neither of us had been serious about *anything* happening. It was just harmless flirting. But we were getting interested in *something* right after he saw I was serious about tying him up. Btw, he was almost 6 foot(iirc), dark hair/eyes, moderately muscled, dressed like a college jock when he was in civilian clothes.

I told him, “Well, with what do you think?” and I brought out the old stand-by that’s pretty damn dangerous if you’re not careful: pantyhose. He dared me, said he could get loose. Heh.

I’ve got his wrists tied to the knobs at the headboard posts and I *know* he’s going nowhere(training for Mountain Rescue had me remembering certain knots). He’s continuing to try and get loose, but he can’t. And he’s getting frustrated. So I took advantage, straddled him and began to tease. And he stopped trying to get loose. Both of us were still dressed, but not for long. He was the first one I’d applied the ol’ “finger up the ass” thing when I blew him. Came like a fucking freight train. Waited an hour, during which he was untied and went about giving me some serious foreplay, then we got down to the fucking. In many varied, wonderfully distracting ways. He made my entire stay in that hellhole State completely worthwhile. ;)

Is it just me, or does the cold silver of the chains really stand out against the warm browns in the background, and make the whole image a lot hotter?

One of many compelling drawings in the Art Nouveau Boys club at Yaoi Gallery.

…so we can see he must have studied.

Ah, studying. Being, as I was, one of those bookish lads who got all his theoretical sex education out of books long before he got any hands-on training, I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for the sexual self-help book. But rarely do you hear such a positive testimonial as this one from Pretty Dumb Things:

“What do you think of this?â€? Donny said to me, waving the shiny book in front of my face.

What is it? Ten bucks? I asked. Get it if you want it, I said, feeling unimpressed by the cover and the title and the book’s general slick ambiance, and yet wanting to encourage Donny’s erotic education. So buy it he did.

Apparently, he’s read it. I first noticed a seismic shift in Donny’s Headsmanship the night I returned from Fire Island. Donny, an engineer, had always tended to just head immediately for my clit, apparently assuming the shortest trip between him and my orgasm was a straight line to my most sensitive bits. This time, however, he nibbled, he nuzzled, he licked and he toyed with my labia. He worked slowly and teasingly toward my tiny Greta Garbo reclusive clit and when he finally, finally got there I was goddamn ready and willing to open up and go all Ah! all over.

That wasn’t the only change, however. Donny had discovered rhythm. He did clever little change-ups, but he stayed with a beat long enough that I could enjoy it. He didn’t fumble all frustrated and fruit-fly attention-like with my clit. He had assurance. He held a stroke long enough for me to ride it and then, amazingly, he switched to something even better. He played me like he liked it and like he felt confident.

The Berlin walls tumbling down did not indicate a greater change than this sudden ability of Donny’s to lick my pussy. Ok, perhaps they did, but in my world, this moment was epic. Under the open, knowing, sucking and tongue-twiddling mouth of my lover, I came with the intensity of a joyful natural disaster.

At first I chalked up the crashing success of the experience to our having been away from each other for a week. But he has done it, and done it again, and done it once more, each time with new techniques and an ever-ascending crescendoing level of skill.

Last night, splayed on Donny’s bed, my orgasm did not hover as it usually does like a flotilla of rose-petal weather balloons. It did not, creeping in on cat’s paws, cover me in a rosy pleasure fog. It did not crash like a tsunami or rise up like a fjord or shoot like a nova.

It rose with the intense beat beat beat of hundreds of birds, an immense fluttering flock of wings taking off together, their crazy primal synchronicity pounding the air to rise fluttery upward, up, up, up in the beat beat beat of their wings upward, out and beyond.

Well, it could just be that someone got drunk and fell asleep awkwardly with their head in somebody’s lap. It could be:

From Deadspin.

Another lovely vintage photograph:

You can feel the autumn in the air where I am, and winter will be here before we know it. And that, of course, means frolicking in the snow! But there’s too much cold steel in this picture for my taste:

At least he’s wearing a sock!

A woman inquired recently in the comments on another post what the big deal is, with the whole anal sex thing. Of which I was reminded, when I found a woman with an enthusiastic answer:

I love having my ass filled. The plug we have, although adequate, could be a bit bigger. When I read about vibrating plugs, my little sphincter reacts with a happy twinge. The feeling of cold lube touching the rim of my ass is so divine. The first finger inserted changes the rate of my heart, I find my entire being focused on the sensations I’m receiving and the ecstasy that will soon follow. The first resistance as MoJo’s cock slides in to meet my tight ring prompts me to relax and welcome him into my body. God, I love having my ass filled.

From the Giardino Del Piacere archives.