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.
So, I’d allowed them to tie me here. I’d allowed them to strip me of my clothes and muss my hair, all for the sake of a man who’s probably in the middle of the bartendress at the golf club. Thus tonight, I’d even agreed that I could be touched, fucked if desired and, forgive me God, I like it. Without a doubt, I’ve done it as a last ditch effort to save, or rather recreate my marriage. But I ‘get’ it now, and I know that the hands that are touching me, pinching me, aren’t enemies or even really strangers. They’re people just like me who woke up one day and decided they couldn’t go on. That something had to give in their lives. So they gathered and created this Club, and on very rare occasion, they offer help to Walmart wives like me. And I’m grateful for the sacrifices the founders had to make to get me to the point where I can enjoy being handcuffed to a pole. Take a bow. Yeah you, the entire Tramp Stamp Club! Applause bellows in my mind.
But that’s enough of my rock bottomless pit of a life, because at this very moment in time not a single person in this room hasn’t made a similar choice, and this isn’t the time or place for misery. No matter their race, creed, or code, each man and woman here tonight has stood naked against this brass pole. They’ve all donned invisible erasers and expunged themselves of their imaginary rules. This is a coming of age party, and I’m the rock star of the evening. It’s our Graduation, initiation, whatever you want to call it, and tomorrow I have an appointment with a tattoo artist. I’m a new Tara Townsend, and I’m armed with an eraser and a plug in dildo! Ready to start new, with or without my trusty sidekick Simmons!
Another hand slides warmly down the small of my back and I realize I’m beginning to whimper with need; of what I can’t be sure. I’ve learned so much over the past weeks. At first I rationalized it as a do or die situation, a last ditch effort to save the crumbles of my very existence. Now I understand it for what it is: the freeing of my mind and body. You see, during my, let’s call it education (because Slut Wife Training sounds so trashy and all), I found that ninety nine point nine percent of the rules I’d lived my life by are utterly, completely, and entirely bullshit. Yes, see how I’ve changed? I can even use a curse word now without blushing fifteen shades of purple. That’s me, the new and improved Tara! I should take a bow.
And so it is that I’m tied to this pole. Desperation drove me here but training at the hands of an understanding Club tied me. And during these weeks of emotional and spiritual evolution I’ve come to realize that I’m my own woman. I like being blind folded and played with until I absolutely can’t stand it and need to fuck. There, I’ve told you my fetish. I still wouldn’t say it to Father Riley, that poor child has enough of a struggle. But I’ve said it to you, and somehow that absolves me of whatever remnants of guilt that remain. Now the hands that rummage my body are thick and muscular, working hands. My breathing stops as I recognize them as Jonathon’s. Their touch makes Vagina and Clitoris scream with joy as though someone had just said “Surprise!” I’ve thought of these hands often, the way they wind into my hair with their silk like texture, the way they guide him inside my lips. Yes! I recognize them, and can do nothing but concentrate on their every movement.
When they’re replaced with female hands and the unmistakable scent of Chanel Number Five, I shiver. I imagine Cynthia Pringle touching me and my skin crawls. They reach deep between my thighs and toy with Clitoris, causing my nipples shrivel and perk. I’ve mentioned before that lesbianism terrifies me, and it’s not on my agenda anytime soon, yet my intrigue is growing alarmingly fast. But soon even those icy fingers are replaced with others and I lose thoughts of women and even the masculine man who’d taken me to the most euphoric heights of orgasm in his office at O’Malley’s. I only want to imagine that it’s Simmons who touches me.
As a matter of fact, somewhere during Ellen’s story I began to dream of Simmons as my mystery lover. Is it possible? That his hands are really running over my skin with that velvet touch? He’s a writer; his hands are strong and muscular… I dismiss the thought; it hurts too much and I dare not hope. And besides, Vagina and Clitoris are thoroughly enjoying their private party tonight. I’d hate to ruin that for them. So I do as I’m trained, I enjoy myself.
A small bell rings in the distance and my head turns towards the sound. I can hear Jonathon clearing his throat, “Ladies and Gentlemen, can I have your attention!”
The sounds in the room quiet quickly. “I’d like to thank you all for being here to welcome our three newest members! There’s the sound of light applause before he goes on. “Each will meet with Ellen in my private office. We’ll take you from left to right please. After you meet with Ellen, feel free to dress upstairs and join the party. I know everyone is dying to meet you officially! Steve, would you mind escorting them in for their official welcome from Ellen?”
“My pleasure!” Steve’s voice is unmistakable. But I stay tied to this pole while the rest of the room resumes their aimless chatter. No one touches me now and my body, including Vagina and Clitoris, already miss the caresses. I hear the woman on my left squeal with excitement as her blindfold is removed. Suddenly I’m jealous! Asparagus jello mold kind of jealous; green, gooey, bitter and chilled. I’m sure it’s her husband that she sees as her first sight, and my soul retreats with the depression of my own marriage. I dare not hope that I will open my eyes and find Simmons standing in front of me. He’s known all along and maybe participated! Regardless of my inner warnings, I continue to fantasize that I’ll see his face in a few minutes. My body gets hot with passion at the thought of him seeing me like this. He’ll know once and for all that I’m not the same woman I was all those weeks ago. It’s time for change, and I’d like for him to come along for the ride.
Warm hands touch my arm, “Are you ready Tara?” It’s Steve, I can tell, and I nod.
Clamps on my arms and ankles are opened and my skin ripples under the freedom of their absence. I brace for my fantasy to come true, but as the blindfold is removed and my eyes adjust, my heart sinks. It was too much to dream of. Now is the moment I should throw in the towel and call a divorce attorney, at least that way he can have his floozy legally. The kids are old enough, they’ll get over it. But Steve’s hand is warm and firm, and holds me gently, as if I’m a flower he dare not crush. I’ve never really noticed his eyes before; they’re a chocolate brown that makes me squishy inside. And as if a thousand books are thrown at me at once, I try desperately to read all of the information that spills from them. They tell of many generations, some feel wild, some feel loving, while others dare me to entice them. And I am completely captivated until Patty steps to our side, “Umm… boys and girls, while I appreciate you two seeing each other for the first time and all, Ellen’s waiting on Tara.”
“Yes, yes, I guess she is,” Steve mumbles, but his eyes are still glued to mine. “Well I sure don’t want to be the one to keep her waiting!” And he tugs my arm and leads me towards the double doors of Jonathon’s office, almost reluctantly.
“Go on in, she won’t bite,” He whispers as he leaves me at the doorway with a light kiss. The lighting is different in the room tonight, fainter and more relaxed. Natalie Cole plays softly from hidden speakers as I step inside nervously. What if she doesn’t like me? What if she says this whole thing hasn’t worked out and I should go home and put my Walmart bathrobe back on and count my blessings?
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br /> “Tara darling, be a dear and close that door behind you! Lock it if you wish.”
My eyes scan the cluttered room and land on her, on a chaise lounge near the corner of the room. She lies casually as if we’ve met a thousand times before and I’m her best friend. And as I lock the door she beckons me to her, “Come here my beautiful one. Let me have a look at you! Jonathon does nothing but praise you, I swear that man has a crush on you and he won’t shut up!”
As I near, her figure becomes clear and I’m stunned at how lovely she is. I’d expected someone much older, gray perhaps with a hint of blue. Instead she looks almost identical to her sister Elise, who I met in the plastic surgeon’s office. Only their hair color and eye color’s are different. She takes my hand and pulls me closer, and I suddenly realize that either Stephan Kellar is a magician, or time has been really, really good to her. I smile, I’m already in love, “And I’m sure Jonathon’s crush lasts, until he looks back at you!”
She chuckles, “It’s funny how when I was young I fought against everything. It was my mission to make life difficult on myself. Once I discovered how to stop that, I started to go with the flow around me. No sense in fighting old age, just get a damned good plastic surgeon and move on.” And she winks at me but pats the end of her lounge to ask me to sit.
“As a matter of fact, I was online looking for a good plastic surgeon when I found, your book. My husband does some proofreading for authors. It was on his computer. I’m afraid I read it.” The words blurt from me, I hadn’t planned on sharing it with her and my words seem awkward. But did I mention the woman has me spellbound? I’ve never seen a woman with such persuasive confidence and I’m glued to her.
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