When it comes to sex as a performance, it’s not a matter of whether or not it is, or whether or not one should approach it as such…but simply…to what degree. Life is a performance and sex is no different. The real question is just exactly who am I performing for? Because I assure you, it’s more often than not, not the easy answer of but your partner of course. And then more than this is the why behind the escapade or depending on degrees, more aptly titled the charade.

Sex is like ice cream. It comes in any flavor you can imagine. And here are just a few of the flavors that drip themselves upon my tongue. Power sex. Makeup sex. Hate sex. Hotel sex. Vacation sex. Novelty sex. Sampler sex. Revenge sex. Love sex.

Power sex is about me. And you. It validates me. It’s a pat on the back not to worry sweetie, you’re hot, you’re desirable, you can get what you want when you want it. Sure enough you might be in the audience, but the show is for me.

Makeup sex is about us. Together. And apart. I ‘m sorry and you’re sorry and this is how we say it, even if we’ve already said it with words, or maybe exactly because we didn’t or couldn’t. Sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s cathartic. But the slate is getting washed clean. You wash my slate. I wash your slate. And then the curtains close and the show is over.

Hate sex is about putting me before you. Because I hate you. And also probably love you. But mostly hate you. Maybe because you broke me. Or maybe you just chipped me a bit and I shed a tear or two but we’re through and this is how I say it. I’ll be more aggressive. The sex will be louder, and faster, and harder, and when we’re done I’ll have my clothes on before you can even think to reach for a towel. It might happen only once or I might come back a few times. Really, it just depends on how much rage I still have to work out. But you can be certain. You won’t come out of this without a scratch. And more than just a few bite marks.

Hotel sex is about everybody and nobody. It’s a show for anyone within listening distance. These aren’t my neighbors. These aren’t my sheets. And I haven’t a care in the world. But it’s also something private. And intimate. Because I’ll likely do just about anything, try anything, be anyone, go ahead and ask for your greatest fantasy. Hotel rooms are like little chambers of time and space that don’t exist outside of the four walls encapsulating it. They are a safe space. And while I’m not moaning louder, panting faster, or yelling out fuck me harder for anyone but you. Unlike at home, I don’t care if anyone hears. You’ll fuck me stupid and then I’ll send you out for donuts. With sprinkles!

Vacation sex is about me and my friends, and my spank bank. I’m putting on a show for myself. Look at me, I’m so daring, I’m so scandalous, I’m so indulgent, and I can do whatever I want. And then I do. And it’s a fantasy. And it’s amazing. And you’re so attractive. And everything is just so tropical, or foreign, or spontaneous. And then I’ll go home. And tell all my friends about the amazing sex I had while on Vacation. And I’ll think of you again, warm against my flesh when I’m wet and warm under my sheets. You’ll get me through many a cold winter night when who has time to go out and date when all I want is to help myself off to a good night of sleep. And I’ll cherish you. And what you did for me.

Novelty sex is a grab bag. Sometimes it’s for me, because I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be with two guys. Sometimes it’s about you, because you wanted to see what it was like to rip a whole in my nylons and do me through it and I’m nothing if not a good sport for someone who deserves it. And sometimes it’s about both of us, when there’s role play and suddenly I’m performing for you and you’re performing for me and suddenly the role of audience becomes intertwined in our interactive live show.

Sample sex is about me. And testing you. Though you may or may not really be able to control your performance. Maybe we’ve gone out on one date and you were absolutely fucking tedious we just didn’t click but you’re super hot and I could use a good booty call. Or maybe we’ve gone on three or four dates and we have a good time, not a great time but good enough and frankly I’m trying to figure out if our time together is worth the effort to put on makeup and shave my legs. Either way. I sleep with you. And it’s a test. Not one that you might pass or fail in the sense that you have any real control. But more like a litmus test. I’m testing to see if your acid balances out my base to form the most intensely balanced pH. I’m testing to see if you can fuck me science…er…I mean silly. This is sampler sex, and I’m dipping my toe in your waters. Whether or not you have any idea.

Revenge sex is about you. Because it hurts. Because it hurts me. Because you’ve hurt me. And so this about me trying to hurt you. Or at least make you flinch. Two for flinching!! And the thing of thing is, you’re not even the one getting laid. Maybe it’s your best friend. Maybe it’s your brother. Maybe it’s your cousin. Or even just your roommate from college. But it’s a sad bad mad thing that I’m doing. And no one will come out the better for it. But people do it anyway. I’m going to do it anyway. The revenge is about you, it’s a show I’m putting on for you and the other guy, my co-star…well…I barely notice him. And the whole thing is so misguided and childish and spiteful and unhealthy but dammit if I’m not going to fall down the rabbit hole anyway.

Love sex is about us. I look into your eyes, run my hand along your jaw line. Trace my thumb across your check until just before it touches your lips. Those are for me, waiting for mine. Lips kiss. Part. Wait. Pant. Hold. Nuzzle down into my neck. There are slow times. Soft times. Fast times. Hard times. Passionate times. No secret times. Sharing everything even this moment times. We lock fingers. Intertwine like highschoolers walking through a county fair. It borders on sappy and gross. But we don’t care. Nobody is watching. Nobody else matters. This is for us. You. Me. Us.  Love.

And I’m sure you. He. They. Her. The other person. Has their own view, another side to all our fantastical sexcapades. These Performances of Passion. These Luaus of Lust.  These Dances of Desire. These Operas of Orgasm. But sometimes I’m just fucking for myself. Sure you’re there. You’re necessary. You’re an integral ingredient. But the reasons why you’re there. Why I picked you. Picked now. Picked here. Or there.  Well that’s about me. Narcissistically nuanced sex. And don’t pretend you don’t do it to.

And sometimes the sex is good, healthy, stable type sex. And sometimes it’s false, destructive, broken type sex. That’s life. A mix bag. A grab bag. You just never know what you’re going to get. But just remember that the next time some young 22 year old lets you fuck her in the backseat of her car, parked down some dimly lit rarely used street, at four am after the club…she’s probably just doing it for the feeling of power it gives her. And if you’re cool with that, then fuck away my friend. But know that she’s faking. And that’s really the biggest problem with performing sex. A girl not getting off, and a boy not knowing.

Hi, I’m Ethan Sommers. I’m new around here at Met Another Frog. Ms. Blue invited me over because I have a confession:

I hate performers in the bedroom.

Don’t know what I mean? Here’s the nitty-gritty…

It was some years ago when I was with one particular lady-in-question. We were both in our early twenties and she hadn’t had a lot of partners. I was a bit more experienced and welcomed the opportunity to play teacher.

In one of our first forays in the bedroom, she decided to ride cowgirl over my rough and rugged plain. After she slowly lowered herself onto me, I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sensation. She quickened her pace, up and down, and then, like a Hawaiian dancer, twisted her hips from right to left, drawing me in and out of her as she did.

I remember thinking for someone so inexperienced, she seemed pretty crafty with the coitus.

She began moving her hips in a circular fashion, stirring herself with my erection, alternately speeding up and slowing down depending on her impulse in the moment. At first, it was enjoyable. I was content to let her play around as she was still discovering herself. Then I opened my eyes.

Her gaze was fixed to the left of the bed, on the mirror that made up the sliding door of her bedroom closet. She was watching herself, noticeably sucking her stomach in as she pinched the pink nipples of her perky breasts. Watching her as she moved, I realized she was so focused on how she looked that she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself. I had a theory why and a question to ask.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?”

She looked back at me, smiling. “Honestly? I saw it in a porno I watched last night. You like it?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to keep things positive. “How about you?”

“Oh, it’s nice.” She turned her head back to the mirror. While her attention was on me, she had relaxed a little. Now that she was conscious of her appearance again, she assumed the upright porn star pose once more, sucking in her stomach as she picked up the pace.

Did she look hot? Absolutely. If Heaven is a real place, then I hope the first sight I see beyond the Pearly Gates will be a woman riding me to climax. This lady, however, wasn’t even coming close. She was going through the motions of how she thought she should screw me, and that was a huge turn-off.

I’ve never had a problem with girls who want to watch themselves in the midst of a good fucking. It can add to the experience in so many ways that it’s worth a shot if you haven’t tried it already. The problem in this instance was that the lady-in-question wasn’t doing it for her enjoyment. She was putting on a show, performing for herself in the mirror; obviously more worried about how she looked than what she felt. I knew I’d have to nip this shit in the bud.

I chose my words carefully, got her to close her eyes and concentrate on how things felt as she moved above me. It didn’t take long for her to figure out what worked for her, and as the mess of the bed later indicated, it didn’t take long for me either.

Following a few more weeks of exploring, we tried the mirror again. Gone was the idea of looking sexy. Now it was about being sexy. Watching each other’s reflections pump and grind instead of spot-checking appearances made for quick and delightful work.

Sex done right is about connecting. If alone, with one’s self. If with others, then it’s about connecting with one ’s self and others. Whether you ride waves of pleasure to the port of orgasm or just for a lengthy cruise, it’s about knowing what you want to experience and exploring how to get there. By being more concerned with the performance rather than the sex, the lady-in-question was missing the point.

That’s the problem with learning about sex from porn, as so many do nowadays. Anyone with an iota of actual experience knows that on-camera fucking isn’t always the same as actual fucking. Porn is performers getting paid to look good in acrobatic poses meant to arouse the viewer enough to rub one out. You can learn some new positions and get turned on plenty, but not everything on-camera is going to work for you in the real world. As hot as it may look, no girl I’ve been with has ever enjoyed reverse cowgirl while suspended above me on all fours. I’ve been with a few good women that have tried, but it ended up not being worth the trouble because neither of us enjoyed it.

The moral of the story?

When the bedroom antics become a show, it’s more about the idea of sex than sex. One is good, but the other is much, much better.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which.

It’s not uncommon for women to be expected to lick a little pussy to get the party started. The rest of the group gathers ‘round, watching the players lick, groan, jab, and grab at breasts. Right on cue one of the men starts rubbing on an ass.  Another fondles anything he can get his hands on. A woman not involved in the original act goes down on one of the men and—voila!—everyone in the room is getting a piece of the action.

Being part of a community of swingers (the “lifestyle”) as a single woman gives you power, a variety of playmates, and a few surprises.

For me, delving into this world is a natural progression. Being a dabbler with a nonstop libido, the thought of being encouraged to experiment with my sexuality with a group of people open to sharing partners seems like a great fit. I do like dressing up in sexy outfits for themed parties. I do look forward to dancing on a stripper pole in my panties. I do partake in group sex from time to time. The piece that stymies me is the pretty-much-mandatory-female bisexuality.

We’ve all performed in the bedroom. Whether it’s listening to the little voice in your head saying, “Here’s the best blowjob you’ve ever gotten, baby!” or the dreaded fake orgasm—women remove themselves from the moment and put on an act in the middle of the act. Even my most vanilla friends tell me they get performance anxiety when they are with a new lover. Am I doing this right? Will he think this is sexy? What about if he doesn’t like this? This low grade internal questioning—striving to improve—may even lead to some healthy experimentation. It’s harmless.

Moving outside of your comfort zone can also be a welcome twist allowing lovers to try on some fantasies for size. Giddy up! Community norms and expectations in the swinger lifestyle appear—on the surface anyway—to be completely malleable. Swingers embrace sexuality across the board, right? Not when it comes to bisexuality.

Girl on girl play is so common in the lifestyle that it is expected and encouraged. The elusive single female is so rare and revered that she is referred to as a “unicorn.”Couples are welcome to bring single women with them to parties as guests. At most private swinger clubs, if single men can get in at all they pay through the nose while the single women walk right through the door for next to nothing. Women don’t always outnumber the men, but in this environment that’s the game plan. Watching a group of women play together becomes the life of the party.

Bisexual men keep it under wraps. “I’m pretty sure my wife knows about the other women,” a friend confides in me. “It’s the fact that I like to be with men sometimes that would have her talking divorce in a heartbeat.” It is not uncommon for him to engage in sex with multiple women out in the open: however, he makes sure any bisexual play he partakes in is done privately: “It’s just not accepted.”

Of course, double standards exist in every community when it comes to dating, relationships, and sex.  Just as my bisexual male friend struggles with expectations placed on his sexuality, I—being a straight woman—struggle with being expected to perform bisexual sex acts. He’s not allowed to be open about who he is and I feel peer pressure to do things I don’t necessarily want to do.

I don’t expect mainstream society to get it right when it comes to accepting the spectrum of human sexuality. Mom and dad tell us that sex is to make babies. Schools adopt “abstinence-only” programs.  Girlfriends sneer if you leave the bar with a guy you just met. Men won’t date you if your “number” is too high. God forbid you should want to do something Jesus wouldn’t do!

The swinger community is naïve if they believe they are free from rigid codes of conduct. Members of the lifestyle may be more accepting of non-mainstream sex but the sex they do engage in is predictable.  Expecting women to perform for the group, to get the party started, places each of us into a well-defined box. Taboos within mainstream society are being broken, yes, but it’s pretty much the same old thing. It’s all an act.

This is it folks. Our last post for 2011. The next time we meet a new year, chock full of all kinds of amazing possibilities, will have begun. With that in mind, we’ve decided to share a submission by a guest writer that landed (very unexpectedly – THANK you, Julie) in our inbox a few days ago.

Tonight’s story is one that I’m sure many of you will relate to (perhaps not it’s finer points, but definitely it’s overall theme), as it highlights how hard facing the truth about what’s best for us can be – especially when you want what you want real bad.

Anyhoo, I won’t ramble on forever. So, on behalf of Sam, Elizabeth Rose and me…

Happy New Year everybody!

We’ll catch you all on the other side.

Have fun & play safe this Old Year’s Night,

SB

–

The Whole Package

by Julie Robinson

The first time Aaron tells me he loves me I have sex with him. The second time he tells me he loves me I beg him to stop—why can’t he continue loving me the morning after instead of denying it? The emboldened, heavy drinking Aaron and the distant, hung over Aaron have an equally strong magnetic pull.  Both need me in their own way.  There’s something very intoxicating about a lover who drinks with you.

This truism, tweeted my none other than the lovely Miss Taylor Cast a few months ago, is the first thing that came to mind as I read this story.

AARON: You know you will never be my girlfriend.

ME: I hate to break it to you—but I already am. We have a really nice bond, Aaron. Why keep fighting it?

AARON: I just don’t see you in that way, Julie. I could never take you around my friends. And my family?  Forget about it.

My poker buddy Aaron towers over me even when I’m in heels. He’s unemployed the spring we meet and I’m underemployed, so we show up at a local dive bar to play cards three nights a week. I like how he always brings me a beer without asking if I want one when he comes back to the table with his own fresh PBR. Night after night I listen intently to how much Aaron loves his ex-girlfriend, how hopeless he feels, how damaged he’s become, and how badly he wants her back. Instead of being put-off by these (and other) confessions, I convince myself that Aaron’s passion makes him a terrific prospect. Everything he says proves to me that this man loves boldly and that soon he will be directing that real, passionate love toward me.

When he tells me he’s ready for a girlfriend I’m skeptical and enthusiastic all at once. Then he asks me for a favor, and I agree to help my new lover write his online dating profile.

ME: (settling in at his computer) I definitely think you should mention something about having season tickets to the theater. Chicks love that.

AARON: I want to come off as passionate without being a pervert. We should mention that I’m a trained chef.

ME: Yes. I think your stint in the Caribbean is a good one too.

Writing—even something as short as an online profile—takes time if you want to get it right. Aaron grows bored as I tweak his profile. He leaves to buy a twelve pack of beer. We drink most of it and fall into bed together forgetting all about our mission for the evening.

When I awake early to put the finishing touches on Aaron’s profile, I don’t plan on learning his password. I don’t root around looking for it. I don’t have to. It’s just there in his open email smack dab in front of my face: bra**en1

The silly women he writes to regularly on Match.com don’t worry me in the slightest. He seems to enjoy flirting with one cowgirl about writing a screenplay together, but somehow her email responses get deleted before he reads them and she disappears. Another pretty little blonde receives an email from Aaron saying he’s met someone else. Funny how things like that happen.

My obsession begins to scare me, so I put limits on it. Instead of checking Aaron’s Match.com email account every time I think of it (it has a sneaky way of inching back into my head again, and again, and again), I promise myself only one time a day. I am very careful during our conversations not to mention the women I know about through my cyber spying. We are drinking buddies—shitfaced beyond standing—but I never slip. Not once. Instinctively, I know that if he ever finds out about my secret our affair, our friendship, our deepening bond, my drug of choice will be shot to hell.

AARON: Hey! I think I may have met someone. Thanks again for helping me with my online profile. It made all of the difference.

ME: Really? How did that happen?

AARON: I met her on Match. She’s really exotic and sexy. I can’t wait for you to meet her. I think you’ll really like her.

ME: (trying to ignore his lack of reception as I lean in for a kiss) I’m sure I will.

Racking my brain, I cannot figure out which one she is. Exotic? Sexy? They all seem like bimbos to me. I’m torn between stumbling back to my apartment so I can fall into Aaron’s arms and telling him to head on home alone so I can sort through his emails and figure out who this woman is. How did I miss this?

Aaron begins to fade away from my life as he spends more and more time with Exotic Girl, and the cloudy fuzz in my mind starts to clear. I go get professional help. My therapist tells me the same things my friends have for months, and it’s a relief that I can finally begin to listen. Why do I want to be with a man who only loves me when he’s drunk? Can I truly be happy with a man who is actively pursuing another woman while using me for sex? What do I really want to put my energy into?

Six months after Aaron moves on I invite him to join me for a game of poker at our old haunt. Surprisingly, he accepts.The room has a festive beehive hum, the PBR is plentiful and cold, and our sexual chemistry takes hold like a wrench pulling us closer and closer to one another. We both get knocked out of the poker game quickly so we can move to the patio and flirt shamelessly.

AARON: (putting his hand on my thigh) It is great seeing you again. I’ve missed you. You look great.

ME: Mmmm. So do you. It’s so much fun hanging out with you again.

AARON: I can’t wait to go home with you tonight. Get naked with you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

ME: (hesitating) I don’t think that’s going to happen, Aaron. . .

AARON: I know you want to. I know you can’t wait to rip off my clothes and get dirty with me. Like old times.

ME: I don’t want that—

AARON: (cutting me off) Yes, you do. . .

ME: No. I want the whole package.

I want the bow, the wrapping paper, and an introduction to your parents. I want the cherry on top. I want to be the woman you think about when you’re not really thinking about anything in particular. I want to be the woman on your arm who you are proud of introducing to your buddies and their wives. I want to wake up with you and not have an aching head. I want you to be the man you never will be. I want to be the woman of my dreams.

The holiday season is upon us and I for one can’t wait to drink rum with my brother, laugh hysterically with my sister, kiss my niece on Christmas morning and give my momma one of her patented loving hugs. And of course I hope the holiday season brings you all the love and laughter you seek. Or at least get laid if the laughter and love thing seems like a big deal. Anyway. 2011 is almost over, 2012 is on it’s way and I for one am really excited because we’ve got lots of great things planned for the coming year, including me finally getting my head out of my ass and getting our Podcast on iTunes. Speaking of Podcast’s, click the following link to check out the most recent edition of More Than Pillow Talk. One more thing; I edit these things and usually cut out loads of idle chatter or technical glitches. Why am I telling you this? Well, the first minute or two of this podcast would normally not see the light of day but listening to Skye and I talk nonsense tickled me pink. I hope it makes you chuckle too. So ignore the little snafu(s) and enjoy. And enjoy the holidays.

More Than Pillow Talk Ep. 6

It would be impossible for me to begin this edition of Gettin’ Around in any other place than the grimy southbound platform of Spadina subway station. Not exactly the sexiest place in Toronto, but apparently it was good enough for one impatient, intoxicated couple.

But who of us haven’t been there? You’re out for a good time, knockin’ back some bevvies and you pick up someone sweet to bring home. You’re all responsible, taking public transit and getting a little antsy. Maybe he’s got his arm around you, rubbing your shoulders. Maybe she’s got her hand on your thigh, inching closer and closer to your crotch. Or maybe you have your tongues down each others throats, hands pulling clothes off, panting like rabid dogs. Whatever the situation, this is where most of us stop.

But no, these two kept at it. Maybe they are sexual pioneers, trying to blaze a trail for public affections and sex. Really, is it so wrong if two consenting adults want to enjoy each other in a public setting? Maybe this is what they were thinking?

Not bloody likely. First, they weren’t banging on the subway late at night anticipating more good times. It was in the middle of the afternoon. On a Sunday. Second, they were fucked out of their minds and had to be taken to hospital because of their level of inebriation (I admit, I do kind of admire that for a Sunday afternoon).

So, what can we take away from their misadventure? Don’t fuck on the subway, you’ll get busted. Really, there’s not much more to it.

–

Finally, proof of what I always suspected, or at least hoped, was true.

Given that I spend an inordinate amount of time looking at naked bodies – I swear at least 50% of the time it’s for research – I often wonder why I haven’t spontaneously combusted into sticky, gooey mess due to porn overload. But as it turns out, according to a study in Finland all of that “research” has, in fact, made me smarter.

Researchers at the University of Tampere and Aalto University endeavoured to find out how people’s brains react when exposed to fully-clothed models, bodies in swimsuits, fully nude models. Their results make me think that I’m lucky I’ve been looking at porno since my teens because I’m really not all that quick.

These researchers found that when participants looked at naked models, the grey matter in their brains reacted more quickly than when they looked at dressed models. This heightened response time results in faster comprehension of the image, and more rapid understanding of subsequent images.

And their findings have given me a fantastic business idea! Who are the horniest of us all? Students! Who needs to quickly process information, including images? Students! So, if you want to top grades at school forget the Coles notes, ditch those study guides, and get your hands on Jon’s Learnin’ and Pornin’ series…soon!

–

Remember when you were either single or taken? Remember when you were either getting’ some or not? Remember when chocolate bars were a nickel and moving picture shows were a dime? Okay, I’m not going back to ancient times, I just mean a before a relationship classification system was needed to know just what type of casual sex you’re having?

Jocelyn Wentland, PhD psychology student of the University of Ottawa suggests that there are many different types of casual sex that all get thrown under the same umbrella.

Let’s break them down:

One night stand: two (likely) strangers having a sexual experience and then not seeing each other again.

Friends with benefits: friends who engage in sexual experiences when the mood strikes.

Booty call: having sexual experiences with someone known but who wouldn’t be at the same level of a friend.

Wentland contends that establishing these differences in important for individuals to learn, as well as counselors and sex educators. People need to know what situation they are getting into in order to handle it emotionally. Professionals need to be able to help them when they, inevitably, get it wrong.

–

What gives, Canucks?

I’ve always thought Canadians were a pretty lusty bunch. We are fairly progressive in our sexual politics, we have some gorgeous sexual icons and despite our pleasant and polite demeanour, we actually do talk about sex fairly openly.

So why aren’t we fucking very often?

According to a recent global survey, Canadian folks between the ages of 46-60 are only having sex 1.35 times per week (what constitutes 0.35 times is cause for much debate in my household). Now I know as we get older, we supposedly slow down, but that doesn’t have to be the case.

The study also revealed that Canadians are unlikely to jump into the sack quickly, with only 79% of us having spontaneous sex.

But you know what the study’s worst finding of all is? We make excuses as to why we don’t want to. The ‘I have a headache’ or ‘I’m too distracted’ line are used by 40% of us to avoid nookie.

Remember those Subway Sexers? Maybe they have the right idea after all.

A small freckled face stuck a candy-coated tongue out at Sarah. She swore on the inside, smiled on the outside and ushered him into the Christmas Village. As she watched him climb the stairs to Santa’s stage she leaned a little more heavily against the mini fencepost she had positioned in front of her crotch.

The mini fence was surprisingly sturdy. The company that constructed it must have known their product had to withstand the destructive power of sugar-high children. The freckled face was now sticking his tongue out at Santa, from the close quarters of his lap. Sarah wriggled against the post for a split second, and then she turned around to herd the next child into the Village.

Sarah’s Santa’s Helper costume was a tiny red satin skirt, frilled with white marabou, matched with a little red halter top and a pom-pomed hat. It was a pretty skimpy outfit for someone to work with children, but Sarah didn’t care how revealing it was. The satin was thin and slick, providing maximum sensation whenever she pressed her groin up against the mini fence pole.  It was a secret pleasure that made the job bearable. But she really needed to make some extra money during the holidays.

No one could see her from the front when she pressed against the pole – except anyone on Santa’s stage. The children wouldn’t have any idea what they were seeing if they noticed it at all. But she knew Santa saw. And she knew Santa was actually a fairly attractive man in his early 30’s named Dan.

When they were done that evening Dan gave her a nudge. His big white beard was around his neck, exposing the thin brown stubble that lay on his real chin. “I take it you don’t like kids much?’ he asked.

Sarah was immediately offended. “Kids are great!” she said. “The ones who come to see us, maybe not so much,” she amended.

“Malls bring out the worst in everyone,” he said. “Except you.” Then he walked into the change room, unfastening his heavy red coat. Sarah caught a glimpse of his shoulder, shining with sweat, before the door closed behind him. She wondered if he were naked under his Santa suit.

The next day she caught his eye and held it as she flipped her flimsy skirt over the top of the mini fencepost and ground her cunt against it. She could feel the cool metal through her thin panties. Sarah was sure he wouldn’t remember what to tell the elves to make for the child in his lap at that moment.

That evening Sarah and Dan didn’t speak to each other but they both took their time saying goodbye to their co-workers, then they both took their time in their respective change rooms, then they both took their time packing up their belongings. Finally the tired and grumpy security guard told them to make sure the mall door locked behind them and he left. Dan and Sarah stared at each other, wordless for a moment. Then Sarah stripped off her dress, revealing that she had never changed at all. She had just put on her clothes over her costume.  Now she stood there in her slutty Santa’s Helper outfit, alone with Santa Dan. He smiled the biggest shit-eating grin she had ever seen. She giggled and dashed off to the Christmas Village.

Dan caught her as she reached Santa’s stage. He was fast, but she also wasn’t trying very hard. When he reached her he picked her up and carried her to his throne, where he had been sitting for weeks. This time he had a fully grown woman in his lap instead of a child.

“Ho ho ho, little girl,” said Dan, a five o’clock shadow instead of a long white beard, a tousled head of black hair instead of a cap, an undershirt instead of a big red coat overtop a fat suit. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“I’ve been a very bad girl,” said Sarah.

“In that case,” said Dan, and he flipped her over. She was arched over his knee, staring at the fake reindeer and sleigh, her ass in the air. Her tiny skirt had fallen up to her waist.

He smacked her once, lightly. She giggled and wriggled. She smacked her harder. She moaned low in her throat. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back sharply to look her in the face.

“Oh, you are a bad girl indeed,” he said. “But you’re too big to get a stocking full of coal so instead Santa’s gonna give you an ass full of bruises.” He shoved her head back down and stripped off her panties. Then he rained blows down on Sarah’s backside until she was grasping the legs of Santa’s throne with white knuckles. Her howls echoed through the empty mall.

When her ass was as red as her satin skirt Dan stood up, lifting her in his arms, and carried her off the stage. He sat down in the sleigh and placed Sarah in a seated position on his knees facing him, her sore ass stinging against his jeans. Then he undid his fly. His cock sprang up between them, erect as a candy cane. Sarah smiled and they looked at each other, and for the first time they kissed. It was a firm, deliberate kiss, and when their tongues knew each other intimately he broke off and pulled a condom out of his pocket.

Santa is always prepared.

In case you missed yesterday’s post, when we left Logan and Tyler they were just about to sit down for dinner, followed by some very hot dessert…

–

Logan flirted wildly as they dined together, she felt so comfortable around him. She discovered that Tyler was a country boy who had moved to the next town over a few years ago on a job promotion. He was also polite, charming and very attentive, intently watching her lips move when she spoke. She was having such a good time that she actually felt a tinge of disappointment when he asked to use the phone to call his family.

When he excused himself and went into the living room to use the phone she started clearing the table to make room for dessert, hoping he had time to have a slice of her pie. She was really enjoying his company. As she moved about the kitchen she found herself thinking about his mouth and imagining how his soft those lips would feel on hers. She wondered how his hands, which she had closely examined each time he lifted his fork to his lips, would feel as they gripped her behind. “Oh Logan, you’ve had too much to drink,” she whispered.

“Excuse me? Did you say something?”

She turned to toward the sound of his voice and was slightly taken aback by how close he was to her.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she said quietly, admiring his gorgeous eyes once more. “So? Did you get through to your family?”

“I sure did. It seems the roads are closed all the way around town. I’ll have to make my way over to the nearest motel and wait ‘til the plows clean up the snow in the morning so I can get my truck towed.” He glanced out her window at the snowflakes swirling violently through the air. “It’s real cold outside.”

She fought the feeling to ask him to stay over. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Still he could easily sleep on the couch, but the way he was looking at her…

“Well, there’s no rush then, right? How about we have another drink and you can taste some of my apple pie before you trek back out there to face the storm?” she said sweetly.

“I’d like that, Logan,” he smiled and then lifted his hand to touch her cheek.

“Good.” She leaned into his hand, letting him cup her face.

“You’ve been quite the hostess. Thank you very much for welcoming me into your home and feeding me.” He ran his finger along her bottom lip. “You’re a beautiful woman and it’s taken every ounce of my control not to grab you and do some very dirty things to you”.

Dear God. Logan felt her pulse quicken. “What if I want you to lose control? What if I were to tell you I’d like to know just what kind of things you’re talking about?”

He stepped towards her and pinned her body against the kitchen counter. “It starts with your mouth. I’ve been imagining what your mouth tastes like and how it would feel against my skin. I want to feel your tongue on my neck, down on my chest.” He grabbed the back of her head with one hand, startling and exciting her at the same time, and with the other, he reached down below her waist and cupped her bottom. “I’ve imagined my hands on your body, caressing your breasts, your back and this fine ass here.” His hands slid down to her thighs gripping them firmly. Then Logan was off her feet, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms encircling his neck, and her lips only inches from his.

He carried her into the living room. “I envisioned carrying you to your living room floor and removing every last bit of clothing from your body. I want to see your skin glowing in the firelight. I want to see your beautiful brown eyes shine in the darkness of the room.”

Logan pressed her body into his and inhaled his scent, feeling heady at all the feelings being reawakened inside her. He lay her gently down on the rug in front of the fire and resting his chest against hers Tyler studied her face, passion and lust evident in his eyes. “Logan, are you sure you want me here? Are you certain you want this?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes Tyler. I’m positive”.

He kissed her, his soft, full mouth pressing against hers. She wanted desperately to feel all of him. She parted her lips and he took the invitation, sliding his tongue slowly into her mouth, as he kissed her deeply. Logan could feel the length of his growing shaft in between her legs. She hadn’t felt the hardness of a man in a long while. She wanted more. Logan parted her legs, inviting him in. “Tyler I want to feel you inside me.”

Tyler began to unbutton her blouse revealing the soft pink of her lace bra. She arched her back as he kissed the newly exposed skin. He turned her over onto her belly, unzipped her skirt and slowly slid it over her full hips. She heard him take a sharp breath of air when he noticed she wasn’t wearing any panties.

His tongue followed his hands down her back to her buttocks, where he bit her gently. Logan groaned loudly and then she turned around to face him. She sat up, her hands working feverishly to remove his shirt. As she slid his dress shirt off his shoulders, he unbuckled his belt. She quickly unzipped his pants, revealing the prominent bulge in his boxer briefs. She watched him watching her as she eased his rigid cock out of his underpants with both hands.

Tyler parted Logan’s legs and slid his length deep inside her. Logan closed her eyes and cried out, surges of pain and pleasure running through her body. She coiled her arms around his back, pressing him further into her. She opened her eyes to gaze into his, and saw the intense pleasure she was feeling reflected in his eyes. She rocked her body in time with his and wrapped her legs around his waist to driving his cock deeper inside her.

“Oh Logan baby, you feel so sweet, so good,” he moaned between ragged, shallow breaths.

He bent his head to kiss her again as he began moving faster inside her. Logan bucked harder beneath him, thrusting her body up to meet his demands.

“Tyler, she whispered. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” She was getting close and she sensed that Tyler was too.

“Oh baby girl,” he growled into her ear, his whole body tensing as he continued to pound himself into her.

“Oh God. Don’t stop, Tyler. Don’t stop,” she shrieked as her orgasm tore through her.

Minutes later they lay in each other arms in front of the fireplace, both their bodies glistening with sweat.

Tyler looked up at the grandfather clock next to the fireplace as it struck midnight, and then turned to gaze into Logan’s eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Logan. Thank you for one of the best Christmases I’ve had in a long time.”

“And to think we wouldn’t have met if your truck hadn’t broken down on my street,” Logan kissed his lips softly. “Merry Christmas to you, Tyler.”

Logan curled her legs up under her butt and pulled the blanket over her body, glad she’d turned on the fireplace. It was nasty out; the wind was blowing the sleet and snow against her living room window. Oh, Santa’s going to have a tough time out there tonight.

She smiled when she realized that she was actually happy that her flight back home was canceled. She’d secretly wanted to spend Christmas alone this year, especially since her bitter breakup with that asshole. She pushed the thought away. “It’s about me tonight”, she said aloud. She was going to have a great Christmas without him. After all she had an absurdly over-sized roast in the oven and the apple pie she’d prepared from scratch was ready for baking She reached for her snifter,  took a sip of the generous amount of dark liquor she’d poured herself, and instantly felt the burn run through her. Logan closed her eyes and rested her head back on the couch, savouring the moment.

The high winds of the storm outside rattled the glass in the window, and Logan got up to look outside, just in time to see a pair of headlights slowly snaking down her street. She watched intently as the large vehicle slowed down and came to a halt. Oh dear. Someone’s stuck. She waited to see if there was any movement from the truck. A few seconds passed and its headlights went off as the driver’s side door opened. Her inquisitiveness took over and she continued to watch as a figure stepped out of the vehicle.

It was a man, a very tall man. He struggled to shut the door of the truck as the harsh winds of the blizzard blustered around him, while trying unsuccessfully to keep the scarf around his neck. She couldn’t make out his face, but her eyes stayed on him as he began walking up the street.

“I hope he gets to his destination safely,” she said to herself as she turned away from the window and headed into the kitchen.

The wind howled again, louder and this time the whole house seemed to shake. Her mind immediately went back to the man stranded outside in the cold. She removed her roast from the oven and just as she was replacing it with her apple pie, she heard a knock at her door.

When she answered the door, cracking it ever so slightly in an effort to keep the cold out, the force of the wind pushed it wide open, bringing a blast of cold air with it. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest, her hands rubbing her arms, as she looked up into the face of the man she’d been watching through her window just moments before.

“Good evening ma’am. I’m terribly sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve but I’ve run into some trouble.”

He spoke with a slight drawl and she could have sworn she saw the corners of his full lips turn up slightly as he spoke. His complexion was dark, more than a few shades darker than her own caramel skin tones, and his eyes were light, almost hazel. In a word he was handsome, incredibly so. He was clad in a long black overcoat and a toque, with the scarf that she had seen him struggling earlier still hanging loosely around his neck. She stood there dumbstruck and motionless for a few seconds before realizing that she was staring.

He looked down at his feet shyly. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to scare you or nothing‘. I’m s’posed to meet some family about 30 miles from here but my truck didn’t make it and my cell is outta juice”.

“Well…uhhmm…come in,” she stammered, moving aside to make space for him in her tiny front hall. It’s bitterly cold out there. I’ll let you use my phone,”

His arm brushed against hers as he tried to squeeze inside, and she felt her face flush. She closed the door and leaned her back against it, admiring the view of his back. Wow.

He turned to look at her and she felt a warmth exuding from him. His eyes trailed down her body to her ample hips and then back up to her face. He lingered at her mouth and again she noticed the beginnings of a smirk.

“I’m Logan”, she said, offering him her hand.

He removed his toque. “Pleasure to meet you ma’am. Name’s Tyler. Tyler Grayson”. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, his eyes meeting hers before he bowed his head to kiss it. Again, that warmth.

“It smells delicious in here,” he said, without releasing her hand.

“Well I just took my roast out of the oven, and put my apple pie in.” she replied, smiling.

He smiled back at her broadly, revealing a perfect set of pearly white teeth.

As she took in his smile, Logan felt a sense of peace and…something else she couldn’t put her finger on. Here she was standing in front of a beautiful stranger, who spoke with a drawl and had all the charm of a southern gentleman. The fireplace was casting a warm glow in the room, the wonderful scent of herbs and spices were wafting throughout the house and it was Christmas Eve. Maybe this will be a very merry Christmas after all. She caught herself staring at him again and quickly said, “I’ll get my phone so you can call your family. Would you like sit for a while and have a drink?” The words had escaped her lips before she’d even thought about asking them.

“That’s quite hospitable of you ma’am, but I don’t want to impose. So, I’ll just take that drink, make my call and then just wait for the tow truck in my car.”

Logan laughed. “Have you seen it out there? It’s freezing outside. I can’t let you wait in your car. You can wait as long as you have to in here, where it’s warm.  In fact why don’t you stay and have dinner with me? My turkey is more than big enough for two.” Damn. Did I really just ask this man to stay for dinner?

Tyler looked at her, as if trying to assess if she really meant what she had just said. “Well, Logan”, he spoke slowly, as he carefully removed his coat, “you’re in luck because where I come from they say you should never let a pretty lady have dinner alone…especially not on Christmas Eve.”

Logan grinned at him and took his coat. He followed her into the living room where she poured him some cognac. “There you go. Something to make you warm,” she said, handing him the class. When he took the glass from her, his long fingers grazed hers, sending a shiver of yearning through her entire body.

“You know what, Logan? As delightful as I know this cognac is going to be, I don’t need it for warmth. The cold left my body the minute I saw your pretty face.”

Thank you, Santa! Logan smiled mischievously, as she picked up her glass and raised it to his. “Well then, here’s to an enjoyable evening with a new found friend.”

–

To be continued…tomorrow.

Okay folks. Yesterday, when we left off  Sanna was just about to enter Del’s dressing room, and you know what that means, right? Today we get to the good part…

–

Sanna nodded her thanks and pushed the door open. As soon as she stepped into the room, she spotted Del reclining in a chair in front of a floor length mirror. Although he had seen her enter the room he didn’t immediately turn to greet her. Instead he studied the reflection of her face in silence as he put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table beside him. And when he finally spun around in his chair to face her, he gave her a quick once over, grunting his approval. Then he grinned, stood and strode towards her, offering his hand. “Hi. Del. You are?”

As Sanna took his hand an image of one just like it resting on her head as she lapped at a gargantuan, dark chocolate cock, flooded her mind and her mouth began to water. She asked herself the same question she’d been pondering for years.  Just what would it feel like to have a big black boner stuffed into her mouth for her to milk with wild abandon? “I’m Sanna. Good to meet you,” she said beaming up at him.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” Del asked, turning toward to the mini bar.

As he walked away from her, Sanna’s eyes lighted on his firm round ass, and she pictured her delicate hands grasping its cheeks, as she bucked against him. With each thrust of his hips she pulled him deeper inside her, her pussy stretched and filled to the brim by the dusky girth and length of his dick. ”Yes, you put on quite a show out there.” She was keenly aware of the moistness mounting between her thighs. “But what I’m really looking forward to is your second act.”

Del turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow arched high. “Is that so?”

She ran her fingers through her hair, a shiver of lust rushing through her as she envisioned his long fingers entwined in her straw coloured mane while he pounded her from behind. Just the idea of being taken by someone so different; so much of everything she was not – broad, butch and undeniably black – made her dizzy with excitement. Sanna took a deep breath. “Uh huh. And based on what I saw earlier tonight, I’m expecting another great performance.”

“In that case you definitely won’t be disappointed. I pride myself on my work ethic and I’ve been honing my craft for years, so I never miss,” Del said, smirking as he poured scotch into a tumbler. “Care for a drink, Sanna?”

Now that she was alone with him, Sanna wasn’t at all interested in wasting any time downing high-priced liquor. “No, I’m not thirsty,” she said. Then, when she was sure he had noticed her eyes roaming over his body she added, “Well, actually I am, just not for alcohol.”

Del leaned against the bar and took a long sip of his scotch. “By all means Sanna, do tell. Exactly what is it that you’re thirsty for?”

Sanna licked her lips, and then coyly lowered her eyes to a point just below his waist. “Perhaps, some hot chocolate?”

“Sorry, don’t think I have any here.” Del smiled wickedly. “At least not the kind that’s served in a cup.”

Sanna stroked her chin and looked directly into his eyes. “Then you’ll just have to find something else to please me, won’t you?”

Del tipped his glass to his lips, gulping down all that remained of the amber liquid it contained. Then as he put the empty glass down on the bar he said, “Hmmm…Was that my cue to start the second act?”

Sanna nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think so.”

In an instant he was right next to her, lifting her into his arms. He carried her over to the couch in the far corner of the room and gently lay her down on her back. As he pulled her mini skirt and panties down over her hips, she untied her halter top, freeing her breasts from the scant bit of fabric.

Del’s eyes and hands swept over her naked body. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as his lips found one of her nipples. She arched her back, pressing her body into his, but as he trailed kisses across her abdomen, working his way down to her throbbing mound, she took his face in her hands to stop him.

“Something wrong?” he asked, raising his head to look into her eyes

She tugged at his shirt. “Take your clothes off.”

“A woman who’s not afraid to ask for what she wants, I like that,” Del said, rising to his feet.

Sanna sat up quickly, her eyes exploring his chiselled torso as he peeled off his shirt, her breath catching in her throat as his fingers found the waist of his jeans. She clutched her chest, sure that her heart was going to pound right through it as his jeans fell in an unceremonious heap at his feet. And from the moment her mind registered the fact that his gleaming white boxer briefs were the only thing separating her from his bulging erection, Sanna’s whole body quivered with yearning. As Del, eased his fingers under the waistband of his briefs Sanna leapt of the couch, dropped to her knees in front of him, and hauled his underwear down to his ankles, revealing her prize. The magnificent ebony rod her dreams were made of.

“Alright now. You were clearly more than a little anxious for the big reveal,” Del said, in a tone that betrayed his shock.

But Sanna failed to notice. She was completely engrossed in the process of paying tribute to his positively perfect penis. With her tiny hands wrapped firmly around the weight of his erection, she planted hungry kisses up and down the length of his shaft, all the while chanting the same two words over and over again…

“It’s true! It’s true! It’s true!”