Archive for July, 2012

14th July
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I haven’t planned it. I don’t even wish it until someone does the easy part for me and my mind floods with titillating possibilities.

I’ve had a typical screen crush on Spanish series El Barco’s Gamboa, played by Colombian actor Juan Pablo Shuk, seeing him in the weekly over-the-top drama series, his persona easily conquering the small screen. The small mouth surrounded by juicy lips, the eye wrinkles that say he’s seen and done much and many, thick eyebrows, and a heart-shaped yet still masculine face punctuated by dark stubble. He is approaching fifty but doesn’t look it, his body replete with muscles not defined like a fitness model’s but instead thick and hard and covered in smooth bronzed skin.

His character is dangerous and has gotten more so by the week until he has become an utter f-ing asshole, one I am frustrated that no one is trying to stab or maim after he among other things threatens the lives of his much younger lover’s little sister and father.

It is at this point that I stumble upon the remnants of an after-awards party at a popular little cocktail bar on Calle Atocha in my beloved Madrid. Antena 3 (the Spanish NBC) actors file out in varying degrees of inebriation, the drunker ones too loud or completely silent and acting true to or opposite their T.V. characters. I turn the corner on my way to stop by my apartment to change from dinner clothes into a stunner dress, and what I do find is someone punching out a guy a bit shorter but bigger than him. The shorter, bigger guy seems unwilling to fight back though it’s clear he would make mincemeat out of the other guy, and the puncher sees me and then backs off, then turns to get out of there quickly. The guy on the ground is Gamboa.

I offer my nearby apartment for him to clean up his blood-lined mouth, and in a bit of a daze, he lets me help him up the street the fifty meters to my building.

He makes it into the apartment to the first thing he sees, a heavy-weight, old-fashioned club chair. A few seconds after he sits down, he falls asleep.

When he comes to an hour later, I am dressed in a glamorous yet sexy stretch satin bustier dress in blood red with lips to match. And he is very much restrained. Body and legs in the chair tied by layers of saran wrap and hands tied together in front of him. A ball-gag made of manchego cheese with a large breathing hole through it is lodged in his mouth. And he’s naked. And I have enjoyed just looking at him for the past hour. And grooming his over-grown manscape. I was doing him a favor there.

“To answer your ‘Why?’ I’m simply punishing you like I think the other characters on the show should have done a long time ago, except in my own special way.”

I caress his chest with my hair, my face, my hands, lick his nipples which involuntarily perk up. He struggles, then stops, struggles again with less volition, until he just lets me do as I wish and I move down to his cock which greets me, and I can’t resist and guide it into my mouth with one hand and caress his satiny (thanks to me) balls with the other.

He makes sounds as if he wishes to speak.

“No screaming, though. I think you’ve seen enough movies to know why.” I pull the cheese out of his mouth. In truth, if he does scream, I’m not worried. Across the hall is a daytime business and I haven’t heard any evidence of anyone living above me. I just know screaming would annoy me, and I’d slap it out of him – and I don’t wish to be violent.

“Thank you.” And surprisingly, that’s all he says.

I continue to pleasure myself by pleasuring him. I am so very much in my own little world with his lovely thick cock and the small punctuated sounds my playmate makes as I do it. And I bring him almost to climax twice but stop right beforehand, and he growls in upset, and the third time, I try to do the same but my timing’s off and he gushes onto my chin. Whoops. I lick my chin. Nice. Not a smoker.

While his body slumps from satisfaction, I sit on the arm of the chair and caress his hair, his cheek. He opens his eyes, and I see not a smidgen of malice. That catches me off-guard and I regret what I’m doing keeping him tied up like I am.

His lips part slightly and with those eyes of his I have to kiss him. He lets me and oh, his lips do meet mine and they enjoy their playtime together. If lips were delicious, his would be.

His lips pull away to speak. “I wish I could touch you.”

“No,” I reply and continue to kiss him.

Then he suddenly takes my lower lip in his teeth and as I pull away he presses his teeth closer together.

“Untie my arms.”

“No!” I say sternly, kneeing him in the balls.

He lets go of my lip and moans in pain.

“Bitch!” he mutters, the scariness that he exhibits on screen locked in his expression.

“Enough!” I say. “I’m going out.”

I return three hours later to his sleeping frame in the same position I left him in. I give his thighs an appreciative squeeze and collapse on my bed, fully dressed.

In my dream, I am with someone, I don’t know who. We’re on a boat sailing. But wait. Has water entered the boat? My panties are wet and warm. And there’s an electric shock that pulsates every second or so.

I come to.

My arms and legs are bound to the legs of the bed. Gamboa’s head Is between my legs and that beautiful mouth of his must be giving me those shocks. I’m buck-naked and he’s fully dressed.

I’m scared at first, then bummed that he’s not naked, then I get lost in sensations. My clit is ridiculously sensitive and I pretty much hate its being concentrated on. He takes advantage of this revelation and brings me with his mouth and fingers from wanting to bash him in the head from the sensory overload to ooooh, that feels good and back again.

When I feel like I’m about to die or wish I or at least my clit would, he asks politely, “You want me inside of you?”

“Would it make a difference if I said no?”

He ponders this with a cute glance toward the heavens and shakes his head like a little boy.

“Hmmm…” I start to mutter in a disgusted tone, “I don’t want you inside of me, you lower-than-dirt son-of-a-bitch!”

In a second, he unbuckles his belt and throws his pants down around his ankles to reveal his hard-on that looks even bigger than before as he stands above me.

I ask, “Where is your underwear?”

“I left them as a souvenir.”

He checks my nightstand and finds what he’s looking for, a condom.

“Crazy bitch kidnaps me, I don’t know what she might have.”

I nod my head, then stop. “Get out of here. I don’t want you. You’re sick trash.” I try to believe it.

He grabs me by the small of my back and pushes me onto his cock like it was butter. My body convulses in pleasure at the first thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” I exclaim. “Oh, God!”

And his face softens and he thrusts long and slow which drives me utterly crazy as I am about to explode already I am so primed, and I’m moaning and writhing and wanting so much to touch him, to kiss him, but he shakes his head and he continues his drawn-out years-of-practice torture, and then he withdraws which is like being suddenly suffocated.

My body spasms for a few seconds as he wipes sweat off his brow and breathes heavily – it isn’t easy for him to stop, he’s just punishing me. He gives me a wicked smile. “Touché, pussy cat.”

I struggle against my restraints. “I want to touch you.”

“I thought you didn’t want me. I’ll just go home now.”

“Nooo,” I moan. “I want you, I want you so badly.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

“But that was just…I was just wondering what denying you would be like.”

He pulls his pants up and I whimper. He notes it and pauses.

“Fuck me, please,” I whimper. “Take me, destroy me, devour me. Don’t leave me like this.” Tears well up in my eyes. Embarassing.

His eyes go soft again and he removes his shoes and socks, and as my chest is heaving from desire, he takes his time undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. I whimper. I bite my lip almost to bleeding. My back arches off the bed.

He undoes my restraints. We are both free. We are both each other’s prisoners without the bonds. I rise up and embrace him, kissing him all over his face. His hands roam my body, his lips meet mine as they pass, we kiss deeply, we pull our bodies closer to each other’s. He enters me and I yell out almost in pain.

He thrusts long,luxurious, and deep, and he makes me come over and over, never holding out on me this time, and then when he comes, I feel elated, relieved, victorious, and well-fucked.

And when we awaken from our post-coital bliss, he asks me, “Why did you do all this?”

I shrug and stretch like a cat. “It’s just an idea I had for a story,” I smile, giving him a thank you kiss on the cheek.

“What? That’s all?”

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’m your prisoner.”

“And I yours,” he responds, pushing his new erection on my welcoming clit.

—–

Later… “By the way,” I suddenly remember. “Why did that guy punch you and why did you let him?”

He answers, “Well, you’ll just have to ask me next time.”

Oooh, there’s going to be a next time. Damn, he’s good.

Note: this story is fiction if you hadn’t noticed 🙂

12th July
2012
written by Dame Suzy

I stumbled upon this Fox News article about Andrew McLaren and my curiosity about this gorgeous man with an impressive past (and future?) took me to finding video on him on YouTube. There’s a well-done video of him doing the rounds as he begins a campaign to win a vacant Congressional seat:

I do love someone whom I can look at and listen to who does not at least appear to think along party lines. He believes in gay marriage, family values, gun rights, and the value of human life – not exactly opinions that mesh in the current political climate.

Hearing my man (as awesome as he is most of the time) rant about Obama all day long and get angry when I give a contrasting opinion, it’s refreshing to know that it’s not all about Republican versus Democrat out there.

Good luck to you, Mr. McLaren.