An important member of the sex-positive community
urgently needs our help.

Jefferson—blogger, educator, and friend to so many of us—is at this moment fighting a court battle with his ex-wife, who is seeking full custody of their three children.

Jefferson’s love for his children has been well-documented on his blog One Life, Take Two for years. His ex-wife has stated in court that he is a “great” father who loves his children.

However, among her claims is that his
bisexuality makes him an unfit parent.

Jefferson needs our help now. As a writer, his resources are limited. The costs of fighting this case are mounting quickly—and will certainly run into the tens of thousands of dollars.

As of today, there is an urgent and immediate need for at least $20,000 to cover costs associated with attorney fees and those of the law guardian who has been appointed to represent the children.

If he is unable to pay these fees by August 11, he will be forced to relinquish custody of his children.

This case is of concern to anyone whose sexuality does not fit the standard mold—because it could happen to you. This case is of concern to all writers, because Jefferson’s blog is being used as evidence against him—and that could have repercussions for our First Amendment rights.

Here’s how to help:

Make an ANONYMOUS, TAX-DEDUCTIBLE contribution to Jefferson’s legal defense by visiting the Sexual Freedom Defense and Education Fund at:

www.sfldef.org

There you will find out how to donate to Jefferson’s Defense Fund via PayPal or if you prefer, check or money order.

Please note that you MUST mention that your donation is to be used for the JEFFERSON LEGAL DEFENSE FUND.

In the coming days, www.onelifetaketwo.com will be relaunched with information about Jefferson’s ongoing case. Be sure to visit his blog for updates. In the meantime, you can contact Jefferson directly at friendsofjefferson@gmail.com.

Thanks very much for your time and concern.

Feel free to copy this and post it to your blog or LJ or any email lists. Or link here.

I’ve been reading over these past posts with some dissatisfaction.  The problem is that in this format it is too tempting to adopt the trappings of mastery.  Though the subtitle of this blog is “Adventures in Pansexuality”,  I’m not always a willing or competent adventurer.  I’m certainly not any authority.  And yet the authoritative tone creeps in.  I’m happy to tell hot stories (and happy that I have hot stories to tell), but I would hope that I could make this into something more complex.

It’s going to take some thinking as to how to how to blend the honesty I would hope for with tact and discretion.

Four AM at New York’s Black Party. Thousands of men swarming through the Roseland Ballroom for hours on end and at one point or another each of them makes his way up to the back room. Off of the mezzanine, it’s a hallway with another hallway branching off of it. The first hallway is about fifty feet long and fifteen wide, the branch thirty by eight. Men pile up at the entrance, packed together, trying to get insde these halls. Both are dead ends. Once you reach the end your only option is to circle back. Inside is blackness, illumated in flashes from a stuttering wall sconce and the occasional hand held flashlight or cell phone screen. I push my way down one hall and take up position against the wall. It’s the only way to stay upright. I circle back and the capliary action of all thses bodies moves me into the tighter hallway. Again I come to rest against a wall. The air is thick and low. The motion is endless and yet for all the shoving there’s very little yelling or anger. Little talking at all, just the hard desiring eyes, the hands reaching out. When one person moves, everyone moves and at one point the sensation is so unbearably constricting that I think “we’re all going to die here”. I fight my way out.

Half an hour later I’m back inside again, obeying a hunger I never knew I had. In all that heat and closeness my individuality slips away and I become one more set of organs attached to the sweating beast that is fucking itself in those rooms. Ten feet from me I glimpse a man in his sixties with another on his knees in front of him. It takes me ten minutes to fight my way to him but when I do my mouth consumes his and my hand reaches down to force his kneeling partner’s mouth futher down on his dick.

Men are pushing forward , pushing back out, slowed to a lurching shuffle by their proximity They suddenly look like the living dead. It’s that inexorable stagger of singleminded desire. The hunger to fuck has become some sort hunger to swarm, to pack together as tightly as possible. I think of the shaved headed guys pushing up against and past me as sexzombies, an undead army with a single hunger and purpose and as the thought settles into my mind I greet it with, yeah, that’s hot and my cock is in my hand and my cock is being brushed by many hands and I’m feeling asses, lower backs, smooth, furred. My hand finds a fleshy uncut dick and I give it a couple of tugs before it’s already out of reach. The guy on his knees switches to sucking my dick. I grab the older man’s cock, still slick with spit. A few jerks and he throws his head back and groans shooting on the back of the head of the guy who’s blowing me - I’m rubbing warm cum into his bristly skull, bucking my dick into his mouth over and over. No one looks down, only ahead. The light comes and goes. On the other side of the room someone points their flashlight at three guys urging a fourth to his knees. I’m fucking the face in front of me faster. I go to pull out and he grabs my ass and pulls me in even deeper. That’s it. I’m shooting down his throat, gasping. Someone leans their hands on my shoulders for support. Looking back I can see that he’s getting fucked. His mouth hangs open and his eyes are looking through me. The smell in the air is rank and sweet, less poppers than an impossible mingling of sweats, jizm. The guy in front of me gets up and I kiss him , tasting the remains of my load in his mouth. I set off down the hallway, edging along. I’m almost at the entrance, when a tall, muscular black guy reaches across the heads of several other men and jams his fingers into my armpit. He pulls them out and sniffs them deeply. I watch his eyes widen. I know I’ve got good pits, so I stop, reach back and pull his head under my left arm. He snorts and laps at the pit, but the crowd is forcing us apart and seconds later all I have is my fingers’ memory of the feel of his warm skull, and the cooling saliva under my arm.

Later that night I’m complimented on my cocksucking technique by a guy with a salt and pepper flattop and a firm belly that presses against my head every time I pull his prick down my throat. Because of course I had to be back in those rooms again.

This weekend I was reminded of one simple fact:  You never want to be the talky guy at the orgy.  On Friday I heard from The Princess: “This guy I know is throwing an orgy in his hotel suite; want to go?”  I was already heading to a cocktail party earlier in the evening, but I said sure, and so through the cold New York night I went, through a hotel lobby where no one questioned my presence.  (I’m struck by the way that in so many hotels you can just walk in and hop on an elevator up to the rooms.  Don’t they have huge theft problems? Is it possible to get into rooms that way?)  Once at the suite I found my host, The Princess and her sibling, Erica the Engineer, a couple of young women I didn’t really know and the Guy.

The Princess had pointed me towards the host’s web site so I knew he was a switch, bi and into a wide range of stuff including some piercing and blood play.  She’d also told me that the rule for attendance was that people had to be bi.  All fine by me, even though I’ve found that the word “bi” represents a range of behavior that can go anywhere from “I’m an utter pig, any of y’all can use me any way you like” to “This one time I got real drunk and before I knew it a guy sucked my dick and I guess it was OK”. You can guess which end of the spectrum I’m on and which I prefer.  I’ll opt for the open-minded , willing and able every time.  But in my experience, it’s often hard to find.

So I’m going into this situation thinking here’s folks that have been vetted to some extent and are basically game and are here for sex.  It is an orgy, right? And there’s some playing going on and generally a very relaxed vibe.  The Princess’s sibling  starts in on a little whipping of one of the girls.  The host has another one kneeling between his spread legs, her head bobbing on his admirable cock. I’m sipping seltzer with Erica.  And then there’s the Guy.  Who is talking in abrupt sentences to whomever is willing to listen.

Clearly he’s nervous, and it’s understandable; I’m a little nervous and I know quite a few more people at the event than he does. Turns out he was recommended by a friend, one who was supposed to be at the orgy, but isn’t.  It also turns out that he has never been around anyBDSM events.  So he has a lot to take in when the host pulls out his rig, slips on some gloves and starts gently running a scalpel over the skin of one of the other guests.  The whipping is still going on, toes are being sucked, and Erica is getting her ass spanked with a couple of the paddles I’d brought along and lent out.

I dealing  with my nervousness by doing some quiet cuddling.  But the Talky Guy is now caught in a negative feedback loop where he blurts something out which is usually about how unused he is to all this, a conversational gambit that doesn’t allow for much response beyond sympathetic agreement, and which only underscores and increases his difference from the other guests, making it that much harder for him to be at ease.

Generally these things are better managed in the gay world, where the code of behavior at sex parties is simple: cruise, approach and if rejected move on.  If someone tries to insinuate themselves in your scene you can usually turn them away with  little trouble.  (I’ve been at  New York’s bear play parties off and on for years, and only once have I encountered a Talky Guy, who kept following me around and wouldn’t take a hint.  I think a big part of his issue was crystal.)  But for some assortment of reasons the ’straighter” kink community can’t quite get to this level of simplicity.

I felt for the Talky Guy, really.  But I also had some resentment at having to feel for him.  His twitchiness was catching, making it hard for me to relax and enjoy myself.  For a while I watched The Princess cane Erica, the host do some fucking, and some pictures being taken.  I climbed on the bed and slid a couple of fingers deep into Erica while The Princess hit her, working her til she came.  And then it seemed like time to go.  A few of us bundled up to head out.  As I left, I could hear the Talky Guy, still trying to connect, still nervous, still haunting.

He was at my feet. I pushed the well worn work boots into his face and told him to take them off. He got to work on the laces. The heavy boots thudded to the floor, and then Gabe was grabbing at my wool socks. The cool air flooded over my toes, quickly followed by the wet laving of his tongue. I settled back into my chair. Gabe’s eyes glittered as he pulled my toes into his mouth, moaning. I looked down on his lightly hairy body, his trimmed goatee and his eager cock. I reveled in the power I was feeling. We had first talked to each other years before online. There had been missed connections and canceled dates but his pleading had worn through, and now I loved the deference he showed me, the submissiveness combined with kinkiness. He wanted my feet, had wanted them for a while, but that was just the warm up. He’d made an additional request and that was what made me make sure that this date came off.

Now that he had them in his face, Gabe bit and licked my feet, wallowing in them. I let him move them all over his body. I ground my heel into his sternum. His tongue was thick between my toes. I don’t think of my self as such a foot top, but enthusiasm is infectious. The intensity with which he was focusing on my feet, made me focus on them more, and when I did that I was surprised by how sensitive they were, how much they liked the attention. But now it was time for the second act.

We laid out the tarp, and on it, the chocolate layer cake I’d picked up earlier that day from the specialty store. I shucked my jeans and knelt on either side of the cake. Slowly I settled my ass onto it. The feeling was incredible. Cake and cool frosting squeezed up my ass crack and around my balls. I was instantly hard. I rolled over onto my side and lifted my leg. Gabe dove between my legs and began eating the cake. He shoved his face between my cheeks, lapping and groaning with delight. Cake smeared around his mouth. He scooped up more of the squashed mess and slapped it between my cheeks, following it with his tongue. I felt a laugh building in my chest as I fed him. He was frenzied, biting, sucking, following every chocolate scrap. He pulled his rim seat, a black toilet seat on short legs, onto the tarp with us. I sat down and he slid underneath on his back.

The sorry remains of the cake were there on my left. His hand met mine as we both scraped the cardboard to get more. I took my handful and started stroking my cock. The frosting was thick and greasy, warming to liquid with the heat of our bodies and the friction. Gabe was coated from the neck up and he continued to drive his tongue deep into my ass. In the mean time my feet rested on his belly. I slid them down to either side of his dick. Immediately he started fucking between them. I couldn’t believe how good it felt. The precum leaking from the head of his cock made my soles slippery and his hips thrust eagerly. He gripped my thighs and slurped at my hole.

I couldn’t hold back. The sensations in my ass and feet joined those in my dick. I paused, found some more frosting and started jerking faster. Seconds later I threw my head back and shot. With my hand full of cum and chocolate goo and still seeing stars, I grabbed Gabe’s prick and wrapped my feet around it. He yelped and blew his load shooting up his belly and chest, almost up to his neck. I kept a tight hold on him and he began to shake, shudders running up and down his delicious body. His groans rumbled up through my ass and then his head fell back and I heard him sucking air. Gasping and still shivering, he slid down to clean the cake from my feet. I felt relaxed, happy. I raised the my hand to my face and began to lick the remaining muck from between my fingers.

We’d been going back and forth about it for months: I’d gotten it into my head that I wanted to have my first flogging, and I wanted it to be a good one. I’d made it to nearly fifty without being flogged and there was only one person I could think of getting it from. My friend Stan.

Stan is what I’d have to call the über top. The first time I heard of him was when a pain pig bottom friend of mine, the guy who provoked the first flowering of my own sadism, talked about the only other man he’d let “do anything, just anything” to him. Stan was that man. I heard about him for months before I met him and then once I met him I knew the reports were not bullshit: Stan has what I look for in a top: looks, grace, humor and heft. By which I mean that his authority is palpable, so much so that he rarely needs to assert it. He walks into a situation and people look to him to direct what’s going on. The first time we ever got together sexually there was no question in my mind but that I should be seated at his feet, nuzzling his boots, eagerly awaiting what ever his cruel, subtle mind had cooked up for me.

Over the years Stan has intoduced me to any number of pleasures (he’s a great researcher), and he became the first person that I could confess any fantasy to without fear of judgement or recoil. In fact, every I told him about some kink I thought was hot, I would usually receive several images of it, or links to websites for it the next day. Much of what I do now in bed or out of it is directly due to Stan’s encouragement and guidance. A couple of months I was talking to him on the phone while he was at a Leather Swap Meet and he picked out something for me saying “I know you’ll like this” without telling me what this was. It turned out to be one of the meanest rubber paddles I’ve ever hefted and absolutely love to use it on people. He was right once again. So of course he was the logical one to beat the crap out of me. I just made him promise that he wouldn’t use any rubber floggers

Our only trouble was timing: between one thing and another, our schedules and the spacial restrictions of New York City apartments we couldn’t seem to come up with the right moment. Then we were both invited to a mutual friend’s country house for the weekend. The friend was going to be hosting a fetish party, most of it out doors, so we knew there’d be room to swing the floggers.

As the weekend approached I grew antsy. I like pain and I’d been hit with a lot of things, so that wasn’t what was getting to me. Finally I realized that I wanted to be a good enough bottom. We’d waited so long that the scene was taking on that oh god what if something goes wrong vibe. What if I couldn’t take enough? Stan always has that effect on me. I had to just put it out of my mind, and reassure myself that whatever happened would be fine.

When we finally got to the event, there was a big St. Andrew’s cross set up on the patio and a lot of guys milling around the house drinking beers, looking to get up their courage. The weather had turned chilly so we decided that even though it was still fairly early we had better get right to it rather than wait and have it get colder. I was in my NY Sanitation uniform, smoking a cigar. Stan gestured to his toy bag, and I carried it over to the cross, pulling out a few ropes . He stripped off my shirt and positioned me in front of the cross, swiftly tying my wrists to the uprights. He reached in front of me, plucked the cigar out of my mouth and brought its glowing tip close to my nipple. I began to relax into the heat and the bondage while Stan continued to work my nipples with the cigar and his gloved fingers. Soon he had me grunting and rubbing against the cross.

At that point he stepped back and I braced myself for the first blow. But when it came, it was a caress. Stan brushed the tails of the flogger across my back, easily, flicking back and forth. It was maddening. “Fucking Sadists” I thought, “always torturing!” At that moment the flogger thudded hard across my back, shoving me into the wood. Warm up was over; Stan laid into me, building stroke on stroke. The heat spread across my back and I began breathing into the pain, surfing the rising wave of endorphins. It felt so right to be hit again and again. This was what I had been waiting for! He paused for a second.

And then I heard a strange jingling noise behind me.

The next thing to hit my back wasn’t warm like leather, it was cold metal. I jumped in surprise and then Stan was right behind me, chuckling “You said no rubber, but you never said anything about chain”. That was when he started working me over with a short cat that ended in five light steel chain tails, each tipped with a short leather tongue.

By this point we had drawn a bit of a crowd, even though I was largely oblivious to it. The only things going on in my mind were the bite of the chains and the electric spark of each stroke. I began to yell at each hit, growling and shouting my way through the pain. I was back at animal level, dragging air into my lungs, hanging from the ropes, moving my back out to meet the flail.

Finally Stan began to slow down and I could feel my own pleasure cresting. I was light headed, beyond words, and when he asked me if I wanted to be untied, all I could do was nod. A couple of minutes later I was sitting inside with a bottle of water, grinning stupidly as my back throbbed. I slid to the floor, wrapped my arms around Stan’s boots and thanked him for being such a good friend. He handed me a cigar and told me not to mention it.

A pleasant after work drink at NY’s Pleasure Salon tonight. Carrie was there looking delectable as usual.  I talked with Viviane of Sex Carnival fame, sipping away at my Bloody Mary. Then Annie arrived and for some reason we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other.  There are times when all I want to do is hug and we kept doing that.  There is something about the combination of her keen wit and ripe physicality that makes me feel quite deeply intimate with her, even though we don’t really know each other all that well.  She’s one of the few people that I’ve actually enjoyed showering with.  At camp we had a lovely scene that basically was her washing my hair.

So tonight she snuggled into my arms and I could feel her hand creeping into the waistband of my jeans.  We kissed lazily a couple of times and went on with our various conversations. I kept pulling her close. I was feeling a little giddy because the straight ex-marine Lawyer was there , the one whose ass I beat for what seemed like hours earlier this year.  I was remembering how long he was able to take the paddle, and I told Annie about it.  Eventually I had to get going so we disengaged, and I headed towards the door.  Carrie was there, eating a steak and I planted one on her to say good-bye, but then she said she wanted to kiss me properly and she started in with that talented tongue of hers and in no time at all I was rock hard.  “Put your hand on my cock”, I whispered when we came up for air: “See what you do to me?”  She gave me an affectionate squeeze and I headed out the door into the night’s chill.

I don’t own a lot of dildos, (although as I come to think about it probably more than most guys in the world), but the ones I do own I’m finicky about. Recently I had to let go of my prize.

The manufacturers claim that the Ron Jeremy dildo is modeled directly from Ron’s schlong. It’s thick, veiny and as any one who has even vaguely heard of Ron knows, long. A quick comparison of the unit with some video footage of the guy seems to confirm that it’s a pretty accurate rendition, if not a direct cast. The balls are especially nice, and there’s a sturdy suction cup at the base.

I got mine in 2003, not long after having moved into my current house. They had just come out on the market and once I heard of the announcement of their immanent release I knew I had to get one. I called up my friend the stealth gainer and conferred. He told me he had already ordered his. We decided that once we’d had a chance fro a test drive we’d compare notes.

I’ve been a fan of Ron’s ever since the late Seventies, when I first noticed him in the films I snuck in to see at trashy Times Square movie theaters. In those days the industry was still based largely in New York, and the guys weren’t all California gym puds, worked out and waxed. There were guys like John Leslie, and Jamie Gillis, who were Italian or Jewish east coast guys who brought an individual, less mechanical feel to their fucking. And there was Ron, who not only had a huge fucking dick, but also was one of the few porn actors who could do comedy and not make you cringe. His look: pudgy, hairy, funny, a little neurotic, set the template for a whole series of guys I would moon after for most of my adult life. As he’s gotten older, it’s only gotten better. Even his recent trolling of the depths of reality television hasn’t dimmed my enthusiasm.

It took about ten days for the thing to show up in the mail. I hate going to the post office, so I had the company deliver it to work, which meant that I spent an afternoon knowing that the cock I’d been thinking about for years was there in a box under my desk. I thought about my co-workers and clients and kept telling myself that it would be a really bad idea to sneak to the bathroom for a quick look. At last I got the thing home. I was so excited to get Ron in me, I battled my way through the sharp plastic packaging, and didn’t turn back when my nose was assaulted by the stinging chemical smell of cast latex. I slid it between my lips. This was it, This was probably as close as I would ever get to blowing Ron Jeremy.

For the next couple of weeks I found a few opportunities for personal time with Ron’s surrogate. Not surprisingly it was a lot of work to get him in my ass, but when he finally sank home, it was like riding to heaven, my mind filled with images of Ron’s hairy belly slamming into me, our sweat mingling. It was hot.

And then after after a while it wasn’t. The hedgehog’s dick went into a box somewhere and then got lost in the shuffle of other stuff around my apartment. I’d didn’t forget that I had it, but it was buried under so much other stuff that I never got around to digging it out. A couple of days ago while cleaning up a bunch of other gear, I found it again. I was more than ready to renew my acquaintance. But it wasn’t to be.

Over the years in neglectful storage, the surface had become unpleasantly sticky. I must have used the wrong kind of lube on it, or not cleaned it correctly. Admittedly, it’s not the best made product - it’s latex not silicone. But that’s kind of in keeping with the whole Ron ethos; it’s low rent, kinda sleazy, sexy but never erotic. The stickiness was like an actual layer of guilt, making me sorry that I had ever bent over for the hedgehog.

I tried washing it off - it only seemed to get worse. I couldn’t quite figure out what to do with it. There was only one obvious solution. I had to chuck it. My tightwad mind rebelled : I’d paid sixty dollars for the thing and only used it a few times. Each fuck had probably cost me over twelve bucks!

I thought that I couldn’t let it go without one final ride. But when push came to shove, I just couldn’t bring myself to grease it up again. Into the garbage it went and now I have to ponder the deep question of whether I’m still stuck on Ron enough to invest in another one.

The husband said:”I’m going to play with Sandra a while.”

“OK, have fun.”

His wife was seated on the couch next to me, on my left. I had one arm around her shoulder. My bourbon was in my other hand in a plastic cup. I took a couple of sips. The ice was melting fast in the heat of this Jersey apartment.

As the husband ambled off to begin his tryst in the back bedroom, his wife snuggled closer, leaning into me. The rest of the party continued around us, people clustered in the periphery of the living room. waiting, it seemed for something to happen, for this “play event” to get playful. The rooms were a little too brightly lit for my taste, which might have accounted for the slight air of reserve. but I was going with it. The wife had just spent half an hour straddling a spanking bench near the apartment’s entrance. I had watched while her husband hit and caned her, her plaid skirt pulled up to reveal her white panties and flushed red cheeks. At one point he asked if wanted to take a few hits and I stepped over and methodically spanked her, rubbing the heat into her ass after each swat. I didn’t want to take over or anything, so after a short while I motioned for him to resume and I stepped back into the crowd to freshen up my drink.

Shortly after that she and I were next to each other on the couch. She turned her face up to mine and we began to kiss; I bit at her tongue and she moaned a little. I reached down to her legs and stroked the skin of her thigh. Her hair was silky around my face. She still had the schoolgirl’s outfit on, in keeping with the party’s theme and while our kiss deepened, I gripped her right leg and slung it over my left. I lightly rubbed the inside of her thigh, and she slid forward slowly, her legs falling apart, the short skirt riding up. I pulled back a bit from the kiss and gripped the back of her head with my hand: hard, with authority. Our mouths separated, and her eyes looked quizzically into mine. I smiled, and slid my hand along her jawline. Gently I brought my thumb to her lips and traced their line with my nail. Her eyes widened and then she sucked my thumb into her mouth. With my other hand I slapped at the inside of her thigh. She jerked a little and then, closing her eyes and moaning around my thumb she slid lower in the couch, abandoning her self to the sensation. I closed my eyes as well and began to work the exposed area of her thigh, alternating between loud, stinging spanks, and drawn out pinches. I wished I had some clips to run along there. They were in my bag, in the other room, but I didn’t want to break the mood: my fingers would have to do and so I ground her flesh between my thumb and forefinger. Every time I released a pinch I followed it up with with a series of slaps. Her left leg began to creep over to meet her right trying to get away from the pain. “Keep them open” I growled, making my point by hitting her square on the crotch. She gasped a little and then sucked eagerly at my thumb. I continued to swat her pussy through her panties, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to give her a rhythm to react to.

We were making a certain amount of noise now and as I looked around the room I noticed a number of people with their eyes fixed on the wife, her legs thrown wide, skirt around her waist, lips eagerly slurping at my thumb. She was putting on a show, which I liked. Across the room a luscious brunette grinned at me. I smiled back and began to spank the wife’s thigh harder. I thought about her being unable to close her legs the next day, or feeling the bruises while her husband fucked her. I raked my nails lightly across her reddened inner thigh. The change in sensation made her shudder. She arched her back and I slapped her pussy again. She was rising to meet my hits and I switched again; going back to a series of short mean pinches ever closer to her cunt.

It was still early in the evening, and I knew she didn’t want to cum, so I slowed down, my slaps turning into pats, those running together until I was once again stroking and rubbing her leg. I used my thumb to turn her face towards mine and kissed her nose. Her eyes opened. “That was good,” she said, looking down “Just enough. You know, it takes a lot to mark me.” Angry little marks from the pinches dotted the bright flush that covered the inside of her thigh. I took a slug of my drink and fed it to her with my tongue. A short while later she had rearranged herself and we were talking about jobs and finances and submerging ourselves into the bubbling banter of the party.

She was a bad girl.

A bad baby sitter to be exact. I’d come home a little early, only to find her sprawled on the couch with my porn mags all around her, her fingers deep in her pussy. The shocked look on her face told me that she hadn’t been expecting me.
It’s what happens when you hire relatives. I’d suspected my niece of going through my stash of porn before, even though it’s pretty well hidden, so I figured that this time I’d make it a little easier for her by leaving some under the couch. Sure enough, my copy of “Pigtail Lesbians” was in her hand, open to a picture spread of two girls sixty-nining.

Well, there’s only one thing to do in a situation like that; as she dropped the magazine and reached for the pajama bottoms that were around her ankles, I stepped into the room and pulled her to her feet.

“What do you think you’re up to, young lady? Huh? Does any of this stuff belong to you? Did I give you permission to go through my things? Did I say you could frig yourself on my couch? Did I?” She blushed and stammered something about being sorry, and that it was the first time and that she wouldn’t again, and…

“Look at you! You’ve still got your hand in there! You can’t leave yourself alone, can you?! Stand up straight!” I yanked her in to the middle of the room “You stand right there” I sat myself on the edge of the couch and gave her my sternest look.
“Carrie, this is really a betrayal of trust. I trusted you to look after my kids and to leave my things alone. I happen to know this isn’t the first time you’ve done this. I’m not stupid, and I know when my possessions have been disturbed. I should tell the rest of the family about this don’t you think?” That last got to her. I watched her freeze and blanch while the implications sank in.

“Noo! Please Uncle Nick!! Please don’t do that!! I would just die!!”
“Well, what do you propose that I should do?”
“You could… I guess you could, um … punish me?”
“Punish you how?”
“You could, you know, … spank me” Her voice fell to a whisper on the last two words and I watched her tug the hem of her pajama top. Her nipples made hard points against the fabric. “You could spank my ass.”
“Your ass, eh? Turn around and show it to me”

Slowly she turned and presented her full, creamy ass to me. She looked over her shoulder, nervously sucking her bottom lip while her left hand still played around the top of her thigh, inches from her cunt.

“So you think I should spank your ass. You just think I’m going to play with you, give you a couple of swats and let you skip off. I don’t think so. That would just be a waste of my time. ” I pulled out my cell phone. “I think I’m just going to call your parents and let them decide what to do with you”

“Oh god ! no no no Uncle Nick! You can do it hard! I know I deserve it!! Just don’t call them!”
“You deserve it huh? Damn right you do. But I think I want to hear you beg me for it.”
“Please, please please Uncle Nick Please don’t call my parents and please spank my ass as hard as you want.”
“Get over here, Carrie. Get yourself over here and get across my knee” She turned back towards me and shuffled forward, eyes down. Her breathing was heavy and at the last minute she seemed to hold back, so I reached out and roughly pulled her on to my lap.

“I’m through joking around!” I threw the pajama top up over her back. Her head hung down and there on my lap was her round gorgeous ass

Her breasts were flattened against my left thigh and she was trembling. I laid my left arm along her back and stroked her ass with my right hand. Then, without warning I quickly cracked her across the rump.

She jerked and gasped. Without a pause I began to methodically spank her, alternating heavy hits on either cheek with swats down the middle. As her ass reddened I could hear her whimpering. The sound made me even more determined to make sure she was thoroughly humiliated.

“So you like reading dirty magazines huh? ” I paused to grab the one she had left open on the couch: ” What about this one? Guess you liked it since you were jerking off to it You like looking at other girls?”
“Y-yes Uncle Nick. OW!” I was steadily pounding her ass now and despite her yelp I felt her wiggling around in my lap, trying to find the right spot to rub her cunt against. I held my hand above her ass and felt the heat come off her angry pink skin.

“Suppose you tell me what the girls are doing in those pictures that you like so much”
“Licking each other’s pussies”
“What? Don’t mumble!”
“OW!! They’re licking each other’s pussies!”

“So that’s what you like huh? You like looking at girls eating pussy? You want to do that? With your friends?” While I emphasized each phrase with a blow to her behind, my other hand found it’s way to her cunt. As soon as she felt me at her entrance she slid back, impaling her self on my two first fingers.
“Yes sir, I think about it all the time. I…” She groaned at the fingers working inside her. I spit on her asscrack and worked my thumb around her butt hole. It sank home and I began slowly working my hand back and forth, enjoying the feeling of the thin membrane that separated my thumb and fingers. The juice of her cunt coated my hand.

“Oh Uncle Nnickk. OH that feels…ohh I like that…both my holes…”
“Yeah, Carrie, both your holes are full now.”
“OH yeahhh I gues that makes me a..”
“Makes you what?”
“A slut .. makes me a slut…”
“Oh yeah?”SMACK! “Then say it louder!”
“OWWW! THAT MAKES ME A SLUT!!” Her cunt was sopping and my hand was sliding deeper as my fingers worked inside her. Like a metronome I beat on the tortured cheeks of her ass. I could sense she was close to cumming. I started to hit her on every other word I said:

“Yeah Carrie I guess you are a slut, a horny, little slut. And here is what you are going to do. Next time you come over here you are not allowed to look at any magazines of mine. You have to bring your own. You will go to the porn store and you will ask the man at the counter to help you. You will say to him that you like to look at pictures of lesbians fucking while you play with your pussy and you ask him to give you some good magazines like that. You will thank him, and then you will bring them here and you will read every story in them to me. Do you understand me?” The tears were starting in her eyes and her ass and cunt were convulsing around and my hand.

“Yes Uncle Nick!!! Yes I…” With a gurgled growl she clamped her thighs around my hand and the her beautiful ass began shaking with the intensity of her coming. I gave her a few more hard hits to finish her off, my dick painfully hard in my jeans. She collapsed onto my lap and began to draw deep sobbing breaths. I slid my hand from her cunt and cupped her cheeks marvelling at the bruises that were just beginning to rise to their surface. I raised her head and slowly kissed her, feeding her my tongue.

She was a bad girl allright.

But she wasn’t a baby sitter. And she wasn’t my niece. She was my pal Carrie, and the story about the porn magazines and everything else was one that she had confessed to me under duress one evening when I was grilling her about her deepest fantasy. She had thought about it for years, and had thought it would be hot. And me, well I’m always happy to help.