“HERE . . . I brought you something, but you MIGHT not want it and that’s okay.”
She handed me a little greyish pouch with some black things sticking out of it. The pouch felt scrumptious, and I realized the little black things sticking out of it were GLOVE FINGERS! And the pouch was just the cuffs of the gloves turned inside out around the tips!!
I pretty much lost my shit in front of everyone, I was so excited . . . perfectly tailored tiny buttery black leather gloves. From when she was in HIGH SCHOOL. In the fifties!! In perfect condition. I put them on and they’re only a tiny bit too big . . . just enough to make delicious wrinkles. I made fists and admired the way my knuckles look stretching out the black leather, making shine pop out on each little knuckle-bump. I put my palm to my face and breathed in, and wanted to push my fingertips into my face and smother myself, just for a little while. Feel the leather on my lips. I held my own hand and felt the heat slowly seeping from one hand into the other through the leather. I loved them so much I had to take them off to concentrate on what anybody was saying, sure I wouldn’t be able to overcome the intense sensual and sexual stimulation from the gloves and be able to actually HEAR anything.
But I did hear. I am learning so much about love. And fear. And who I love and why. And how to love. But maybe not as fast as other people. All I know is some people are very wise and I’m blessed to know them and be loved and comforted and guided by them.
I couldn’t come. Even though I came half a dozen times watching the video of him and his new girlfriend. Even though I was happy and looking forward to seeing him . . . until after another one of those consciousness-changing meetings again and he was here and I put myself and my body and most of my feelings in a dark unmarked detached waiting room. So of course I can’t come all withdrawn and defensive like that (and going through Seroquel withdrawal), but at least I can get fucked hard. And of course he thinks I’m coming, but I have to break it to him when he asks for confirmation: uhmmmmm, NO. “Not when your legs were shaking?” No. “I thought I was doing good.” It *was* good! It felt great on my g-spot!
It is not your dick that failed me. The dick that’s still inside me, making me want to do something I’ve never (or rarely or at least can’t specifically recall) felt compelled to do with anybody which is to eat cum out of my pussy. HIS cum. I’m on my knees backed up against him with my hand cupping my pussy, ready to catch it as we move those parts away from each other just enough for hot cum to pour out of me into my palm. Fluid . . . consistent flowing viscosity, no thick globs ever. It’s a sacrament of loss, pressing my gasping open mouth into my tiny slimy hand, the most connected I’ve felt to him all night long. Eyes closed, tongue lapping at my own hand, breathing in a fucking beautiful flavor that I turn around and kiss all over him. Like sweet wet butter-polished wood burning at body temperature in the back of my mouth and throat. Trying to get the most out of the last little bit of something I will never have my fill of. Into his mouth, smearing it on his chin, allowing myself to love the fuck out of his face again, pressing cum from my hand onto his shoulder and wishing I could see more of it glazing his face. I eat another handful . . . it’s that fucking good to me and writing this feels like a middle-aged gross fetlifey webwhore cliche. But it’s painfully true and I mean it. I never thought I’d honestly be talking about how much I love the taste of someone’s jizz and truly believing blogging about it is romantic. I want to be intoxicated by cum together. On our faces and kiss-eating it from each other’s mouth and shiny cheeks and chin.
Today I was late, but it was perfect timing so I only had to try not to cry in front of people for half an hour. But my nose did leak teary-snot which I did wipe off with my hands so at the end I warned the ladies not to hold them. And the ladies so gently smiled on both sides of me, one firmly gripping my left arm, another resting her hand on my right. And I couldn’t say the words, only feel the warmth of their hands penetrating through my thick black coat and grey dress, knowing that warmth flowed from their hearts, through their outstretched arms connected to all the other ladies and their hearts in the circle.
Sometimes you pray for things even though you don’t believe in God. I prayed her for him, and my prayers were granted. Not by “God”, but by the good in him (and not like I truly MADE something happen/have some special power or some bullshit . . . I just recognized what he really wants and what would make him happy, and chose to concentrate on wanting that instead of wanting things/everything for myself). Because of seeing what’s good and worthy in someone else — because of loving him a lot and wanting the happy things and love (and not bad things) to happen to him and hoping that the best would prevail in his life.
I am not the best. And he can’t do what’s best for me right now, either, but I do think he’s trying HIS best.
I knew it, and I know it, and I’m happy for it. They made and are making the best happen with each other. Now I need to pray for (more of) the best in and for myself. For my wife. For a garden someday. To just get through each day without inflicting pain on myself or others. To do work that feeds us and I can feel proud of at the end of the day. For fearless sleep. For gratitude for every bite. For my love to be believed. For my intense easy loves to make pleasure and beauty and magic thrive. For what’s hard for normal people to understand about me (continue to) be where I find God, and where other people find God in me. For everyone to have at least one sweet dream that comes to life. To be more brave about what and how I share and choosing the simple things I know are most important (even if they’re not what are most important to other people). To keep getting the amounts of love and help I’ve been privileged with so far, and for it to help me make a difference.
He said that he measures his orgasms by his own slow-pumping heartbeats, and this one was abnormally long.
I said I usually don’t find the way guys measure things (their dicks in inches, my boobs in bra sizes, etc.) very interesting or useful. But this heartbeat-measurement is very compelling and romantic. He then found a way to provide the word he must’ve known I was reaching for: “poetic”.
But there actually *are* some other units of measurement I do find very compelling . . . like the big huge oil containers we used as burn barrels when I was growing up — when I couldn’t come up with the name myself, he then supplied “50 gallon drum” in a painful story which let me know he knew what I was trying to talk about — anyway, I like to imagine how many of those have been filled with cum guys have ejaculated thinking about me over the span of my career as a webwhore. I don’t imagine it’s a whole truckload of them, but just imagining one of them being filled up, a cover placed on it, and a new one being added to excites me. I’m intrigued by the idea of comparing my containers to other people’s.
As a member to my and my wife’s sites (you get both of them when you join either one), you could have been watching Taurus and I fucking in the cabin on our live voyeur cams.
You would not have watched a threesome though because Delia’s back hurt so we just watched Project Runway. You also could not have seen Taurus and I fucking near midnight (this happened after you might have seen him killing moths in the loft: part of why we turned off the light and did it in the dark, which probably helped me “finish”, even though I rarely want it to be all done).
Remember these after-shoot teaser shots?
Welllll . . . after all these months, Delia just posted the video for our members!
I’m glad she sat on it for awhile . . . it’s fun and rewarding to see how she edited what we shot after forgetting so much of it. I really love that it’s a whole role playing scene with a beginning, middle and end with a bunch of shots.
I hate it when Daddy sits with his nose in a book and ignores me! I mean I should get his undivided attention ALL the time! I tried to remind him how bad I need petting and cuddling but it just seemed to make him mad. Finally he got fed up and made me get in my cage while he went out. He made me read this fascinating book while he was out but I got too sleepy and had to take a nap. He seemed a little upset when I didn’t know what the book was about. I got my ass spanked hard for that! Daddy sure was mad but he let me make it up to him with a nice wet blowjob! He plowed my ass good and hard and shot a big load of hot white gooey stuff all over my face. It was so yummy! I hope you enjoy watching. 😉 -Delia
I’m proud of us shooting it totally on the fly without any idea beforehand of what they might do. I was dirty-old-eccentric-man-boss-director and made them do a lot of things that were time-consuming and annoying . . . and I’m proud of how it turned out with very little time, tiny budget (we bought Delia’s bodystocking & dinner out with us for James), and the help of friends (Ms. Savannah‘s amazing space, and James Maverick’s beautiful willing talent on top of my wife’s). It’s not perfect, but it’s fun and pretty fucking awesome considering our relatively limited resources.
*total access to her site, MINE, and all of her pre-transition content
*two other scenes Delia shot with James last year: her first boy-girl hardcore was with him, and a hot Daddy & pee scene with her
*to help us make more sweet homemade porn!
We’re trying to budget for a trip to Vegas to have Damien shoot Delia & I together, and would LOVE LOVE LOVE to be able to hire James for real to shoot more with us. We had a barter thing with him but he’s always working so hard when we see him that he can’t actually afford time to claim his reward. WE SHOULD BE PAYING OUR CO-STARS TO MAKE PORN WITH US . . . the porn we make (and that Delia’s been having other people shoot) is special and unique . . . I’d love for it to get even awesomer (and to be able to fairly compensate people who work with us, and have enough time with them to make even better stuff) with the support of more paying fans.
I got my hair re-blonded today:
And Delia came home yesterday and got this all wet inside and out:
We actually had what might be the worst sex interruption she and I have ever had in twelve+ years owing to me being a self-conscious hypochondriac.
So that kind of sucked but I sat on top of her and we talked through it and then we switched and she got on top of me and this thing happened where she’s SO CLOSE TO COMING . . . SO MANY TIMES . . . and we’re barely moving and she has to keep stopping because OMG SHE IS SOOOOOO CLOSE and she makes these NOISES I love that mean she’s SO CLOSE TO COMING and if I can just wiggle against her a tiny little bit more and manage to not squeeze her cock all the way out of me I am TOTALLY GOING TO COME so that happened like half a dozen times and we came together it was fucking fantastic. I love when she’s on the edge like that and every tiny movement is soooooooooooo exquisitely close to the brink with potent pleasure.
We had dinner and social time (really rare for us) with some of our kinky poly friends after that and spent a lot of much-needed time talking about our marriages and dating and boundaries and jealousy. We also talked about life lessons one of them is trying to teach his daughter, like “GET THE FUCK OVER IT” as step one when navigating obstacles on the road to success.
And then tonight I got another bed-warmer accusation which I think is just a smokescreen (either way it’s painful) and it makes me either want to withdraw and retreat and stop fucking everybody . . . or go out and start fucking everything. Speaking of smokescreens . . . it does seem like I’m attempting to drag my wounded heart to safety behind that one.
I am a rock. I am a whore on a deserted island. I am a dirty romantic old man with a staring problem living in his own little fantasy world of painfully earnest bullshit.
Whatever. I will probably get more done if I cultivate a deeper sense of cynicism and flat efficient professionalism. No no no . . . I mean, I will get a lot more done if I just focus on one truly important thing at a time and right now that thing is my physical health. Different kinds of sweaty body movement will be my escape and salvation. Don’t phone this in! Raise your heart center! Don’t forget to breathe!
So anyway . . . I’m working on keeping my heart center lifted.
In the cabin loft, morning after first threesome with Delia and Taurus:
I have waaaaaaay sloppier pictures of this/my snatch where four loads of cum wound up between dinnertime and breakfast this/the next morning. You know . . . if you’re into that kind of thing. Which I’ve gotten to be over the years.