Tag Archive for Wicked Wednesday

The class

Have I ever told you what a good student I am? I love to be taught. Why should sex be any different? Our marriage counselor mentioned a few places, so I looked into them. One place holds workshops. What do you do at a sex workshop? I decided to find out. I signed up for Overdue: An Intro to Submission.

I went by myself the first time because, well, like anything sexy I needed to see it for myself first. I literally had no idea what to expect. I wore black – black jeans, a tank, bra, and panties. Nothing but black, because what the hell do you wear to a sex workshop? It’s winter, so I wore a sweater over top. It was drapey and black. Black boots.

Just in case, I brought a notebook and pen. The class description hadn’t mentioned to bring anything, but I did anyway. I took the train. It was a mid-afternoon class and it was still light outside when I arrived. The workshops are held in a loft on the top floor of a three-story walk-up. Dirty photos lined the stairs. At the top, I found the instructor, good-looking, medium height, ripped, energetic. All right.

“Hi there,” he said, smiling.

“Hey,” I answered but didn’t smile.

“Here for the workshop?” he asked as if he was just curious. He was soft spoken and seemed friendly. Not exactly what I expected.

“Yeah,” I said, looking directly at him. He was cool.

“Grab a seat. There’s coffee and water in the lounge down the hall.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I walked down the hall to the loft, which was set up theater-style. At the front of the room was a large old-fashioned desk and behind it hung a chalkboard, an actual chalkboard probably circa 1975. Armchairs and wooden dining chairs were arranged in rows facing the desk. A few people had already taken their seats – two girls, both pretty, both long-haired, one blond and one brunette. One punk-looking guy in a knit hat and biker jacket sat in an armchair messing with his phone. A couple sat near the back. They looked older, maybe in their 50s. Nobody was drinking coffee.

“Hi,” I said to no one in particular. I took off my coat and sank down into an armchair near the punk, the most interesting of the classmates. I pulled out my notebook and tossed my bag aside.

After a few minutes, the instructor came into the room. “I guess this is it today,” he said cheerfully. He walked to the front. “I’m Bob,” he said.

Yes, I thought. Just right. Not Robert, Bob. I wrote it down in my notebook at the top of the first page.

“Let’s introduce ourselves, and if you’d like to, you can say why you are here today,” he said with a little smile.

He sounded very professional and I wondered for a quick second if I was in the right place.

The punk guy went first. “I’m Javier,” he said. “I’m a writer and I’m researching for a novel I’m working on,” he said.

“Mmhmm…” Bob responded. He sat on the desk, leaning forward attentively, legs spread, hands pressing down on the desk. It was an inviting yet slightly intimidating pose.

I went next. “I’m Jenna,” I said. “I’m trying something new,” I said, trying to sound interesting.

The rest of the group introduced themselves—the girls were there together, for work, presumably as escorts or something. The couple was there to spice things up, they said. Then Bob ran his hands over his thighs. “Let’s get started,” he said with a little grin. “First of all, you all should get comfy. You can wear anything you like for this class, as long as it makes you feel sexy. Go ahead and change if you want to.” He managed to sound only faintly like a perverted doctor about to give an exam.

I looked around the room, wondering what to expect. The older couple asked where they could change. The punk removed his hat to reveal spiky-messy hair and impressively stretched earlobes. He took off his jacket and revealed a tight black t-shirt with tattoos escaping from underneath.

I stood up to take off my sweater and turned to face the pretty girls. They were each stripped down to just bras and panties, so I took a chance and took off my boots and jeans. I sat back down and scribbled some notes about what everyone was wearing. The couple returned, clad in leather – a bodysuit for her, chaps for him. They looked self-conscious but happy.

Bob wore tight jeans, boots, and a white t-shirt with a hamburger-shaped planet on the front. While we changed, he hopped down from the desk and moved to the chalkboard. “Say yes,” he wrote in large letters in the center. I copied it into my notebook.

He turned and surveyed the room. “I’m no dom,” he smiled. “Not really. I’m just a behaviorist.” I jotted that down in my notebook.

“But there’s really only one simple rule for being a good submissive,” he said and stuck his thumb over his shoulder toward the words on the board. “And this is it.”

Everybody laughed.

“I know, I know,” he said. “But it’s true. You can learn so much about yourself just by saying yes.” I wrote that down.

“Okay, let’s play a game,” he said. “Craig and Sue. You guys look ready for anything. Come up front please.” Bob opened a drawer in the desk and removed a rope, a blindfold, and a gag. “Which of the two of you is feeling submissive today?” he asked them. Sue raised her hand and gave a little wave. “Okay, Craig, get to work then,” Bob handed him the supplies. “I have a book on knots if you need it.”

Craig and Sue nodded and stepped to the side. Craig whispered something to Sue and she nodded, then he began by blindfolding her and putting the gag into her mouth. He began wrapping the rope into an elaborate pattern, constraining her breasts and wrists. Finally, Craig whispered to Sue again and she dropped to her knees. I took notes. The pretty girls whispered and giggled behind me and Javier watched, seemingly unimpressed.

“Ladies, come up front, please,” Bob said evenly, beckoning to the pretty girls. They giggled and walked to the front modeling their underwear for the class. Javier shifted in his seat as they passed him, one on each side.

When the girls got to the front, Bob took the brunette by the hand and lead her to one side of the desk. “Kneel, please,” he directed. “Face the audience,” he said. She did. Bob repeated the positioning with the blonde girl, just to the side of the brunette. The girls looked at each other and laughed. Bob knelt down in front of them and whispered something. The girls nodded and giggled. I took notes.

“Javier, sir, come up here,” Bob waved to the punk. Bob whispered into his ear. Javier smirked and nodded, then moved toward the kneeling girls. He faced them and undid his jeans.

“Okay, Jenna, your turn,” Bob smiled at me. I came up to the front. “Um, do you like standing on furniture?” he asked.

I looked past him at the note on the chalkboard. “Yes,” I said decisively.

“Great! Take off your tank top please.” Bob was a combination of friendly and dead serious. I wavered for a moment, then took off my tank top and tossed it in the direction of my seat.

He nodded in approval. “Now stand on top of the desk,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, unsure. I climbed up and looked around the room. Craig was standing in front of Sue, rubbing his hard cock on her gagged and blindfolded face. My eyes widened. The pretty girls were kneeling before Javier, licking and sucking his cock at the same time, still giggling.

“Rub your pussy, please,” Bob said to me. I looked nervously around the room, and then I slipped my hand into my panties.

Bob moved to the front row and picked up my pen. He scribbled something in my notebook, then put the pen down and moved to the second row. He climbed up on a wingback chair, sat on the top with his feet on the seat, and undid his pants. He observed the room for a few minutes, and then started rubbing his cock, hard and fast.

After he came, he climbed down from the chair and zipped his pants. “Thanks, guys, he said,” although none of us was really listening. He left.

Later, when I collected my things, I noticed that he had left me a note. “Good girl,” it said in my notebook.


This is fiction, people. Total, complete, utter fiction. If you know me, then you know that I would never stand on a desk.


Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked





I want to be alone
But I can’t escape

First I need to feel you pressing against me
Trying to fill me

I need your attention
Your effort
Your breath on my neck

I want to shrink into your shadow
Crumple under your weight
I want to feel small

Your touch will ask the question it answers

I want you to always try
But never fulfill me

I want you to fail
Over and over

Then vanish
Elude me
Leave me alone once more

In your aching absence
I find it again
My lack


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I used to have a friend, several years ago when Mark and I were first married, who liked to give me marriage advice. I remember that she described a technique for staying faithful, for ensuring a successful marriage. She called it self-sublimation. What she meant, I think, was that to succeed at marriage, you need to put your partner’s needs and desires ahead of your own. At every turn, you must consider your mate first and act on that consideration, not your own interests or feelings.

I think she had a good point. For many years, I followed her advice. You know what? It worked. My marriage has been very happy and successful. Putting Mark’s needs first became something that made me happy. It was as if witnessing his personal successes and happiness vicariously made me happy and successful. Although I might have from time to time felt frustrations at whatever I might have been giving up or trading off on, as long as I could look to Mark and see him happy, all was good.

In our marriage, I think this dynamic went both ways. Mark has always managed to give me what I want, whether it’s a vacation, a bigger car, or even a third child. For many years, self-sublimation worked for us. The key is having a willing partner who reliably, truly, wants you to have what you want. Each partner must feel that they are both making the other happy by fulfilling their desires, and having their desires fulfilled happily by the other.

Earlier this year I read something. It was short and simple. And–I have to admit this–it threw a wrench in my system. It was this: Monogamy is hard. My first reaction was “No, it’s not.” But those three words stuck. I started to rethink self-sublimation, this time as a negative. What have I overlooked or ignored about myself in the interest of my marriage? What, by the rules of my marriage, do I want that I should not want?

I’ve spent some time this year poking around under those rocks, and I’ve found a number of things. Some of them are acceptable within the bounds of my marriage, and some are not. Some things, like rekindling my career, are relatively easy. Mark is completely supportive. Some things, like finding a place for spirituality in my life, are rockier. Mark’s mind is closed on that subject, so I have to go it alone. And some things, like my desire for sex with other people, are outright outrageous within my marriage. Here lies the limit of self-sublimation: When it becomes self-annihilation, it fails.


Surprise me

Go ahead, be a creep.  I want you to.  (I know, it’s fucked up.)

Make me ache to know if you are even thinking of me. But BE thinking of me, all the time.

I want to be whatever you want me to be.

Sneak around, stare at me from afar. Make me wonder if that’s you. Follow me around during the day, when we are both supposed to be acting normal. Later, pounce on me in an alley or a half-lit staircase. Scare me a little.

Don’t splurge on a fancy hotel. It’s not what I want. Not really. I want the scummiest hotel room, over on the edge of town, where people only joke about going. Where we will only go after dark, late, so no one we know recognizes us. Make me ashamed with the realization of my wanting it. Make me love it.

Let me forget who I am. Don’t try to know me. Knowing is unsexy. Feel me. Make me wait, longing for your touch. Watch me, and tell me how dirty I am. Make me wet. Make me beg.

Do whatever the fuck you want to with me and don’t feel bad about it. Feel great. Use me. I want you to.

I’m ready for it. I’m dying for it. Surprise me, show me what I don’t know, what I’ve never even imagined. I will love it. Then leave me hanging. Don’t show up, don’t call, don’t text. Don’t communicate. Remember, make me ache.

Never talk to me again. Please.

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One night long ago in a scummy hotel room

Whispers in a darkened hotel room. We’re at the beach. All of us, for a weekend at the end of summer. It’s mid August and college is looming large, a bear that’s going to maul us.

He and I in one bed, a single friend in the other. Can she hear us? Of course she can.

Whispers. Giggles. Kissing. Lots of kissing.

It’s exciting to have an audience, and it’s conflicting. We want to make noise but we cannot.

Sucking, licking, clothes off, everything but.

Does she know? Is she asleep? No way. We are so hot we’re on fire. So is she, we can feel her.

I want to ask him for something. I really want him to lick my pussy. Yes, I do. I want it with every fiber of my being. This after literally hours of unreturned blow jobs. I muster my courage and whisper to him. No, he says. No? No. No. He says he’s not mature enough. What does that mean?

Thirty-five-year-old me has a few theories. Thirty-five-year-old me knows it’s not all about me. But 18-year-old me was closing fast. Zipping up like a jacket. And I’ve been that way until recently, in spite of limitless pussy licking from Mark. He’s good. But until recently, I couldn’t really feel it.


Let me

Let me know you or let me toy with you.

Allow me to empty you out piece by piece.

Please me, assuage me, fill me, replenish me.

Show me your desperate desire for me.

I want to own your body and your mind.

To teach you how it’s done.

To use you every and any which way.

I want you to wonder.
I want you to need.
I want you to ache.

Give me everything. All of you.

However I ask it of you, at my every whim.

I may disappoint you. Let me.

Let me fuck with you for fun.

This is definitely a dream of mine.

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A summer soirée

I think I’m going to plan a party. I’ve changed a lot recently, see, and I seem to have come across a lot of interesting new people. In my real life, when I get the feeling that certain people would have fun together, I plan a get together.

It will be sexy and fun and delicious. We’ll have it by the water on one of the perfect summer nights that we have around here. It will be a picnic dinner so I will lay out blankets everywhere, and hang paper lanterns from the trees like in a magazine.

When I in invite you, I will ask you to include a few of your favorite songs in your RSVP, and I will play these on our outdoor speakers. I’ll bring frisbees and footballs and maybe a few dirty books or magazines to entertain everyone.

There will be cheese and fruit, wine and beer. The food will be simple — it’s besides the point. There may be ice cream for dessert.

And the guest list. The guest list. Well, Mark will be there, for sure. And he will be fun, I promise. He’ll probably be grilling something yummy with a beer in his hand.

There will be my new favorite Twitter friend, a lovely woman who I’m sure will bring trifle, and who isn’t afraid to ask those dangerous questions, who isn’t afraid to laugh at herself. There will be my second favorite Twitter friend, another gorgeous beauty who somehow makes cake seem incredibly erotic and doesn’t hide the fact that she has those kids to deal with.

And my flirty friend, the southerner, who seems to be hiding something powerful behind in-your-face tales of raw sex. I think I might also toss an invite to that self-proclaimed cheating whore who seems so fulfilled by her secret life. And maybe that hottie who’s light years beyond me. We’ll see.

Of course I’ll throw in some real life friends, because in fantasyland I can do whatever I want. And, you know, the real Jenna. She’s cool.

And you. Wanna come? You can pick my outfit if Mark doesn’t beat you to it. I’ll sit by you and you can make me laugh the whole time. I know you can do it, and that everyone else will be laughing too.

Each of you should invite a couple of others. I want this to be big. We’ll all be lounging, touching lightly, being sexy but not attracting-attention showy. This is a pre-party. One of you will have to plan the after-party.

It’s going to be so fucking hot.

Thanks for inviting me to participate in Party week, Marie Rebelle. You are, of course, on my guest list.

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