Hello friends! We are well into summer now with hot humid nights and hotter more humid days. I hope you’re all keeping cool and getting some downtime to enjoy yourselves.

A few weeks back I wrote an essay for Rachel Kramer Bussel about what it was like writing about sex under a pen name. It dives into how it was both a freeing experience and a limiting one.

On a personal note, it’s also the first essay/article I’ve had published with my given name, which was an interesting and complicated decision to make. It feels like a big jump but also a good one, and I’m grateful for Rachel for giving me the opportunity.

The essay went live today, and I thought you might enjoy giving it a read, along with a slew of other fantastic essays by some brilliant writers.

Open Secrets

Am I My Pen Name?

“Hey, are you Guy?” was never a question I felt comfortable answering. The obvious response was yes. Especially when I was currently at a book event, where I had been on stage reading something I wrote and published under my pen name, Guy New York. Yet my response was typically along the lines of, “Yes, that’s me, but please call me Ben…

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3 years ago · 1 like · 1 comment · Ben Goodwin

Otherwise, I’m still working through what my future as a writer might look like, along with making some career decisions of a more general nature. It’s not a fast process, but it has been an in-depth one, and I’m making the space to enjoy it and recognize it as a huge privilege.

I’m also making slow headway on my novel, The Oyster Queen, but it’s still moving and that’s what is important. I’m otherwise journaling and occasionally trying to find my new/ish voice as I dip my toe back into writing about sex, sexuality, and my messy little town of NYC.

Best to you all and happy summer!

Ben

It’s not the reason I retried Guy New York, but it’s the one my mind wants to focus on. If I was more financially successful then maybe I’d have the energy and the will to keep going. That’s the story I hear on repeat if I don’t remind myself that I don’t have to go there. 

There’s a long string of things I might have done (in this big silly head of mine) that would have made things better. I could have pitched more stories and essays. I could have worked harder to start teaching workshops on writing erotica, and if I had stuck with it, I might have broken through on something like Medium and started earning serous money. 

And yet none of that would have changed the reality that I wasn’t happy. 

Years ago, in a previous relationship, I dealt with a similar thing. I was depressed and down and nothing felt good or right with me or with us. I had a thousand reasons to explain why I was broken, and I listed them again and again. At least to myself (and let’s face it, probably my therapist too). 

And then I had the simple epiphany that is still often so elusive. I wasn’t depressed. Not especially. 

But I was deeply and profoundly unhappy.

In some ways this shift is a whole lot easier.

For one there was no furniture to divide. And secondly, it’s been far easier to look back at this whole Guy New York thing and feel proud of what I did even if it’s no longer what I need moving forward. I might learn something from that when I think back on that relationship but that’s neither here nor there.

If I have a point (I suppose I should have one, shouldn’t I?) it’s that unhappiness is a damn great reason for giving up. It’s often a sign that something is wrong, isn’t working, and is no longer satisfying. And while it’s easy to get caught up in the sunken cost fallacy (since we’ve come this far we might as well keep going) we know from the phrase that it is, in fact, a fallacy. 

The truth is simpler. We’ve come this far. And what a journey it’s been! But we’re no longer heading in the same direction, so moving forward and keep on keeping on ain’t what we need to do. 

I haven’t magically discovered “what’s next” during the past three weeks. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t expect to. But I have gone through a thousand scenarios in my head and I’ve let myself be pulled along by curiosity rather than fear. When you don’t know what you want, curiosity is a great place to begin. And on a good day, I can follow it and let myself imagine being somewhere new doing something new without the anxiety that comes from trying to figure out how to get there. 

Whether or not I’ve given up or moved on isn’t all that important any more. A big part of my life has ended and now it’s time for a new installment.

And if I have to keep reminding myself that there’s nothing wrong with giving up in order to be okay with where I am now, then that’s okay too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from years or meditation and mindfulness practice, it’s that I have very little control over the thoughts that pop into my head. But if I pay close enough attention, I can respond to them with compassion and a strongly worded thanks but no thanks.

In the meantime, I have a hammock and the weather is getting nice. And that’s a great place to be begin.

I hope you’re all doing well and also finding some peace amid the frantic pace of life.

- Ben

Hello friends! It’s been a tumultuous week as I’ve worked to deconstruct some of my writing infrastructure while I change things up. Mostly it’s been about making sure I don’t allow new subscriptions to things where I’m no longer posting and taking down links that go to the wrong places.

But I have also spent a small amount of time looking at the few homes I’ve built along the way that have the name Ben on them.

The first one is that I have a Medium profile with a few pieces of non-erotic fiction. It’s not especially full, but I like the stories I’ve shared there and if I find that I’m feeling the need to write short things in the coming weeks, that’s where I’ll put them.

https://medium.com/@bengoodwin is the link. I just posted a new little essay about the creative and destructive forces at play when I sit down to write.

Other than that, I have a more basic author site up with links to the three novels I’ve published under my name, The Island on the Edge of Normal, The Beertown Twins, and Portraits of Alice.

It’s a cute little site which also showcases some of my design and branding work from my pre-Guy life.

If this is a third act, then let’s hope it’s at least a five act play.

You can find that one here: www.btgoodwin.com

Otherwise, things are slowing down as I log off tumblr, sign out of Patreon, and generally give myself room to discover what comes next.

It’s a bright sunny Monday in Brooklyn and the clover is coming up in the backyard thanks to the copious rain over the weekend. I’m going to close the laptop, pick up my camera, and take a long walk to see if I can find a new feeling of curiosity that might lead me down a road I’ve not taken before.

Best,

Ben

Dramatic, right? Well, I suppose it is.

I don’t especially feel like I’ve been hiding or like I’m not being myself, but there’s something about having a persona, even if it’s simply a pen name, that’s exhausting and possibly should have a time limit––an expiration date if you will. 

And I’ve come to the realization that I’ve reached a point where I have done what I set out to do.

I’ve gone as far as I can with this project that started as a joke and quickly became deeply personal. And if I’m being honest, Guy no longer feels like me. It’s become more and more difficult to step into those shoes, and when I look in the mirror I see someone else. 

There is a temptation to burn it all down: delete my Patreon, my Substack, Medium, Tumblr, Twitter (which they sort of did for me) and go on my way with something akin to a blank slate. I can see an expansive future that’s cloudy and uncertain but without the weight of the past nipping at my heels. 

I suspect I’ll find myself in between hanging on and scorched earth.

But I don’t know what that future will look like. 

I don’t know what I’d like to do and that’s one of the things that’s been holding me back from doing anything. But if I lean into that uncertainty with more than a touch of curiosity it feels likely that I’ll land somewhere. 

Hopefully somewhere that feels more like home.

That desire for total destruction is the same desire to shave my head. It’s the desire to go out for a drink and never come home and the urge to change my appearance and pretend to be someone else. Maybe be someone else. 

The question is, what does it mean to stop? Is it a failure or an end and does the difference matter?

I do know that I feel a profound need to let go.

And a tremendous fear about giving up. 

The truth is, I no longer am Guy New York, so much as I ever was. And I haven’t been for a very long time. My interest in writing about sex has waned as well to the point where I feel as if I’m pulling teeth more often than enjoying myself. And that’s no way to work or to live.

I feel a bit sick to my stomach. I won’t lie about that.

I do wish I had somewhere to jump. Or better yet a place to land. But I have this nagging suspicion (born from years of inactivity) that I might have to let go before knowing where I’ll end up. 

And that’s terrifying. 

What if I want to go back? What if for someone reason my books start to take off? What if something happens and I need the few bucks a month more than the change of pace? 

Fuck, there are too many what if’s and I know they’re not coming from me. Not really.

Grief is going to have to be the first step. I don’t think there’s another way to go. There’s no way around grief, I’ve learned that the hard way, so I have to go straight through.

 If I skip it, it won’t take.

If you don’t grieve you can’t let go. And letting go is both hard and necessary. So I have to be a little sad for what was, while also celebrating it. Let’s face it, have you ever been to a funeral where you didn’t laugh a few times? Where you didn’t smile at some fond memories and felt more than a touch of gratitude for what you had?

Right now what this looks like is I’m logging out of Tumblr and no longer posting there. I paused my Patreon account so nobody gets billed and I’ll do that for Substack as well.  Medium is also permanently on pause. My twitter got hacked and I don’t have access to it anyway, so I guess Elon did that part for me. 

I am leaving my author site up, and I’m not taking my books off of Amazon or any of the other online retailers. My instagram never quite felt like Guy anyway, so I’m still Ben there. But just Ben (actually @beninnewyork). I don’t think I need to destroy to move on, but I do need to let it be in the past. 

I suppose an updated bio might be necessary:

Guy New York was a prolific author of erotic stories and novels between 2009 and 2023. He is no longer publishing new work.

My final worry and concern is about you. At the end of the day I don’t want to let you down. And I’m so grateful for all the love and support you’ve shown me. 

Substack is a complicated model when it comes to taking a break or moving on. There’s no way to easily manage this (from a logistics and billing perspective) and there’s no good time to say goodbye.

But fear of disappointment isn’t a good reason to stay still. And I think we can figure out the details.

So that’s all there is.

Once I send this letter out I’ll pause my paid subscriptions so nobody gets charged going forward. I’ll leave my old stories up if you’d like to dig through the archives, but it will be a static site now with a view that only looks back.

If something new and exciting comes along I’ll drop back in here and send out a note, so feel free to stay on the list if you feel so inspired. But no pressure. The last thing I want to do is think of a mailing list as a commodity. 

I don’t know what’s next. 

I don’t imagine I’ll stop writing, and I’m sure I’ll keep taking photos and rambling about New York one way or another. But right now I need to say goodbye and close the door so the next one can open.

Thanks for all your love, support, and most importantly your willingness to share and be a part of something that often felt vulnerable as it touched upon many of our fears and desires.

It’s been a fun ride.

Lots of love,

Guy

ps

If you have logistic questions or billing concerns feel free to respond to this email and I’ll do my best to help out.

Late one night, the East River far below and the overbuilt Goliath beneath their feet, they fucked on the Brooklyn Bridge to say goodbye. She left one way and he the other, a kiss still wet on their lips as they pulled out their phones to delete numbers.

Early one morning they climbed from her roof up the ladder, through the hatch, and into the old water tower which had for years been dry. He lay on his back, propped up in the dark by things he couldn’t make out as she straddled him. It took her long moments of whispering dirty things for him to get hard, but when she finally took him inside her the sounds echoed for hours, shaking the walls and rattling the stairs.

It was only with strangers that she was unafraid. She led the last one down beneath the arch and into the shadows with a finger on his lips. Central Park filled with the sounds of pigeons fighting over a half finished pretzel. His rough hands lifted her skirt, and when she turned and bent forward he was inside her in seconds. Silent men were the only safe ones.

The music was far too loud, so they slipped out onto the street, leaving the pounding rhythm behind them. Two scratchy faces found each other on the corner quickly, but kissing here was different than hidden in the whirling crowd. Two shy eyes looked down, and one strong hand was tentative. Fingers caressed hardening skin through tight jeans, and someone laughed in relief.

Every Friday evening she finds herself sitting at his desk after he leaves for the country. She closes the door and looks out the window onto the streets far below wondering what it would be like to sit there every day. Dreaming of a new apartment, a new wardrobe, and new friends, she lifts her skirt with one hand as the other falls between her thighs. She closes her eyes.

When he needs to come he imagines it’s him and not her kneeling on the floor. The sting is on his cheek, the marks on his ass, and the longing to please and to give slips from his mouth in well-practiced words. He reaches down and touches her hair gently, waking from his dream. Good girl, he whispers with a sigh.

The only thing left in the apartment is the bed, and they fuck on it for hours. For the first time in five years, they don’t worry about the neighbors or the dents the frame is making on the wall with each strong thrust. They scream and they laugh, wondering why it took so much work to get back to such a simple place.

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Anyway, I started a brief conversation around content moderation and Substack’s liberal (some say too liberal) stance on it.

If you feel like jumping in or otherwise having quick little chats, it feels like the right place to do it.

Notes is a new space on Substack for us to share links, short posts, quotes, photos, and more. I plan to use it for things that don’t fit in the newsletter, like work-in-progress or quick questions.

Go to Notes

How to join

Head to substack.com/notes or find the “Notes” tab in the Substack app. As a subscriber to Quickies New York, you’ll automatically see my notes. Feel free to like, reply, or share them around!

You can also share notes of your own. I hope this becomes a space where every reader of Quickies New York can share thoughts, ideas, and interesting quotes from the things we're reading on Substack and beyond.

If you encounter any issues, you can always refer to the Notes FAQ for assistance. Looking forward to seeing you there!

Go to Notes

It's a situation where words will ruin it. But I smile at her, and she winks at me …

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Tomorrow morning I’m heading up to Montreal for a quick getaway with my darling wife, and I am so damn excited I don’t have words for it. It’s a city I’ve never been too, and the trip feels like a great chance to stretch those travel muscles I haven’t used in a long time.

I’ve recently been upping my game over on OF where I’m trying to find a combination of silly, sexy, and daddy. The other day I posted these two pics of “daddy doing some yard work.”

I also realized that I have a somewhat diverse following over there (as well as here) so I updated my pinned post about chatting with me to make it super clear that I am thrilled to use whatever language works for you and your body. It reads:

“All you lovely folks have a wide variety of gender expressions, pronouns, orientations, etc. which I love and adore. I try to keep my posts fairly gender neutral, at least when talking about someone who isn't me.

That said, if you want to hear what I'd do to your cock, your pussy, your girl dick, your boy clit, your bussy, your ass, or anything else that turns you on and feels like you, I'm more than happy to chat. Don't be shy.”

My recent commitment to hitting the gym three times a week has been a big success when it comes to improving my mental health, but a side dose of feeling myself doesn’t hurt either. Hence the shift to taking and sharing more pictures of your truly.

I also recently published a collection of short stories (many from this newsletter) which I aggressively titled Erotica for Discerning Perverts. If you’re the sort of person who likes to have some smut on their Kindle as a backup for sexy emergencies, it’s only $2.99 on Amazon right now.

Aside from all of that, I’m still pumping away over on Medium (mostly hotwife stuff which does better than anything else there) along with writing new short stories every week for this iteration of QNY.

My not-so-secret Katie Sweet pen-name is making some waves on Medium as well with her completely over-the-top stories of fucking pretty much everyone you can imagine while her doting husband watches and encourages her.

It’s a mess, but it’s a fun mess which also happens to bring in some $.

I’m otherwise trying to keep most of my Guy New York writing right here, usually still going out late at night.

In that spirit, I have a new story tonight for what I’m calling my fancy (read, paid) subscribers about making out with a girl in the back of a car surrounded by friends. Things escalate when I start to fall for her and she just wants a quick fuck before heading off to school.

It’s fun, filthy, and has enough nostalgic emotionality to it to make my heart flutter. I hope you enjoy it too. If you want to up your subscription, here’s a link for a discount:

Get 20% off for 1 year

Thanks again for signing up, for reading my stories, and for supporting me both financially and emotionally by boosting my ego with every like and nice comment. It’s very much appreciated.

Best to you all, and I’ll see you when I’m back in the saddle next Monday!

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Violence without anger is its own sort of aphrodisiac.

While it can be fun to scold, threaten and cajole in a deliciously consensual scene, leaving the emotions behind, or exchanging them for new ones, can be enjoyable in a different way.

On this occasion, she smiled in the sun while stretching her arms along the pool's edge. The pool in question was on a roof overlooking downtown Manhattan, and the girl in question was an old friend who had become single for the first time in ten years.

We had not spent the time in between sneaking off for clandestine meetups and illicit affairs. But we did manage to build enough sexual tension over the years that our hesitation to break it felt as much like foreplay as any more overt signs of attraction.

"We can do anything," she said, kicking her feet in the warm water. “For the first time, we can do whatever we like.”

"Maybe it's too late. Sure, we're allowed to now, but don't you think some of our attraction has been based purely on the fact that we weren't supposed to want each other? I mean, I could slap your pretty face, and you could spit on me, but would we enjoy it?"

"You're probably right," she said, raising her hands and untying the back of her bikini top before letting it fall into the water. “After all this time, there's just no point. Even if you do know precisely what I was missing in my marriage. And even if I've thought about your hands on my throat a hundred times."

It was a dick move on her part. Completely unfair I you ask me. I had never seen her without a shirt, let alone wet and glistening in the sun.

Still, I suspect it had the intended effect. I was hard, my brain was no longer working at full capacity, and every cruel little fantasy she had cautiously shared over the years invaded what few cells were still working.

"How long before someone else comes up to the roof?" I asked, my voice deep and shallow as I approached her. "I mean, how many terrible things do you think I could do to you before someone stopped me?"

"No, you're right, it's too late," she said, turning to look out over the city, leaving me with a perfect view of her enviable ass. "Besides, you're not as brutish as you used to be. I can no longer imagine you having the nerve to take me by force, no matter how much you know I want it."

"I may have grown too nice in my old age," I whispered, stepping behind her and slowly wrapping my large hand around her throat in a soft grip. She froze at my touch, and I could feel her heart skip a beat.

"Far too nice. And too gentle as well." Her voice was a coarse whisper.

"Such a shame," I said as I squeezed harder until she gasped for breath. When I pressed against her ass, she whimpered, and as I pushed her bikini bottoms down, she leaned forward and closed her eyes.

"I want you to hurt me so badly," she moaned. "Don't I deserve it after all these years?"

"You deserve everything," I said, moving my hand from her throat to her hair. I tightened my grip until she couldn't move her head, and once more, she held still, barely breathing. "But deserving doesn't mean anything. For example, do I deserve to fuck you? Do I deserve to fuck you right here, right now, simply because you've teased me for so long? Of course not. Consent doesn't work that way."

"I don't want consent," she whispered, pushing against me as I pressed my now-freed cock between the bare cheeks of her ass. "I don't want to say yes, let alone ask for it nicely. You're bigger than me. And besides, my husband was the nice one."

"The truth is," I began as I lifted her enough to get the head of my cock inside her. "The truth is, it doesn't matter. You've known I was going to fuck you since the day we met. It's been inevitable for far too long now."

"Plenty of inevitable things never happen," she sighed as I slowly began to push inside her below the water's surface. I looked down, watched myself slide into her, then pushed her head down with one hand and grabbed her ass with the other. I tightened my grip on her hair, squeezing hard both high and low, and then I fucked her hard.

"I want to hurt you more than I can in public, but that's no excuse to wait."

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From across the rooftop, our motion was barely perceptible. It was a tightened fist or strong fingers that did the moving. It was my cock pulsing within her and her thighs and cunt clenching around me that formed our exertion. Our sex was confined and dense like a dying star, and I pressed in as she pushed out. I held her considerable strength in check by sheer force of will and muscle, and I swear the water around us began to boil.

"You can't hurt me more than I want you to hurt me."

Everything tightened as her words spurred us both on, and somehow, we grew smaller as we fucked.

"And you can't fight me as hard as I want you to fight."

She bit her hand as I pulled her head back, and when I looked into her eyes, I saw the universe contracting and expanding in an endless cycle of violence.

We kissed for the very first time in the shallow end of the pool.

My cock was deep inside her, her hair was a knot in my fist, and my fingers and nails dug into her flesh as she pressed outward with arms and legs as hard as she could. My ankle hooked around hers, holding her still, and the weight of my body pressed her against the wall leaving her pinned and struggling.

But her kiss!

She tasted of chlorine and gin and a love so old it was deliciously familiar. I released her hair, and she unclenched her thighs; I caressed her shoulder, and she smiled in the sun. We kissed harder and with more passion and lust than we had fucked, and all that motion and all that violence transferred to our lips and hearts with a release that was as unfamiliar as it was needed.

"I want to come for you," she whispered, turning to face me before guiding me back inside her as she kissed me again. I pinned her to the edge of the pool, her arms around my neck as we began to make waves for the first time all afternoon. I devoured her lips and tongue as I thrust inside her, and years of tension and denial finally left our bodies as she came around me, and I came within her.

Our two aching souls did something else that I didn't understand and probably never will.

It was long minutes that I held her to me. For hours, I stayed inside her as she laughed and bit my neck, and it was days and weeks that I brushed her hair with wrinkled fingers and kissed her eyes and nose a thousand times.

"Do you want to go back to my room?" She asked me months later. "And maybe we can do it all again."

"But louder?" I asked as I finally released her. She nodded as we awkwardly fumbled with our bathing suits.

"Much louder," she whispered. "And then, who knows? Maybe we'll realize it is too late after all."

"And maybe it will be too late for a very long time."

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Her sense of humor was so dry it vacillated between boring and absurd. On a good day, I’d follow along, and she’d pat me on the small of my back (about as high as she could reach) and laugh with me.

But the more we hung out, the more her jokes flirted around sex. Especially when her boyfriend was in the room.

“He thinks I’m a huge slut just because I slept with two of his friends. Crazy, right?”

I left that one alone.

“Do you think you’re strong enough to carry me with my legs around your waist if we were fucking? You’d be my little pony.”

“Maybe I could wear you like a feedbag,” I said to that one, and she slapped me hard and laughed before pouring herself another glass of wine. Timmothy, the boyfriend, laughed as well, which only confused me more.

But then, on a Sunday afternoon in their living room, I decided that if she were bluffing, I would call it. They had a few friends over, no more than a dozen, and we were drinking mimosas and Negronis and pretending nobody had to work the next day.

Anya stepped close to me and raised her glass in a toast with her familiar conspiratorial wink.

“What do you think Timmothy would do if he walked into the bathroom to find you bending me over the sink?”

“Maybe he’s into that,” I said with a shrug. And then, because I wasn’t going to back down, I stepped it up. “Plenty of guys like watching me fuck their girlfriends.”

“That’s super hot,” she said in what I assumed was her honest voice. “Maybe we should test it out.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” I growled under my breath. The truth was, I wanted to do terrible things to her, and the fact that I was twice her size only made my fantasies worse.

“Well, where’s the fun in that, handsome?”

I shrugged again and held my arm out towards the bathroom door. She winked at me and then sauntered on in, sparing a glance towards Timmothy as she stepped into the dimly lit room.

The single candle on top of the commode smelled of honeysuckle.

I shut the door and stepped so close to her I could taste her hair. When I spun her around so her back was to me, she gasped but didn’t laugh it all off as a joke. Instead, she leaned forward and placed both hands on the porcelain sink.

“Just like this, right? How hilarious would that be?”

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Fucking in Manhattan still feels more natural to me than Brooklyn.

I've lived here for more than eight years now, and I've had plenty of sex in Brooklyn. But somehow, when I think of parks, bar bathrooms, fire escapes, and a dozen other places I've fucked, that big island always comes to mind.

But I'm going to dig into Brooklyn's bones and find a glimmer of something desperate to be played with. Maybe it's a quiet spot in Prospect Park (let's face it, it's less busy than Central Park), or possibly it's a bar I haven't yet discovered that gives off that 'we don't care if you mess around in here,' vibe that I'm missing.

If it's blood we want, I can tell you a quick story.

The details don't matter all that much, but I was at her place (in Brooklyn, of course), and she was showing me videos of the sex she just had. She knelt on her living room floor and sucked my cock while I watched her get fucked on camera by a cock so pretty it should have a flower named after it.

"He came in me six times in two days," she whispered before climbing onto my lap. We still had our clothes on, and while we had fucked before, that wasn't what we were doing then. I got a hand in her jeans though, and I pushed two fingers inside her as she told me how hard they fucked, and we kissed and moaned and confessed more sins to one another in her empty apartment, free of prying eyes.

Only when we collected ourselves did I realize I had blood on my pants. All that unprotected weekend sex was a result of good timing when it came to her period, and our filthy finger fucking, tongue-kissing, cock-sucking, dirty-talking evening resulted in my linen pants needing a good scrub.

We laughed, and I promised it didn't matter (later that night, my wife and her girlfriend helped me scrub off the blood). We drank more wine before I left, and if anything, the memory is sweet and silly more than anything else.

But a touch of blood doesn't make me sink into Brooklyn the way I need to. It doesn't crack open the city streets and let me drop through the layers of subway tunnels, aqueducts, and power lines until I find its grotesque beating heart.

There have been other times and other nights. I’ve been to sex parties, spanking parties, and full-blown orgies that are more interesting to look back on than they were to walk through. Some stand out beautifully and erotically, and I grasp onto them with joy and surrender.

But still, I have yet to find my way home.

It doesn't help that half the Manhattan bars where I used to make out have been replaced by burger joints or upscale grocery stores. Just because the parks have too lights too bright to get away with sinning doesn't make me less inclined to remember it the way it was.

The other night, however, I met a bartender with lips so full I wanted to kiss him rather than sip my drink, and as spring comes around, there are hints of thighs and tummies on every city block. Maybe the buildings are closer to the ground and the sidewalks less choked with tourists, but Brooklyn is home, and one of these days, I'll start to drag it into my world rather than the other way around.

I'll turn a street corner or walk into a dim barroom, and it will hit me all at once. Sex, fire, and whiskey will blend into something more potent than nostalgia, and I'll lift my head up and smile.

I'm Guy Fucking New York, and this borough, too, is my playground.

And God knows I'm gonna play

.

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(I got a message the other day from someone talking about how while they’re mostly straight, they have a fantasy of tasting Piper on my cock. It wasn’t completely out of the blue and I took it in stride. And then got inspired. Hope you enjoy!)

Kitty decided that for the entire month, I wasn’t allowed to taste her pussy. Not by ourselves, not after her boyfriend came in her, and not even a taste off her fingers after I watched her come.

It was a hot game, and I loved the denial. If she intended to make me frantically dream of tasting her perfect cunt, she succeeded. For days and weeks, it was all I thought about, and I became consumed by the memory of her thighs around my head as I buried my mouth between her legs.

And then, one afternoon, while I was at Lillie’s having a drink, I got the text. Her new boy toy was called Nathan, and he was handsome and sweet and loved to fuck her hard. He worked nights as a bartender, so it was common for him to stop by during the day, bend her over her desk, and fuck her brains out until both of them came.

“Kitty asked me to send you this, buddy.”

I didn’t know his number, but still, I knew exactly who it was. And not just because the picture attached showed my wife’s pussy stretched around his fat cock. Nathan was always willing to share, and Kitty used his generosity to torture me in delightful ways.

“Damn, she came the second I was in her. She must have been dying for it.”

A short video followed, and I watched (with the sound off) from my seat at the bar as Nathan fucked my wife on our dining room table. They typically spend about an hour together before she has to get back to work, and he heads off to the bar. When I got home, she’d most likely make me kneel on the floor and watch her touch herself with his cum dripping from her freshly-fucked hole.

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But two Manhattans in had my brain working in overdrive. It was definitely hot, and I was hard at the bar with nothing to do about it. But as I watched the video over and over again, a thought formed in my head that wouldn’t let me go.

“Looks like you’re having fun!” I typed quickly so I couldn’t change my mind. “Can you stop by Lillie’s on your way out? I can meet you around the corner by the taco truck.”

I didn’t expect a response. The man was deep into my wife, and the thought of him texting me in the middle of fucking was silly. But once I moved onto my third drink and the hour wound down, I kept my phone in my line of sight.

And sure enough, Nathan wrote back a quick note at precisely four-thirty saying he’d see me soon. Oh, and also that he dumped three loads into her, and it totally sucked that I wasn’t allowed to eat her out because how hot would that be?

As I said. He was a sweetheart.

Which hopefully would play right into my hands.

I downed my third drink, paid my tab, and walked out to the side of the bar, where a narrow alley cut between the buildings. I tried not to hyperventilate as I waited, but Nathan’s smiling face soon showed up with the rest of him behind it.

He grabbed me in a big bear hug, put me down, and patted me on the shoulder.

“What’s up, man? Good to see you. Kitty was extra horny today. Whatever you two are doing this month seems to be working.”

“Listen, man; you know the deal. I can’t go down on her, no matter what, but that’s not what I care about now.”

“Sure, that sounds right,” he said, nodding as he kept up. Nathan is handsome, hung, and sweet but not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

“You see, that video you sent was super hot. I always love watching Kitty fuck, but can I admit something to you?”

I took him by the arm and led him a few steps into the darkened alley. He followed along with an enthusiastic nod. I could tell him anything!

“Your dick looked amazing. She’s hot and looked good too, but watching that video, all I could focus on was your beautiful cock. And I gotta say, you got my mouth watering.”

“Oh really?” he said, teasing me as he leaned against the wall. If ever there was a service top, it was Nathan, and right now, I loved him for it. “This little thing?”

He grabbed his cock through his jeans as I nodded and licked my lips. I could see him growing hard as he winked at me, only half joking.

“There’s nothing little about it,” I said, stepping closer before reaching down and cupping him in one hand. “It’s big, and it’s beautiful, and I’d do anything to suck you off.”

“Fuck, that’s hot. I just fucked your wife, and now I get to fuck you too? This whole hotwife thing is working for me.”

He looked around cautiously as he undid his jeans, and I was so eager it was embarrassing. I knelt on the pavement and looked up, watching him pull himself free. He was thick and hard, and as I leaned in closer, I finally found what I was looking for.

His cock was still glistening with the telltale signs of my wife’s excitement, and I could smell her on him from a mile away. I reached up, took him in my hand, and then winked again.

“You’re so hot,” I moaned before I leaned in, opened my mouth, and then tasted my wife’s pussy on his fat cock.

I was ravenous as I sucked him, and he didn’t seem to mind. I licked up and down his shaft, desperate for every drop of her, and the only thing better than that taste was how fucking clever I was. I swirled my tongue around his head, getting all that I could as I jerked him off with one hand.

“Fuck, dude, you’re gonna make me come almost as quickly as your wife did. You suck cock good!”

“Do it, handsome. Give me everything you have.”

Nathan leaned back, grabbed my hair in a fist, and started thrusting into my mouth on a mission. I deep-throated him, still loving every second of it, but at the last moment, I pulled back and let him cum all over my hands, face, and neck. I looked up, laughing like it was the best thing in the world. 

Nathan didn’t need to know that there was no way in hell I would ruin the bit of heaven that remained on my tongue.

He grunted as he came, and I didn’t care that I looked like a total mess. The only thing that mattered was that I could still taste my wife’s pussy — my mouth was filled with it — and she was none the wiser. Nathan would go off to work, and I’d go home and dutifully watch her get off as she told me how hard he fucked her. And foor the first time in weeks, I’d have a whisper of relief.

I wiped myself off as best I could with a bar napkin I had snatched just for that reason. Nathan helped me up, thanked me for the blowie, and walked me back into the light. I slapped him on the back, said thank you, and then turned to head home with love in my heart and pussy on my lips.

“Oh, dude, just one more thing,” he said. I turned to see his smiling face and realized in that second that maybe, I had underestimated his intelligence.

“What’s up?”

“You know I’m gonna have to tell Kitty about this, right? I mean, it was hot and all, but she’s gotta know. But hey, don’t worry, man. No regrets! Cool cool, see ya later.”

Before I could open my mouth to voice a hint of protest, he turned on his heels and vanished down the sidewalk.

I turned, shrugged, and took a deep breath. 

Well, so much for my cleverness. Whatever Kitty would do when she heard, it would most likely be deliciously cruel. I licked my holy lips, put one foot in front of the other, and headed home to face the music.

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Heather sat on my lap in the back of the Double Down Saloon with a vodka and Red Bull in her hand. She wore her old school uniform skirt, and her hair was up in pigtails. Her t-shirt was torn to shreds, barely covered her small tits, and had "Cherry" written on it with a pink heart. 

I knew I was in trouble the second she walked in, but it was the sort of mess I hadn't felt since the pandemic started. When she sat down on my lap with her drink in hand, I ran a hand up her thigh because why the fuck not? If we had ever kissed, I didn't remember it, but when you plop your cute ass on my lap dressed like that, I assume it's an invitation. 

"Daddy, please!" she said, mockingly pushing my hand away. "Someone might see us."

"I don't know what the hell has gotten into you, but I like it," I said, pulling the front of her shirt out enough for me to peer down it and glimpse her bare breasts. 

"Daddy, don't be gross!" she said, slapping me playfully. 

"Me? Gross? Don't be absurd. What would I want with a little girl like you anyway?"

"You love it," she whispered, standing up and bending over me, ensuring everyone else in the bar got a nice view of whatever she wore under that tiny plaid sacrament she pretended was a skirt.

"I'm not complaining," I said, standing up beside her. I loomed as best I could, holding my whiskey in one hand as I continued to look down her shirt. "But seriously, kid, what's going on? I'm happy to get drunk on a Tuesday with an old friend dressed like a fifteen-year-old, but what's the deal?"

Heather crossed her arms and looked at me as if she might tear me open, read me, and sew me back up. I could see the gears working in her pretty head, and I wasn't sure if I should drag her into the bathroom or attempt an intervention. 

"You're the grossest guy I know," she finally said. She bit her lip and twirled her skirt as I gawked at her, unable to look away. "I'm feeling creepy, and my partners are too nice for this side of Heather. You are a creep, aren't you?"

She raised an eyebrow (and the hem of her skirt) as she said it, and I pulled her to me with both hands on the backs of her thighs. She stumbled into me as I reached up and cupped her ass, realizing quickly she had chosen to wear nothing under her skirt. 

How they let her get away with it in high school was not something I needed to contemplate. 

"What do you think, Babygirl? Who else would sneak a kid like you into a dive bar just to stick a hand up your skirt?"

"Fuck," she muttered as I cautiously slid one hand up the front of her thigh on the inside. When my hand brushed the lips of her cunt, she bit her lip again, and I was dangerously close to coming in my pants. 

"Okay, you fuckers, it's eight. Mandy didn't check IDs, but I'm not fucking around."

Dan, the bouncer, knew me. A little. But that wasn't necessarily a good thing. My reputation at the Double Down wasn't exactly gentile. But I shrugged as he came closer because, at the end of the day, it didn't fucker matter. Heather was twenty-six, even if she looked half that. 

I showed him my license, and he scanned it before returning it. Heather reached into her knee-high sock and pulled out hers as well. She gave me a quick look before handing it to him. I shook my head and tried to pull her back to me when Dan grabbed her arm. 

"Are you fucking kidding me? Montana? This doesn't even look real. Also, it says you turn twenty-one in two weeks, so even if it was real, you sure as fuck aren't drinking here."

"It's real; I swear, mister. It's just a typo. I'm almost twenty-two, I promise."

"Jesus Fuck," he said as I tried to close my mouth without success. What the hell was going on? "Come on, kid, how old are you?"

Heather looked at me, then turned back to him as she crossed her arms, pushing up her tits. She leaned in, giving him a nice view before fluttering her eyelashes. 

"I just turned sixteen," she said guiltily. 

"Mothefucker," Dan said, grabbing me as well. "You two are getting the hell out of here now. And you, what the hell is wrong with you? Bringing a fucking minor in here and feeling her up like a fucking perv? Jesus Christ."

Without ceremony, Heather and I were hauled out the front door and tossed onto the sidewalk of Avenue A like the two biggest degenerates in the East Village. I shook him off me as I stood up, but Heather gave him the finger before laughing like a goddamn loon. 

"What the fuck, Heather?" I asked before she jumped me. I caught her in my arms, my hands under her ass once more as she wrapped her legs around me. When she kissed me full on the mouth though, I stopped caring altogether.

Instead, I kissed her back, pushed her against the wall of the building next door, and then put a hand on her throat.

"You are a dirty little girl. Why the hell do you have a fake ID that says you're younger than you are? And a bad one at that."

"You love it," she said, reaching down and gripping my hard cock in one hand. "Besides, it was fun, wasn't it? He was mad at me. But so disappointed in you."

"You are in so much trouble," I said, putting her down but not letting her go. I grabbed her wrist tightly and nearly dragged her around the corner to Second St, where I found a few dark steps leading to the basement door of a dark building. The second the shadows found us, I had my hand back on her throat as my other moved between her legs.

"Please, Daddy, I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd find out!" she moaned as I fingered her roughly. 

"You don't deserve to call me Daddy, playing a trick like that. Now I can't go back there because they think I'm fucking your slutty little sixteen-year-old cunt."

"Please, I thought it was a good fake! I did! I'm twenty, I promise; please don't, mister."

Heather's lips were red and wet as I felt her soak my hand, and I was so wrapped up in our little story that nothing else mattered. I kissed her hard as I freed my cock, and she fell back against the brick wall with a smile that told me everything. 

She watched me stroke myself as she licked her lips, and with a shy smile, she lifted her skirt and touched herself as well. 

"I'm sorry, Daddy; I didn't mean to be bad. Please don't fuck me."

"Turn around," I growled, falling on her like a hungry dog. I turned her as I lifted her skirt, and the city burned behind us with a pulse that said nothing. I gripped her ass, pulling one cheek to the side as I stared at her cunt in the darkness. 

And then, as she begged me not to, I rubbed against her, lifted her just right, and slammed my hard cock into her willing body. 

"Oh fuck," she cried, barely trying to muffle her voice. "Don't stop, Daddy, please don't stop."

I fucked her hard and fast until she was on her toes, braced against the wall with my hands on her hips. I lifted her lithe body and buried myself within her, giving her every bit of filthy anger I had in me. 

"You are such a teasing little slut," I said, slamming into her again and again. "But Daddy's going to make sure you know what happens to little girls who tease."

"Oh shit, yes," Heather said, one hand now snaked between her legs as I pounded her. As I felt the tension build up within me, she turned just enough to look at me over her shoulder. 

"Just don't come in me, Daddy. Anything but that."

"Don't be silly," I said, wrapping my arms around her as I felt myself let go. "Where else would Daddy come?"

And with that, I buried myself inside her as she thrust back onto me. She clenched around me, bit her hand, and screamed into her fist as she came with me. I didn't stop fucking her, even after I had come, and she met every bit of fierce perversion I threw at her. 

"So much, Daddy," she moaned, her hand still between her legs. "You came in me so much."

When I finally put her down, Heather turned to face me with a hint of actual shyness in her eyes. She touched my face, stood up on her toes, and kissed me gently on the lips. 

"You're so gross. Thank you."

"Me? You're the one with the fake fake ID."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Yeah, as long as I never want to drink there again."

"Let's go the Library and get fucked up instead."

After we put ourselves back together, I took her hand and realized that a few stiff drinks were exactly what I needed. She skipped across the street to the next bar. The bouncer at the door looked more bored than Dan, but my breath caught in my throat when Heather pulled out her ID. 

"Twenty-six?" he said, raising an eyebrow at her NY license. "Sure, whatever."

He waved us in, and I saddled up to the Library Bar with Heather beside me.

"So you do have a real one."

"Of course I do. Besides, Dan took that one. Can you believe it? How the hell am I supposed to get dirty old men in trouble now?"

"Heather, somehow I don't think that's going to be a fucking problem for you. Now let's get some whiskey in us before I take you over my knee or something."

"Now you're just making fun promises," she said, waving the bartender down. I slapped her ass, sat down, and ordered a round of much-needed drinks. 

Fucking Heather, I thought as she raised her shot glass to mine. I think I'm in love.

If you’d like to read last night’s story for paid subscribers, Safeword Inception, along with all my previous paid letters, here’s a little March discount for you.

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(This story skids along the line of consensual non-consent and actual non-consent, so please be mindful if you choose to read it.)

“Raspberry!” she yelled as my hand came down on her ass for the tenth time. My handprint was beautiful on her reddened skin, and I had no interest in stopping. I gripped her by the hair and tilted her head up…

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"I guess the snow is seasonal, but fuck it if I'm not ready for spring."

"I hate being cold," she said, nodding at me pleasantly. 

I knew it wasn't much of a pick-up line, but I also knew I didn't have to try that hard. When it's twenty degrees out, and the bar is warm and dark, every stranger is a friend, and every smile is a seduction. 

"I'm drinking a Manhattan with a splash of amaro in it. In case you want to warm up."

"I'm drinking a daiquiri pretending I'm somewhere warm, but it's not working. Let me have a sip."

I paused for a moment because, nowadays, sharing a drink with a stranger at the bar feels like an alien habit. But I remembered how common it was, even among dudes drinking dark beer in corner bars, so I slid my glass towards her, and she moved to the seat next to me.

"That is good," she said, drinking half of it in one gulp. "Order me one, and maybe both of us will survive until spring."

I nodded to the bartender, she winked at me, and soon my new friend and I were toasting to sunnier days over strong drinks. 

When she touched my arm, I leaned closer, and when I grazed her hand, she didn't move it. We slid closer and closer to one another while all around us, the other patrons appeared lost in their own worlds.

Our knees touched.

Her hair brushed my face.

She smelled of summer afternoons, and I was warm for the first time in days.

"If you were planning on taking advantage of me after this drink, your plan is totally working," she whispered. She closed her eyes when I brushed a strand of hair behind an ear. 

"You're so fucking beautiful," I said. "But mostly I was hoping I could interest you in some body heat. Not to sound cheesy, it's just fucking cold out."

"I'm not going outside," she said.

For a moment, I thought I had shot my shot and missed, but the expression on her face told a different story. Her hand in my lap didn't hurt either. 

"Well, I'm not in a hurry to leave," I said, touching her knee beneath the hem of her skirt. When I moved it higher, she parted her legs, and we breathed the same air as we teased each other beneath the bar. When she brushed my suddenly hard cock with a fingernail, she smiled.

"Do you think they'd mind if we made out at the bar?"

"Making out is one thing, but they'd need a permit for what I want to do to you."

"And what do you want to do to me?" she asked, firmly rubbing her hand against my bulge. 

I took another sip of my drink before leaning in and taking her hair in my tight fist. I pulled her closer, just hard enough to elicit a sigh, and paced my lips to her ear.

"I want to drag you into the bathroom, bend you over the sink, lift this pretty skirt, and fuck you until I come."

She didn't open her eyes for a long time. Nor did I let go. 

When I finally released my grasp on her, she looked up. 

"What kind of a slut would I be if I let a stranger come in me just like that?"

"Think how warm you'd be," I said.

"So very wrong," she said.

"The sluttiest," I said.

"I'll get up first," she said.

Without another word, she polished off her drink, stood, and walked to the bathroom at the back of the bar. I put a coaster on top of both our drinks, adjusted my erection so I wouldn't make a scene as I got up, and then followed closely behind her. 

We were on each other like ravenous dogs the second I locked the door behind me. I kissed her hard as I pushed her against the sink, and her hands made deft work of my jeans. I shoved her panties down as she bit my neck and stroked my cock, and we never said a word.

When I spun her around, she stood on her tip-toes and bent over. I slid two fingers inside her, tasted them with rapt adoration, and then fucked her for all I was worth. Her sigh when I entered her encouraged me, and soon she rubbed her clit as I pounded her from behind. 

The mirror misted.

The temperature rose.

Her ass turned red in my grip. 

In less than two minutes, I leaned forward, kissed the back of her neck, and came deep inside her. She moaned into her arm, struggling not to make too much noise, and she kept rubbing as I filled her again and again. 

When I pulled out, she sighed but didn't move. I took out my phone, snapped a photo of her gorgeous ass, swollen lips, and cum-stained thighs, and then watched as she stood up. She returned her underwear to its correct position, smiled at me, and then walked out the door like nothing had happened. 

I took my time washing my hands and brushing my hair before I returned to the bar.

She greeted me with a silly grin and two more Manhattans. I kissed her cheek, and she laughed and took my hand. She slapped me away when I kissed her fingers, and I smiled like a love-struck idiot. 

"You two enjoy yourselves?" the bartender asked. 

We froze for a minute, blushed brightly, and nodded our heads. 

"It's the drinks," I said, raising my glass. "They're just too damn good, and it's too damn nice in here to go out in the snow.

She nodded and smiled as she dried a glass. 

"We get a lot of first dates in here, but you two seem to be hitting it off better than most.

Piper looked at me, and I looked back at her before taking her hand in mine. She squeezed it tightly as both of us smiled sheepishly. 

"It's not technically a first date," I confessed.

"Second?" she asked.

"We've been married three years," Piper told her. "It's just so damn cold out, we didn’t want to leave."

"And two blocks is so far to walk in the snow."

"And the drinks are so good."

"And the bathroom so private."

The bartender laughed as we sipped our drinks but didn't toss us out or reprimand us for our lack of discretion. The evening passed quietly with giggles and blushes, and we reveled in the warmth of each other. 

When we finally got up to face the cold (and the two-block walk home), Piper leaned over the bar and whispered something I couldn't hear. The bartender raised a brow and winked at me, and then we trudged out into the snow, hand in hand like two bemittened icicles clinging to something unseen.

"What did you tell her?" I asked as the wind blew around us.

"Oh, nothing," she yelled over the noise of the plow. "I just said she should join us next time."

"We're never going back," I said.

"Oh, she was down for it. Even bought us that last round."

I shook my head as we sludged down the sidewalk under the yellow street lamps. She squeezed my hand, and I wondered if there was any truth in what she said and if it mattered either way. 

By the time we got home, we were drunk and tired. 

And yet, despite the wind, the snow, and the icy ground, both of us were warm.

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Early in our relationship, we both realized it was hot to fantasize about her fucking other guys. We’d pretend she had just come from another man’s house, or if we were feeling daring, she’d tell me about an especially hot time with an ex-boyfriend.

She had a few photos and videos from past relationships, but that was as far as it ever went.

Once we got married, the game took on a new bit of spice, and we played with the new words we suddenly had access to: wife, affair, cuckold, and adultery.

And then, one afternoon, she came home early from work. I was home all day taking care of chores around the house, and while I wasn’t expecting her until six or seven, I was delighted to see her.

“Come sit with me,” Kitty said in that voice that often meant I was in trouble. I followed her to the couch and sat down as my gut instantly filled with butterflies.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

She shook her head and took my hands in hers. Something was wrong, and all I could think to do was take her in my arms and tell her it would be okay. It didn’t matter what it was; we’d work through it together.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, trying to smile. “I know you’ve always said it would be okay, but now that it’s real, I’m worried. I love you so much and don’t want to ruin it.”

“Kitty, that’s not possible,” I said, reassuring her as best I could.

“It’s always been a fantasy,” she said, wiping away a tear. “But when you tell me how hot it is, I sometimes believe it. I didn’t mean to get carried away, but I kept hearing your voice telling me it’s what you wanted.”

My heart began to beat faster as I wondered if she meant what I thought she did. It was the one fantasy we returned to a thousand times, and in the heat of passion, I always told her I wanted her to do it for real. No matter how I felt later, I promised her it would be okay.

“Are you telling me….” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I didn’t plan on it,” she said with a nod. “I met up with Rob for coffee this morning before work, and we sort of lost track of time; somehow I never made it to the office.”

“Kitty, what happened?” I asked, remembering her smug ex-boyfriend. He was too handsome by far and had a body I’d never have, no matter how much time I spent at the gym.

“What do you think?” she asked. “He invited me to his place, I agreed, and before I knew what was happening, we were in bed.”

“So, you’re telling me you slept with him?”

Kitty nodded but still let me hold her. The truth of her words hit me all at once, and despite my best efforts, I grew hard instantly. I pictured her in vivid detail fucking a man I barely knew as she broke her marriage vows with gleeful abandon.

“Will you tell me more?” I asked, turning her to me so I could look her in the eyes. “I love you, forgive you, and want to know everything.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, a smile returning to her face. “You’re not going to leave me?”

“Kitty, I would never leave. Besides, you were right. I’ve told you a thousand times how hot it would be for you to fuck someone else. I didn’t know how I’d feel, but now I know I want you more than ever before. And I’m desperate to know what you did. And how it felt.”

“Maybe you do mean it,” she said. “I’m still scared to tell you, but I will if you want. I didn’t hold back, Guy. Not at all.”

“Does that mean you let him…. Inside you?” I stumbled over my words, and the combination of hope and dread I felt was impossible to understand.

“Why don’t you look and see,” Kitty said as I slid to the carpet in front of her. “If you want to, I mean.”

“Desperately,” I said as I tried to part her legs.

My wife grew bolder by the second, and I could hardly contain myself. After all these years of fantasizing, she had done it, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. All I knew was that I was hard, she was beautiful, and I wanted to see it. I wanted the proof, not because I didn’t believe her, but because the thought of staring at her where she took her ex’s cock just an hour before drove me wild with desire.

“He was so aggressive and so familiar,” she whispered as she leaned back on the couch and undid her blouse. I watched as she ran her hands over her bare chest, and I could see the telltale signs of red marks across her breasts that spoke to his mouth and hands.

“Tell me everything,” I begged.

Kitty parted her legs, and I leaned in and kissed her thigh without thinking.

“It’s kind of a blur. We got back to his place, and we were all over each other, just like when we first met. He kissed me, picked me up, and carried me to his bed. He was always so strong, but he’s gotten even bigger. He tossed me on my back and was on me within seconds.”

“Did you try to resist?” I asked, wondering what answer I wanted to hear.

“Oh baby, no,” she said, touching my hair. “It had been so long since I felt those hands and…. and…. and that huge cock.”

I pried her thighs wider, and all I could do was stare. Kitty had shaved that morning, something she rarely did anymore. And right there, in front of me, her pussy glistened with sticky excitement. Her lips were smooth and red, and her thighs had the distinct sheen of dried cum.

Had she expected this all along?

“Did you tell him to wear a condom?” I asked.

“How could I?” she moaned as she felt my breath on her. “He felt so good inside me; I couldn’t stop him. He stretches me open just right, and his bare cock feels so much better. And besides, baby, you know how much I love cum inside me.”

“Fuck!” I cried as I parted her lips with my fingers and gazed at her spread pussy. When I pushed one finger inside her, it came out slick with his cum, and for the first time, I knew it was true.

My wife had fucked another man. And he came in her pussy while she begged him to do it.

I dove in, opening my mouth on her, desperate to taste her when she had just been fucked. Kitty cried out and pulled me to her as I forced my tongue inside her cheating cunt.

“He fucked me so hard,” she moaned as I ate her for all I was worth. “He must have come three or four times. First in my mouth, when I had a moment where I thought I could be good. But when I felt him inside me, fucking me like he used to, I knew I needed it there too. He came so many times.”

I was painfully hard as I went down on my wife, and all I could think about was what it must have looked like to see her stretched wide around his thick cock. I had seen a picture of it long ago, but this was different. They had fucked all morning, and he came in her more than once!

I created a monster, and I could never go back.

“I can taste him,” I moaned as I stroked myself. “I can taste all that cum.”

“Good boy,” she whispered as she came around my fingers and tongue. “You’re making me come again! Oh god, it feels so good to confess. Almost as good as it felt when he first slid inside me.”

“I love you,” I moaned, moving up, more desperate to reclaim her than I ever thought I’d be. It was hot, I was jealous, and I wanted all of it. But right then, as I kissed my way to my wife’s mouth, all I knew was that I needed to fuck her too so she knew she was mine.

I needed to fuck her where his cock had been just thirty minutes before.

“I have to tell you something else,” she said as I plunged inside her. She was so wet and turned on that I barely felt her, but it didn’t matter. I was fucking my wife with another man’s cum in her, and it was heaven no matter what else she told me.

“What is it?” I begged as I fucked her for all I was worth.

“I know I always tell you I don’t like anal, but it’s different with Rob. He’s the only one, and it was so hot to let him come in all three holes. I felt so claimed and owned I couldn’t say no, baby. He fucked my ass so hard, and he came there too.”

Her words were too much for me, and as I pictured that son-of-a-bitch taking my wife’s virgin ass, something I had never done, I came harder than I had in years. I bit my lip, buried myself inside her, and let go again and again as tears streamed down our faces.

Kitty wiped a tear from my cheek as I slowed down and looked into her big blue eyes. I could barely breathe, and my body was slick with sweat. My wife’s words rang in my head a thousand times over and I would never let them go.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“I think so,” I said, kissing her nose. “It was so much. I can’t believe you did all that.”

“I might have lied a little,” she said with a grin. “He didn’t fuck my ass; I just knew it was your fantasy.”

“Really?” I asked, trying to detect the truth in her expression. I didn’t know what I wanted other than to understand what really happened.

“That part was just for you. I wanted to see if it would make you come as hard as I thought,” she said reassuringly. “But he did ask. And I might have told him he could fuck me there next time.”

I sat up straight, my cock slipping out of her as I took in her words. My wife smiled and shrugged like I should have expected it.

“There’s going to be a next time?” I asked as she pushed me back down to the floor.

“Don’t you want there to be? You just fucked me harder than you have in ages. And look at you. You’re hard again.”

As I opened my mouth on her one more time, I realized it was true. For the first time in my life, I barely grew soft after sex.

“Next time, it will be home on our bed. And next time, I’ll let him do whatever he wants. Even if he wants to come in my virgin ass.”

And then I was lost once more, drowning in her pussy, now full of two men’s cum. The fantasy blended with reality as I made her come over and over again. And as she pet my hair and I pulled her to me, I realized everything was going to change.

“I love you,” I cried as I kept on going, lost in a frenzy of lust and shame that kept me aching for more.

“I know,” Kitty said, still touching my face. “Now I really know.”

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The girl in the yellow hat loves the rain. Everyone says they do, at least everyone I talk to, but her relationship borders on obsession. She sings in it, dances in it, and most importantly, sits in it. 

Which is what she was doing when I tried to pick her up. 

“I live around the corner, and it’s dry,” I said. “I even have hot tea and maybe coffee if I haven’t finished it.”

“It’s nice out; what are you, a fucking goat?”

“Why a goat?” I asked, realizing quickly that if I were going to talk with her, it would be right there on the steps of Lucille’s. 

“They hate the rain,” she said, looking up with a grin. I made the snap decision to sit down next to her, and she made room for me, offering half a cheek’s worth of dry stone. 

“Fair enough. I used to like it. I mean, I still do, but you know how it goes. You get old and start carrying things in your pockets that you don’t want to get wet, and before you know it, you’re wearing rubber boots in the shower.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not why you wear rubber boots in the shower.”

“Touché,” I said, looking up and opening my mouth. City rain might not be to everyone’s taste, but I had something to prove, and I wasn’t going to fold up and go home even if it was just around the corner. And dry.

“Want to go look at the river?” She asked, handing me a glass flask full of a brown liquor I couldn’t distinguish. It tasted like a piney winter night in the Alps, with a hint of a warm fire and a blanket. I didn’t ask what it was, and she didn’t offer. 

But we did walk down Spring St. to the Hudson. As we passed the bottle back and forth, warmth exploding in my chest with each sip, we walked out onto the pier, where the park sat quiet and empty, and we found a bench just a few feet from where the rain turned the river into a dreamscape. 

I sat down first. She sat on my lap, side-saddle like I was a pony at the town fair. She wrapped one arm around my neck and finished what was left of the mountain liquor before planting a kiss right on my lips. Not one to refuse such a kind gesture, I kissed her back as she swung a leg between us and straddled me face-to-face. 

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We're not touching each other. That's the rule, and we're going to stick to it. 

Tension can be hard to manufacture. Especially when you've been together for ten years, and life gets in the way of taking your clothes off. It's easy to fall into something familiar or even forgo intimacy altogether. 

But sitting on the couch, her in a matching bra and panties with a silk robe over it and me in shorts and a ribbed tank, the air is thick with it. We made one simple rule for the night, and as we stare into each other's eyes and take in all that exposed skin, I try to convince myself that we'll stick to it. 

No touching, no kissing, and definitely no fucking. Everything else is on the table, but I don't want everything else. 

I want to touch her. I want to kiss her, and I definitely want to fuck her. 

"Can I tell you I want you even if we know nothing is going to happen?" I ask. She's lying back, watching me grow hard. I adjust myself through the tight fabric, far more awkwardly than intended. 

"You can tell me anything you want. As long as we don't touch. Everything's fine if we don't cross that line. It would be so wrong otherwise. So very wrong."

The reason it's wrong changes with every second. My mind is too flooded with hormones to stay still, but the scenes blur together until I can't tell them apart: she's too young, she's my sister, we're old friends, I'm her teacher, she’s married, and on and on like a montage of the forbidden. 

As she gazes at me, I free myself from my shorts and wrap my hand around my cock. We’re not touching so it doesn’t count. It’s the most innocent thing to do.

"Look what you do to me," I moan. 

"We have to be good," she sighs as she slips two fingers into her panties, pushes them inside herself, and then licks them clean. She loses the robe a second later. Her bra follows, and I march along behind her, tossing my shirt to the floor. My hand moves faster as my heartbeat increases tenfold. 

I stand up when she kneels on the floor in front of me. There's a glimmer in her eye, telling me not to break. Come close, it calls, but stay strong. 

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With her tongue out, it's nearly impossible. I lean over her, my cock less than an inch from her mouth. I can feel her breath; I haven't been this hard in months. 

"It doesn't count if you don't touch me," I say as she opens wide. I avoid her teeth as I remember how her lips feel. When her tongue brushes me for the briefest of seconds, I pull back, wondering how that sliver of touch drives me crazier than the sloppiest head. 

I jerk off faster, wondering if coming on her face or in her mouth would count. What's my body, and what isn't? Does come count as touch? Should it?

She lets me slide along her tongue twice more before sitting back, and my eyesight goes blurry. Whatever blood was in my head isn't there anymore, and the room spins. 

"Fuck," I groan as I fall to the couch, still touching myself. "I want to fuck your mouth and then the rest of you. Who let you be so pretty?"

She joins me, our legs intertwined as she pulls off the last of her clothing. When her fingers part her wet lips, I imagine kissing her and fucking her in equal measure. I've never been as hungry for her as I am now, and I'm delirious as she pushes fingers inside her, making me jealous of a digit. 

"Is this where you want to fuck me?" she asks. "Right here? If you were allowed, I mean. If it weren't so wrong, would you fuck me here?"

It's my turn to move in closer, and I still wonder about our silly rule. It's done what it was intended to do! We've moved from flirting and simmering to a full fucking boil, and holding back is ridiculous. How many times have we fucked over the years? How many times have I buried my mouth between her thighs or held her in my arms as she came to the sound of my voice?

"What if I taste you? Just for a moment."

"We shouldn't," she moans, no longer as convincing as she was. "It would be so wrong."

I watch as just inches away, she pushes two fingers into her pussy before holding them up for me to kiss. I suck them into my mouth, realizing we're breaking a rule but no longer caring. I crave her and need her, and if that's the only taste I get, then I'm going to savor it forever. 

When I touch her thigh with my lips, she tells me it's not fair. 

"Maybe just for a second. It won't count if it doesn't last, right?" she asks as if I'm going to say no. 

When I finally taste her, I'm voracious. I grab her thighs with both hands and bury my mouth against her, fucking her with my tongue, holding onto the wrongness of it just enough to drive me on. 

She falls back, her fingers on her clit as I eat her, and with every breath, she reminds me.

"You shouldn't," she cries as I do it anyway. "It's so wrong; you're going to ruin everything."

"I need to fuck you," I say, moving up her body until I kiss her mouth. She takes my head in her hand and kisses me back as I feel her wet skin against my cock. I pull back just enough, but that hint is too much. 

Leaning up, I take my cock in hand and hold it between her legs, inches away from her spread lips. 

"What if I came right here? You could rub me into your skin, push it inside yourself, and it wouldn't count, isn't that right?"

"No," she moans as I touch her. I nestle in, sliding up and down her soft lips until my cock is coated with her excitement. 

"I could put it in for a second; that's not real, is it?"

"Just a second?" she asks, accepting my ridiculous argument as a possible excuse. "It wouldn't count?"

"I won't be able to stop," I admit, pushing the game further. "And besides, I don't even have a condom."

We haven't used condoms in eight years, but it doesn't matter. It's one more reason to resist, and it makes me want her even more. 

"We can't fuck without one," she says, touching herself furiously. "You'd have to pull out."

"I can pretend I'd try," I moan, so close to penetrating her that I ache. 

"If I come first, I’ll give in," she sighs as I slip to the floor beside her. It’s both a warning and an invitation. "If you make me come I don’t think I can say no."

Reason and logic have fled, and I no longer care. I lean in and kiss her as I slip two fingers inside her willing body. I curve them up as she rubs her clit in quick circles, and each time I pull them to me, she moans and shuts her eyes. 

As I finger her, I tell her I want her again and again. More times than I have in months. I want to fuck you. I want to taste you. I need to come in you even though I promised I wouldn’t.

"Oh fuck yes!" she cries, surprised at how fast she comes. I keep going, and she does the same; she opens her eyes wide with a smile that's both joyous and impressed. 

I lean in and kiss her, taking her breath for myself, and she trembles beneath me as she finally lets go of everything. As she shivers on the couch I stand and look down, with just one thought on my mind: I need to be inside her.

"Fuck me now," she begs, her orgasm still lingering. 

I don't need more than that. I'm between her legs and inside her without effort, and she feels so impossibly good that I fall in love with her all over again. Magically, sex has never felt this good, and she looks up at me, her mouth open and her lips wet. 

"We shouldn't," she says again, and I feel it in my bones. It's so horribly wrong that nothing has been this good before. "Just don't come in me; whatever you do, don't come in me!"

Her words have the intended effect. I've fucked her for less than sixty seconds, and I come like it's my first time. I fall against her, needing to touch skin, and I don't slow down as my entire body tightens and releases like a storm. I come far longer than I knew was possible, and with a smile on her face, she scolds me for what I've done. 

When I finally collapse, it's to a kiss and a laugh. We return to ourselves in an instant, and it's with joyous relief. We're here, we're sweaty, and we've just fucked harder than we have in ages. 

When I pull out, I can't help but stare at our bodies in awe and wonder. Her face is beautiful, her eyes glowing, and her mouth still inviting. I kiss her again before sitting back and shaking my head in disbelief. 

"Fuck, that was so hot," she says. I nod in agreement, unsure if I can form words. 

I manage to say I love you and she says it back before we both get up to pee like the grown-ups that we are. We're playful and happy, still surprised at the ease and effectiveness of saying, we can't, we shouldn't.

I pour us drinks as we settle back into comfort and routine, but now with a glimmer of something beautiful hanging around us. Satisfaction comes quickly, and the dim apartment embraces us as we sink into soft pillows. 

Sometimes tension is hard to manufacture. Routines are impossible to break, and the gravity of domestic life holds us tethered.

But then, on nights like tonight, a few words, a set intention, and two beautifully vivid imaginations make everything new again

.

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But I did mention that I was doing a big push on Medium last month and I ended up writing a ton of new stories. So, like the good little entrepreneur that I am, I pulled ten of them together and published a new e-book.

I’m fond of the collection and I love having it on my kindle. And if you’d also like to have these stories all in once place, you can get your own copy here.

Undressing Barbie and Other Stories….

If you follow along here you might have seen a few, but there you have it.

And if you love my newsletter and wish you could hold my writing in your hand, I have a whole slew of print books out there as well.

Here’s a link to all my print books on Amazon. (For some reason, Amazon has removed the ability to sort books by format, which is annoying and I apologize on their behalf. They’re all in there, you just have to check each one for print versions. I’ll complain to….somebody.)

Thanks again for reading, and stay tuned for more late night letters coming soon!