0 comments/ 37809 views/ 8 favorites Actress By: mooneatertales When the phone rang on Marsha's desk, she picked it up but barely heard what the client on the other end was saying. She'd been more than a little distracted since lunch, when she'd called Phil and told him she'd do it.... "Do it" meant appearing in a sex film he was shooting. Marsha had met Phil at a summer party thrown by her husband's boss. Phil took an instant notice of her, which she really liked. As they talked over drinks in a corner of the patio, she could feel his genuine interest in her...as well as his eyes sizing her up and even undressing her. Ordinarily, she'd consider a guy who did that a creep, but Phil was nice -- very bright, warm and friendly. He was in his late-20s, with dark blue eyes, blonde hair and a fit body. Marsha was 48 and Phil seemed to bring out the cougar in her although she had been faithful to her husband for almost 15 years. As the drinks loosened their tongues, Marsha found herself flirting, at least enough for Phil to smile coyly and reply, "I make sex films" after Marsha asked what he did for a living. "Get out of here," she laughed. "Seriously," he said, taking a sip from his drink. "Actually, it's a side line. I'm in graphic design, but I minored in film in college and I have the equipment. Lights, cameras..." "Action," Marsha smiled. "That, too," Phil laughed. "My wife and I shoot custom-made sex scenes and movies for private clients. Some are couples who want to be filmed. Others are for people who want us to bring their fantasies to life. Some act them out and we film them." "Is it exciting?" Marsha asked, glancing at her husband, who was across the patio chatting with his new assistant, an attractive blonde about half his age. "You could say that," Phil said with a knowing smile. "But it's not lurid, boring crap. We're really into the power of erotic imagination -- setting, fantasy, sensuality. The sex has to be real, not faked." He took a sip of his whiskey and noticed Marsha was speechless. "You're a beautiful woman. Ever think of being in a sexy movie?" Marsha blushed, although the complement hit her in a spot her husband hadn't touched in years. She was almost six feet tall with long, straight brown hair, large breasts, big shapely hips, powerful thighs from running and swimming, and a plush, extremely sexy ass. Her pretty, slightly-weathered face enhanced her MILF degree. She was wearing tight jeans, a blue, sleeveless tank top and no bra. The cool night air, or maybe it was the chat with Phil, made her nipples hard and visible under the fabric of her top. She noticed Phil's eyes upon them and it stirred something in her that she had stowed away as soon as she got married. "No, I've never done a dirty movie," she said. "I posed for some pictures once...." "Oh?" Phil said, cocking an eyebrow. "By the way, I hate the expression 'dirty movie.' Sex isn't dirty. But go on...you were saying..." "Well, I used to pose naked for two guys I spent the summer with....in Greece...right after college..." "Two guys? Do tell," Phil smiled, sipping his drink. "Friends. We lived in a beach house. We were all naked most of the time. You were allowed to walk around the town naked. You could go in the stores and...I can't believe I'm telling you this..." "No, don't worry. It's fine." Phil fixed his serious gaze upon her. "Did you enjoy it? Posing?" "Well, yeah," Marsha laughed. In fact, she often thought of that summer and how she got off on the power she held over Tom and Nicholas whenever she was nude in front of them. Seeing their cocks swell was a heady compliment. In high school and college, Marsha had been the sexually adventurous one in her group of friends. She slept with at least 80 guys and probably 20 or 30 women -- many of them on the spur of the moment -- eagerly trying group sex, threesomes, public sex and anything else that excited her. At her most free and wild, Marsha and her boyfriend fucked on the floor at a college dorm party while about 30 people stood around and watched with drinks in hand. She'd loved the thrill of being the center of attention, and the only fully nude person in the room (her boyfriend had merely pulled his jeans down). Gazing up at the onlookers, her knees back over her shoulders as his hard cock slid in and out of her sopping pussy, and knowing that she was turning so many people on, made her orgasms that much more intense. Afterward, she still felt brazen enough to remain nude for the rest of the night as she mingled among the admiring partiers, none of whom had the courage to do what she had just done. Photos occasionally came out of those times, but those were the days before video cameras were cheap, so Marsha had never been filmed. The idea had always intrigued her, but sex for the sake of sex lost its buzz and she sought real emotional connection. She found it, at least for a time, with her husband, and let her past go. He turned out to be a buttoned-down, predictable type in bed, much more concerned about his career than having fulfilling, creative sex with his wife, or so it seemed. Marsha's quiet routine life left her starving for attention, and her inner wild girl was begging to be unleashed again, especially as the frequency of sex with her husband dwindled. The thought of fucking on camera in front of Phil and a roomful of cast and crew still seemed too off the wall, but it seized Marsha's imagination. She was shocked to feel herself getting wet between the legs as they talked. "You should think about working with me and Angela," Phil said. "It's all very casual and friendly. I have a set group of cast and crew. We've known each other for years and only work with new people we like. We keep everything natural and unscripted. Real, spontaneous sex is hot. That's what I'm after." "I...I..." Marsha stammered, laughing and blushing again. "I can't believe...." Phil glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, I know. Rich would never go for it, right?" "Well, no..." she laughed. "He wouldn't...he's really into the monogamy thing..." "But you would, right?" Phil said, looking her straight in the eye and smiling. "I uh, well, I don't know..." It was a totally crazy idea. She was a respectable person in her community now. What if someone she knew saw the movie? But the thought still tantalized her for weeks after the party. Marsha ran into Phil again at her husband's office one evening as she waited for him to join her for dinner. "Did you ever think about my offer?" Phil asked, clearly appreciating her red flannel shirt -- left open to reveal a little cleavage -- tight black jeans and black boots. "Well, yeah..." Marsha laughed. "Call me," Phil said, pressing a business card into her hand. She tucked it away and fantasized for another week. Several times, while her husband was out, she stripped naked and gazed at herself in a full-length mirror. She felt relieved that her body was still reasonably firm. Her ass looked particularly good. She had a full patch of dark pubic hair that she decided to trim down to a small triangle. The process excited her so much that she lay down, spread her legs and got herself off while gazing at her breasts and delicate pink pussy and anus in the mirror opposite the bed. Still, it was a crazy idea, but it continued to consume her until the final barrier came down. All it took was her husband leaving his e-mail open one day. Marsha discovered a message from his new assistant. It was clear they had been meeting for sex after work. "I loved sucking your sweet cock for the first time," she wrote. "The memory makes me so hot I could come just by touching myself." Marsha was stunned. Her first impulse was to angrily confront Rich, but he'd gone out on an errand and that gave her anger time to cool. As it did, her desire for revenge began to heat up. Who cared now if he found out if she'd made a sex film? She was surely justified.... So Marsha found herself calling Phil, who told her to come meet his cast and crew, just to see what she thought. To her relief, they turned out to be warm and welcoming. They were a group of friends engaged in a joint venture that was born out of their love of sex, nudity and the creativity that comes from both. The money was split evenly after expenses, Phil explained. Marsha's heart skipped when she was introduced to Troy, "the leading man" as he laughingly referred to himself. He was a beach-bleached kid of about 23, a fitness instructor at a local gym. His smile almost made Marsha swoon as she sized him up. He was wearing a muscle shirt and tight jeans, and she got wet when she thought of what he must look like naked. "Two years," he said, when she asked how long he'd been working with Phil. "I totally enjoy it, as you can imagine. I love sex and these ladies I work with are wonderful. We're definitely good friends, but I'm thinking about going out to California and seeing if I can get into the business for real." "The real biz is so sleazy, you're better off with your favorite bunch of dirty old ladies," laughed Marci. a long-haired, full-figured brunette who was sitting next to Troy. Pam -- a cute, buxom, light-skinned black woman with a big, extremely shapely ass -- explained that she and Marci were single 30-somethings who had been working with Phil on and off for five years. "It's kind of like going to the gym," Pam said, "only I go have great sex. It's an exciting way to spend an afternoon or night. There's never any pressure. We just do what we feel like doing and Phil films us. And I meet interesting people...and do interesting things. I like broadening my sexual horizons." "If not for us, he'd have no girl on girl scenes," Marci laughed, looking at Phil. Marci and Pam had been close friends since high school. "Now we're lovers, on screen at least," Marci said, giving Pam a playful smooch on the cheek. They were all sitting in a local restaurant early in the evening after work. The conversation rambled over a lot of chit-chat and getting-to-know-you stuff. Totally mundane. But there was an ease and comfort in the group that made Marsha feel comfortable and more than turned on by the thought of getting naked in front of them. Phil's wife Angela, raven-haired with blonde highlights and big expressive green eyes, handled lighting, sound and sets as well as some camera-work. "I'm also into coming up with scenes and settings. That's the best part," she said. "Well...almost..." Angela was almost Marsha's age and divorced before she married Phil. "Not because of this," she said with a smile. "Although I do get to appear in some scenes, which is nice. Helps at the end of a long day of shooting, believe me...." At one point, an older woman came in. Red-haired and about 55, she was introduced as Rae. Phil explained that she had shot her very first scene earlier that day. "Can't wait to see it," Rae said. "I had to leave before they wrapped up." As it turned out, Rae was a bored housewife looking to plunge into her long-neglected sexuality. Her husband was often away on business, and meeting Phil through a mutual friend had provided her with an opportunity. "I really enjoyed you today, hon," she told Troy. "Thanks," Troy smiled. "You were great." "Let me see how I look first," Rae laughed. "I'm almost afraid to look..." "I think you'll be happy," Phil said. A short while later, they all drove to his house to watch that day's shoot. In the darkened living room of his richly-appointed house on a quiet, tree-lined street, Marsha felt her heart pound as the wide-screen TV lit up with a scene of Rae -- nude except for black stockings and a pair of black high-heels -- enter a room that looked like a classic bordello with lush red drapes and low light. She gazed at Troy, who was fully dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. "Oooh, you look nice, Rae," Angels said. "You still have a great body." "Thanks, hon," Rae said. "My tits sag, but Troy didn't seem to notice...." Everyone laughed. On the screen, Rae was pressing herself against Troy, the camera roaming her body as she began working the buttons of his shirt and then unfastened his jeans. Marsha was transfixed as Rae slowly slid Troy's pants down. His erect cock and tight round scrotum were gorgeous. He had a thick, eight-inch rod with a big well-defined head and a neatly-trimmed patch of light brown pubic hair. Other than that, his body was completely hairless and that made her pussy quiver. Marsha felt envious as she watched Rae take Troy's penis in her mouth and suck it hungrily, oblivous to the camera. "Looks like you enjoyed that," Pam said playfully. "Hon, you have a delicious cock," Rae said, placing her hand on Troy's wrist as they sat together on the sofa, watching the action on the screen. The next scene was of Rae writhing on top of Troy, who was on his back, naked, on a plush bed of black velvet. "It's kind of shock to see my asshole up there like that," Rae laughed. "I'm not used to looking at it...or my old pussy for that matter..." "Nothing wrong with your asshole and pussy," Marci said with a smile as on the screen Rae pumped slowly up and down on Troy's cock while they kissed. "You did really well," Phil said as Rae and Troy came in a sweaty, heated burst of moans and more writhing while the camera captured the ecstatic agony on their faces. "That felt really good," Rae laughed. "So, what do you think?" Phil asked Marsha after the lights came up. "I'd love to," Marsha said, clearing her throat and trying to compose herself. "Would you? Great. Have you had an AIDS test? "I'll get one," Marsha said. "I've only been with my husband, but who knows where he's been..." Marsha took the test, which came back fine, and found herself riding a whirlwind of emotion when she thought about her husband fucking his secretary. Yet her desire to be filmed, to make love to Troy's incredible body, to taste and pleasure his beautiful penis, kept her counting the minutes. This was her freedom, a gift to herself, and if hee husband found out, well, tough. He'd see what he'd been missing. Several days before her first shoot, Marsha met Phil at his house to talk about what they would do. After a few drinks to relax, Phil said, "This will sound kind of blunt, but I need to see you naked." Marsha felt her heart jump. "Just to get a sense of your body. Do you mind? It's routine. I can ask Angela to join us if you're uncomfortable..." "No...no, that's fine," Marsha said, her voice a little shaky with excitement. "I don't mind..." She watched Phil's eyes as she started to pull off one of her boots. "Leave those on," Phil said. "I've got an idea." "Oh?" Marsha laughed, standing up and pulling off her white cotton top. She was wearing a bra and she felt a thrill shoot through her as she slid the straps off her shoulders. She stood topless in front of Phil's admiring eyes, her pussy feeling hot and slick. Her legs shook slightly as she clumsily unfastened her denim skirt and let it fall to the floor. All that was left were her light blue panties. "Wow, you are gorgeous," Phil said. "Thanks," Marsha replied, sliding her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slowly pulling them down. She savored the sensation of the air hitting her ass and almost fully-shaved pussy -- and most of all, of Phil's gaze on her naked body. "Here I am," she said, stepping out of her panties and standing before him. She was wearing only her boots. "Turn around," Phil said. "Wow...you have a wonderful body and a spectacular ass. Just gorgeous. Sit down. We need to find out where your limits are." Reclining on the sofa, Marsha stretched out a bit, fully enjoying the luxurious feeling of being nude. She opened her legs just enough to give Phil a better view and watched his eyes fix on her pink honey pot. "Sweet," he said. "You're okay with straight fucking?" "Sure." "Will you give blowjobs?" "Uh huh," Marsha replied, her heart pounding and her pussy growing wetter by the moment. "I love oral. Giving and receiving. I swallow." "Great. How about girl-girl?" "I guess. Yeah. I did some in college. Depends how comfortable I am with who you want me to do it with." "That's fine. We try to make sure everyone is into each other before we shoot anything. Like I told you. the sex has to be real. You'd be with Angela, Pam or Marci first. If you want to work with a client, you can. It's up to you." "That's fine." "Will you do anal?" "Sure. I guess. Haven't done it in years..." "You have such a sexy ass. Oral-anal?" "You mean, like, licking someone's ass?" Marsha asked, shifting on the sofa so she was on her side, her legs bent at the knees and her ample, nude rear facing Phil. Again, his gaze made her feel lightheaded with lust as she played with a strand of her hair. "Or having yours licked," he said, his eyes on her ass. "By a guy or girl." "I like that. My husband only does it when I beg." "He's a fool," Phil smiled. "Bondage? Water sports?" "Nothing too kinky. I don't like pain..." "That's fine. We don't do much kink anyway and when we do, I want to make it as sexy as possible. So, okay. Here's how we work..." Marsha rested her open palm on her ass cheek and gazed at Phil. She could see the bulge in his jeans, which turned her on even more. "We meet a couple days before the shoot and go over the requests and see who's into doing what. There has to be more than consent. We're after real pleasure, real orgasm for our women. Troy's not allowed to come until you do. No reason why he should have all the fun. We also go over lingerie and props, stuff like that. Can you be here a week from Wednesday? We'll meet after work." "Sure," Marsha said, standing up and reaching for her clothes. She hated getting dressed and asked, "You don't sample your actresses when they're on the couch naked?" "Not on our first meeting. I try to be professional, Why do you ask?" Marsha blushed. "I..I all this talk has me a little worked up," she laughed, standing there holding her panties in one hand, her other hand on her hip. "Want relief?" "I..." "Why don't you do yourself. Think of it as an audition, although you have the job. It helps me to know how you respond and act, how you look and sound..." Marsha's heart skipped and she hesitated, but a huge wave of lust came over her and she sat down on the sofa, slowly spread her legs and gazed at Phil. He smiled and said, "You're a beautiful woman, Marsha. Very hot, very sensual. You have a gorgeous and very sexy pussy...let yourself go..." Licking her lips, Marsha squeezed her tits and ran her hands down her body, caressing her thighs. Her nipples were erect, and Phil's gaze upon her wet cunt brought her to the brink of orgasm. Marsha moaned as her middle finger stroked her clit and then found its way inside her buttery slit. She watched Phil's face as she rubbed and fingered her vagina, her chest beginning to heave and grow pink with her arousal. She was so turned on she was almost hyperventilating. "Sweet, baby. So hot," Phil said after a minute or two. "Come. Let me see you come..." A bolt of intense sensation made Marsha gasp and toss her head back as she cupped a breast and rapidly fingered her pussy, occasionally smearing her juices over her anus. Her eyes locked on Phil's face. Seeing him gazing raptly at her unleashed an intense orgasm that hit her like a wave, making her cry out and revel in the feeling of her nudity, of being totally sexual in front of this man, who was clearly enjoying watching her. "That was so hot, Marsha," Phil said as she lay back on the sofa, breathing hard and managing a faint, bashful smile. "I'd love to have you do that on camera..." Marsha could only nod. On the ride home, she battled her shock and slight embarrassment at letting herself go so fully, but those feelings were soon replaced by an intense desire to do it again, and have all-out sex in front of a camera, the cast and the crew. The thought of Troy's hard rippled body and gorgeous cock made her wet again and she masturbated that night while fantasizing about how it would look amd feel as it slid in and out of her pussy with all eyes upon her. Actress The week until the planning meeting crawled by in an agonizing grind of anticipation. Marsha found herself spending much of her private time in the nude and was often testy with her husband, who thankfully went off on a business trip -- his secretary in tow, no doubt. The meeting stoked Marsha's desires even more. Troy and Rae would make love outdoors in an old-fashioned picnic setting. Pam and Marci were going to do a sensuous analingus scene on the bordello bed, with Marci fully dressed and Pam in a corset, garter belt and stockings. Marsha's heart pounded when she was asked if she wanted to give Troy a romantic moonlit blowjob. All she could do was nod. "I'd like you to wear only that red flannel shirt you had on, I think it was at the party," Phil said. Marsha nodded. "I look forward to working with you," Troy said later in the driveway as they were leaving. "You're a really nice person....and sexy, too, if you don't mind me being a total pig..." "Thanks, not at all" Marsha smid softly, touching his arm and smiling. "The feeling's mutual." Because her scene was to be shot last and she later found out she could not take off from work that day, Marsha did not arrive at Phil's house until just as it was getting dark. Her day had crawled by. All she could think of was sex and Troy and the impending thrill of taking her clothes off and sucking his cock while people watched. The half-hour drive seemed to take forever. She grabbed her red flannel shirt and hurried up to the door. Angela answered it, smiling and saying, "Hey, come on in." "I hope I'm not too late..." "Nope. We're just getting ready to shoot Pam and Marci's scene. Everyone's in the master bedroom." Marsha walked in to find Pam nude and lounging on the sofa cross-legged, her hands behind her braided head, as Phil and Angela placed the lights and microphones and readied the bed. Pam smiled and nodded at Marsha, who stopped to watch the activity, her heart thumping and her mouth dry. "Here's your outfit," said Marci, handing Pam a classic red corset with black ruffles, a black garter belt and some fishnets. "You're going to look nice and tasty in this..." "I hope so," Pam laughed. "You're gonna be licking my dirty butt." "I've tasted your dirty butt before," Marci laughed. Pam stood up, and she and Marci kissed and embraced for a minute or so before Pam began pulling on the fishnets. Marci, who was wearing tight black jeans and a black tank top, looked at Marsha and asked, "Would you like something to drink?" "That would be nice.." "Come with me," Marci said. "Pun intended." And she led Marsha into the kitchen. The sight of Troy standing naked by the sink stopped Marsha in her tracks. He was pouring himself a big glass of pineapple juice and his taut, hairless body almost gleamed in the soft light. "Hey, Marsha, how's it going?" he said. "Want some?" "We have wine and liquor if you don't want that stuff," Marci said. "All he drinks is pineapple juice..." "Makes my cum taste sweet," he said, with a wink at Marsha. "Right, Marci?" "I guess," Marci laughed. "You were pretty sweet this morning..." Marsha looked puzzled. "We shot an extra scene Phil wanted to do," Troy said before taking a big swallow of juice. "Three-way with Marci and Angela..." Marsha accepted a glass of red wine from Marci, who led her back to the room where the shoot would take place. "Ready to go," Phil said. Pam was lying on the black-velvet bed with white folded comforter at the foot and big off-white and gold pillows. She looked every bit the luscious, buxom whore. A glass of champagne and a silver tray of chocolate-covered cherries were next to her on the night table. "Make it real, ladies. Take your time." Marci fixed her hair for a moment in the mirror and then took her place on the bed as Marsha sat down on a loveseat next to Troy. The sight of his cock made her pussy tingle. "And...action..." Phil said. The scene opened with Pam lying on her stomach and sipping champagne as Marci rested her head on her plump, bare coffee-colored ass like it was a pillow. Occasionally, Marci would softly run her palm over a cheek or trace a garter strap to the fishnet on the back of Pam's thigh. As Angela deftly moved about with her camera, Pam sensuously ate a cherry as Marci softly kissed her ass, her hands again moving slowly across each cheek. Pam sighed and shifted slightly onto her side, bringing one knee up toward her breasts so her buttocks parted slightly. She then placed a chocolate-covered cherry in the cleft, just above her anus. Marci licked at the cleft, teasing her way into it before taking the cherry in her mouth. She then parted Pam's luscious cheeks even more as Angela moved in for a closeup. "Mmmm," Marci purred as she licked and teased before burying her face in Pam's ass. Pam took another cherry and licked at it while Marci rimmed her. Marsha had never been so aroused in her life. She noticed her hand was shaking when she tried to bring her wine to her lips, so she just put it down and watched along with Troy, who slid his hand on top of hers and gave her a reassuring squeeze. The analingus scene ended with Pam rising her to her knees so Marci could lick her anus more deeply. Both women were clearly into it now, and Pam began moaning and rubbing her pussy with two fingers before she suddenly came, writhing and rolling her face into a pillow as Marci continued to tongue-fuck her ass. Finally, Marci and Pam exchanged a kiss and Pam offered her a cherry. "Cut!" Phil said. Pam and Marci kissed affectionately and climbed off the bed to applause. "Hot, very hot," Angela said. "The camera loves your ass..." "So do I," Marci giggled. "She has a yummy bum..." "Well, that should do it for tonight," Phil said. Stunned at first, Marsha's heart sank. "Marsha has her scene," Troy said. "You really up for it?" Phil asked him. "This will be the third time you've come today. A blowjob can take forever when you're tapped out...unless you want to fake it." "It doesn't take me that long with a sexy new lover," Troy said, patting Marsha's hand. She smiled and couldn't help gazing at his cock. "And I'd like him to give you a cumshot," she said, smiling slyly at Troy, her head slightly bowed. "Okay, then. The moon is up," Phil said. "We'll do it out on the balcony. Marsha, get ready while we set up..." A little unsteadily, Marsha stood and grabbed her flannel shirt off the back of a chair. "Ladies usually change in the other bedroom," Troy said, "but you're welcome to do it here..." Draining her wine, Marsha gave Troy a sexy look. "You have to wait for your surprise." Then she walked in to find Pam stripping off her stockings and corset. "Wow, I need to get off after all that," Marci smiled as Marsha put her shirt down on the bed. "I bet," Marsha said, unbuttoning her blouse. "That was very hot..." "Thanks," Marci said. The two women watched Marsha as she unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. "I can see why Phil wanted you," said Pam, who was now completely naked again. "Damn. You're hot!" Marsha smiled and slid her bra straps off her shoulders. Tossing the bra on a chair, she turned her back to the two women and made a slow, sexy show of pulling her black thong down. "Wait til Troy sees you," Marci said as Marsha turned back and winked at them, cocking her hip. "You think?" Marsha asked, slipping on the flannel shirt, but leaving it open. It came down only to her waist, so her ass was clearly visible. "Here, you need some make-up," Pam said. "Sit over here and I'll put it on for you..." For the next several minutes, Marsha sat in front of a mirror as this luscious, nude black woman lightly powdered her face and fixed her hair. Pam's nipples were huge and dark and she had a plump mons topped by a small triangle of black pubic hair. Her body smelled nice -- like tangy pussy and chocolate. The occasional touch of Pam's hand, breast and ass on Marsha as she moved and turned to grab things made Marsha fantasize about her first lesbian scene. She found herself longing to taste pussy and a woman's anus again. "There you go," Pam said. "Break a leg, gal..." Marsha rose and walked into the living room where Phil, Pam and Alex turned to look at her. "Wow, nice..." said Alex. Marsha realized her knees were shaking, so she waited in the doorway as the final preparations were made. The scene called for her to linger in the doorway of a candlelit room and then walk over the balcony where Troy was waiting, naked, in a shaft of moonlight. They would kiss and Marsha would go down on him to completion. Phil and Angela told her she could do whatever she wanted with the cum. "Make it the most passionate blowjob you've ever given," Phil said as Pam, still nude, and Marci came in to watch. Marsha nodded and took several deep breaths. At last the room was ready, the crew hushed. "Action!" Phil said, and Marsha leaned against the doorway for a couple of moments gazing at her adonis in the moonlight. Letting the open flannel shirt fall off one shoulder a bit to expose her breasts, her eyes locked on Troy's and he gave her a sweet smile. Trying her best to walk seductively across the candlelit room, Marsha's heart pounded and her pussy juices began to flow, but she decided to focus on the act she was about to perform. She had been waiting so long for it. Once she reached the balcony, Marsha and Troy kissed lovingly. The room had been air-conditioned, but the air outside was humid and a warm summer night breeze washed over them. Marsha trembled as Troy ran his hands under her shirt and over her ass, cupping it. He was a wonderful kisser -- soft and sensual -- and she pressed her pussy against his thigh, leaving her juice on it. Their tongues entwined and Marsha slowly squirmed against his cool, hairless and wonderfully firm body, reveling in the feeling of skin on skin. It was all she imagined it would be. Her palms on his chest, Marsha slowly kissed her way down to Troy's stomach, trying her best to land gracefully on her knees. She was aware of Phil and his camera right behind her and Angela with another off to the side, but she made it down smoothly where she gazed at Troy's half-hard penis. He smelled wonderful -- all man musk, and his body glistened slightly with sweat. Marsha's pussy ached as she lightly took his cock in her hand and kissed the big, pink head. Troy gasped as Marsha covered it with her mouth, moving her tongue against the underside and slowly stroking the shaft, feeling it harden. Troy's penis was delicious, and Marsha felt like coming as it swelled in her mouth. She couldn't believe how big it was getting. The insides of her thighs were wet now. Sensuously sucking as she gently stroked it, Troy's cock steadily became fully hard. Absorbed in her cloud of lust, Marsha kissed the head and licked at the drop of precum that appeared in the slit. It was salty-sweet and she knew she could come if she were touched in any way. "That feels so good, baby," Troy said softly. Passionately kissing and licking at the shaft again, Marsha nuzzled Troy's balls, her tongue dancing over them as she breathed in his scent. She wanted to taste every inch of him now. Lifting his cock as his hands lightly caressed her hair, Marsha licked at the taut skin between his scrotum and anus. Troy parted his legs wider and she teased at his asshole before running her tongue slowly up the shaft of his cock again. As Marsha took the now-throbbing penis her mouth, she could see Angela and a camera next to her and it shifted her lust into overdrive. She took Troy by the hip, gently pulling at it. At first, Troy seemed confused. Then he realized what Marsha wanted. Turning his back slowly to her, he leaned forward against the balcony railing as she madly kissed his bare, hairless ass, licking at the salt between his buttocks and moaning involuntarily. When her tongue met the slightly yeasty slickness of his moist anus, Marsha nearly slipped into orgasm. This was very much for real. She spent the next minute or so lustfully rimming Troy, her hand between his legs, alternately cupping his balls like ripe fruit and then stroking his erection. He knew exactly when to turn around and as soon as Marsha felt him move, she pulled back. Once again, that big, gleaming glorious erection was right in front of her face -- the head purplish with Troy's impending orgasm. To Marsha, this hot, sexy throbbing meat was the perfect erotic representation of manly strength, and she worshipped it with her lips, tongue and mouth, making it glisten with her saliva, and thrilling to the knowledge that she was pleasuring it intensely. Sucking intently, Marsha felt Troy tense, so she stroked a little harder. Suddenly he gasped and rocked back. She felt his penis spasm in her mouth and the first creamy spurt hit the back of her throat. The next coated her tongue with sticky, sweet warmth. She wanted to send him through the roof in uncontrollable ecstasy now. Stroking and squeezing the pulsing shaft as she licked at the underside of the head, Marsha began to come as Troy's warm semen filled her mouth. She swallowed, then continued to urge more out of him, her lips coating his shaft with white goo. When the spasms stopped, she licked at the head with the tip of her tongue, taking a big drop of cum off it. Troy was moaning. Marsha cupped his balls with one hand and squeezed more of his pearly cream onto her extended tongue as she gazed up at his ecstatic face, never wanting this moment to end. His come was delicious, his moans loud, and Marsha felt all-powerful with his penis in her mouth. The knowledge that she was being watched and filmed sustained her own orgasm. She had never come while giving head before, especially not without being touched. Phil nimbly moved in closer with his camera as Marsha licked Troy's still hard penis, cleaning the last drops of his cum off the head before planting several soft, loving kisses on it. When she gazed up at Troy and he softly touched her hair, Phil said, "Cut! That was fantastic..." A round of applause broke out behind Marsha, who was now sweaty, dishevled and utterly exhilarated. She rose to her feet, licking Troy's cum off her lips before giving him a kiss on the cheek. He kissed her on the lips and they headed back into the room where drinks and a little release party ensued, with Phil and Angela fucking on the bed to ease their long day of pent-up arousal. Pam lowered Marci's jeans and went down on her while Marci gave Alex a blowjob. Marsha watched all of this from the love seat, nude and with a glass of wine in hand, as Troy gave her head. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy her new career, and she hadn't even seen her first movie yet. Actress (For my Master.) * "Anything goes, make it long." The recorded prompt sounds bored with herself, weary of the words she is condemned to speak. She used to sound annoyed with me, but in the fifth hour I stop taking it personally as I start to crack. "Hello?" "Does your bed creak?" No, I think to myself, but my desk chair does. Moving to the fifties modern style chair I sit in now as I write this I rock back and forth to produce an audible metal creak. "Like this?" "Yeah, baby!" I can hear he's thoroughly abusing himself to the sound of my creaking. The absurdity of what my psych degree has got me for a career is not lost on me and I do smile. And this will be an easy call. Just making a sound effect until this wanker finishes? This is the kind of thing I could draw out... However, I'm looking at the clock with growing agitation. I was supposed to have been dismissed an hour ago and now I'm getting out of breath creaking in my chair for a guy proving to be a very long call. I add in some phony moaning to encourage him, frequently gasping, "More?" "Yeah, I promise, I'm almost there!" he says, suggesting I'm rushing him, the opposite of what I'm supposed to do. I don't fucking care. The window of time I have between shifts is closing and I am expecting a midnight visit from my Owner. Nothing is ready. I have to clean up so he doesn't see the squalor I tolerate between visits, though he's said, "I won't be storming out if you didn't do the washing up." It's a little beyond that. I also have to shave extensively. "More?" as I creak on my "bed." The guy eventually finishes, says "thank you," to his credit, and just when I am expecting a supervisor to dismiss me, I get another call. I have blankets to get in the dryer, a cat box to consider, so I just moan a lot because I am too stressed to bother with conversation. Finally, I have about three hours to myself before my late shift and then what makes this all seem worth it, my Owner. When I couldn't find work it was looking like I might be headed back to stay with my father who had offered to take me in. The trouble was, back home was on the other coast and the man I belong to is here. The thought of giving up broke my heart, so I have been doing some "phone acting." I have always wanted to work from home, but didn't realize how home changes when you work there. Especially listening to the most unimaginative depravity for hours on end. I hoped I hadn't contaminated the sanctuary I work to keep for my own pure perversion. I needed my Owner to purify it with me; as he reminds me, "There is no sin except stupidity." I get off on my Owner's delectably involved sentences, the surprising descriptive words, the humor... I have a caller who mostly wants me to say the word "cunt" again and again. Parts of speech other than dirty nouns can fall away, except for Fuck, which, as we all know, is multi-purpose. The supervisors are fast talkers, so the phrase I took to mean I could call it a night actually meant finish out the hour. Oh fuck. Fortunately, I can't disable my call waiting with their instructions—I still get beeps and didn't have any, so he didn't come tonight. When I hang up with permission, I look around pleased at my clean apartment, at the ropes, flogger, candles, clamps, gag, razor blades, and peroxide arranged on my dresser. The collar and lead are by the front door. The crop is on the cleared dining table. I touch, and yes, I am hairless. I get in bed and read until I sleep. I remember almost nothing about any of the callers but the creaky guy and fall asleep strangely content and unusually sober. The corded work phone rings loud by my bed and I happily answer early in the morning. It's him. "Are you awake, my Possessed?" "Barely. Hello, Sir." "Bad news, I'm afraid. Greyhound is sold out. I will call you from the train station, but look up return trips." At ten AM, I know he got either the 9:00 or 9:20 because he didn't call. To get home when he must, we have about three hours alone together. He won't know that until he arrives. "Oh, shit," he tells me around noon when he's in town and I give him the news. "I'll be there in half an hour." I have always met him at either the train or bus station, but in what seems like so much less than thirty minutes, there are four decisive knocks at the front door, as rapid as my heart starts to pound the instant I hear the sound. I think to myself. 'Just answer the door, give him the wordless kiss you do at the station...' I open the door and there is my Master. We take hold of each other with our eyes and start our kiss before I vaguely recall a reason I don't leave the front door wide open. "The cats will escape," I tell him, pulling him into our sanctuary by his jacket. "They will do that," he tells me in his English purr, hardly taking his tongue from the lips I'd just painted moments before. I am the slave, but I've missed my Owner so much my hands are all over his back, at his waist, at his neck. "Am I touching you too much, Sir?" "No, but you are trembling all over." I realize I am shaking the way my hands do, but at this moment it's my whole body. I have given up on writing with a pen, eating what requires a knife and fork, but just answering the door for my lover sends me into full body spasms. That's love, not lithium. We kiss each other with equal desire, matched motions of the lips and tongues, but it's still obvious who is the Owner, who is the possessed property. Before he even pulls me by the hair, I need no reminder. He knows what I am—submissive—and knows it's that inspiring this selfish kiss that shows no sign of ending: His slave is fervently submitting, shivering at the emotion of being held by him again. He allows it for a luxurious moment, lets me pet his back and the sweet skin of his neck while I devour his mouth. "A slave missed her Master?" It's not a question. Then his hand is firm in my too-long hair. We have not seen each other in two months so he forgives the uninhibited affections another Dom might not tolerate. One can imagine how I gushed that the slave adores, loves, loses her mind at the sight—"I am very happy to see you, Sir." Still shaking much more than might be charming, my Owner gently tugs my tangled hair (I did my best to comb it while talking to the tossers) to lead and bend me over the table. Once in position, he pulls me up again. "Look in my eyes. You said the other night you can't look people in the eye and I want to make sure you can look in mine." I do look up shyly at first while he unbuttons my girly white dress, but once eye contact is made I feel completely at home with him. There is nothing in his gaze to fear or despise: I had told him that when I could see the weakness in my former master's eyes I was no longer sub to him in my heart. The man standing before me now knows that if I am willing to look at him openly, there is no weakness or negativity of any kind to be seen. In him I see layers of calm, intellect, and the color gray-blue. Behind the eyes I sense the power in him, but it's hard to perceive beyond the warm blue smile they radiate. It's not a staring contest, but a soft stare that is effortless to maintain. Once again, he Owns me deeper. All lovers enjoy looking into each other's eyes, but between a Master and his slave there is a process at work, working on us and through is. It's another way to give him Ownership of all that I am. He gives me the security of his Dominance without having to tell me the words I can never hear enough: You are Mine. He guides me back to the table to give me the punishment I've been craving so badly I thought I'd climb the walls all the way up into the cobwebs. "You are long overdue for your punishment, my pain whore." "Yes, Sir," I murmur in my substate voice. I do my best to keep my legs and back straight as I bend at the hips to get in position. My legs barely cooperate and tremble cartoonishly. My attire won't matter if I can't present myself in a dignified posture. I recall he told me last time my ass looked like a black apple in these panties, which I took as a compliment, but I barely take in the much missed sensations of slaps and strikes for which I thank profusely before hearing a sound like duct tape being unrolled. It's the latex panties being peeled from my saturated cunt. My sense of time is distorted or else he's moving faster as time is against us. He comments on the wetness that shocks even me. My mind has so much yet to learn, but the body is trained. The sight of him makes me an honest whore. "I think I should make you cum for me here before I lead you to the bedroom." I remain bent and trembling over the table feeling faint as he removes his hand from my body, slick as the latex he's stripped, and I use my own sweat to stick in place on the varnish as I listen to my Owner undress. He does something to me. The body can die little deaths more intense than the release I recognize as orgasm. When his palm returns to my cunt lips and fingertips to my clit I just lose it and beg and scream until I am quickly weak as a kitten. It wasn't an orgasm, but it was not fake—something that has concerned us both since I took on work pretending arousal eight or nine hours a day. The word 'cum' doesn't describe it as it wasn't release, but acquiescence to addictive hunger binding me tighter. I said I would never fake and what he heard was not feigned, not the noises I make for the wankers, but it was more from the brain than the body, this brain and this desire that can punish me worse than any flogger, a piece of why pain can be pleasure—our lesson plan for this afternoon. He helps me to stand and I kiss the back of his hand possessing mine. I kneel. It's more natural now to ask to serve and the request rolls off my tongue smooth like the slit of his cock. He's almost as wet as I am after two months and tastes like honey tastes in poems. I crawl to the punishment room, in only fishnet thigh highs with a vinyl band and some demure patent heels to match the innocent outside and shiny wet under layer; the toes are closed except for little cuts mirroring the eyelets of that thrift shop find. The heels are filthy shiny enough to be fetish, for me. I bought them because I could wear them to feel half like me in the office where I worked a week. Only about 3 inches, they did create that ass-swaying stride. Not the height—they are clever shoes—just the feel and click on slate in the foyer that got me involved in glazed-eyed discussions about keyboard functions and office supplies while daydreaming about being on my knees for one far from that place. That seems long ago. The afternoon of which I write seems long ago, but so much has happened in the past week. I finally broke down after whoring on the phone to child molesters. I drank countless bottles of wine (I made late night trips to the recycle bin to make sure they were uncountable, at least), doing the evening shift drunk and the morning shift from bed knowing this was fucked up but feeling lucky to have found the perfect work for me. The days went by and I remained, like that poem, only the joy didn't come after the pain. It was the opposite until today, when I was forgiven. I had been cruel to my Master. Yes. I lashed out in taciturn messages, rebelling. I was bitter and childish at the same time, as I tend to be, thinking, 'Don't you know what you have done to me with your Ownership? Don't you know I lower myself this way to stay close to you?' As if it's his fault I made the choice to be a phone sex worker. As if it were his fault it proved more disturbing than I could have known. In just less than two weeks, the toll I knew it would take on me had been achieved. Then again, the Stanford prison experiment took about 48 hours. Even from the comfort of my own rooms, cats curled on top of me, as many cigarettes as I wanted, the work did its damage fast. On a Thursday, I was enjoying a day off after months of nothing but days off. I left the house. Money would soon be coming in, a tremendous stress relief. I flirted with a monk on the sidewalk. People at the clinic marveled at how well I looked and had those self-satisfied looks of people doing their lives' work really well. I forgave them. Twenty-four hours later I was insane. It could be what they call "rapid cycling" in bipolar speak (I hate that term because I picture fuzzy white bears at some Ice Storm swinger party). Or cheap CA wine. Or pretending to be seven years old and enjoy it and having all my ACLU support... in question, at the least. He had only asked me to call. I wrote, "I might, but you have a wife, everyone around you, and a whore with swelling eye sockets." Between shifts I did do a number on myself. I was in a lot of pain, needed him, did something he'd never do to me. Behind his back, cheating on us, I hit myself and the bruises continue to worsen and blossom. I just took pictures. They aren't shiners, but I look slightly different to myself. I still can't, even camera in hand, tell him what good that could ever do. He forbids it, but knows if I didn't love him so much I wouldn't hurt when he's gone. We talked this over on the phone. All my "sorrys" for treating him mean on Friday were rejected. How the hell do you talk to a loved one if he doesn't want you to grovel? I don't know. "You weren't mean," he told me, "you were frustrated and alone and in pain." He's scared, too, and not just for my sanity. That I wouldn't love him the same if he were real and not a constructed image. He apologized for still being a teenager, even as I'm the one taking handouts from parents... We're different kinds of teenagers, my Owner and me. He works long hours. He takes care of his wife. Just when I had wrapped, after ten months, that idea around my brain that he meant what he said about loving her, honoring his promise to her, not being a bastard, he said something else. I might not like living with him. "What if I did show up on your doorstep with my bags packed? I'm not easy to live with." He seems to think if I had more time with him, I would fall out of love. Though I know this additional reason doesn't change the reality that he will remain married, it makes it easier to tolerate. That he's not just good, but also scared of exposure, of knowing me as a person beyond a persona carefully created through thought out communication by email, through the elegance of BDSM traditions. Maybe he's scared that the magic of fleeting afternoons and delirious overnight sessions would be damaged. These are reasons I can relate to more than his honor. "The thought of never kissing you or holding my slave fills me with dread, but I don't want my Ownership to tear you up like this." "I don't want this to end," I tell him. "I belong to you, Sir." "I'm too selfish to give up my precious possession." "Keep me, please. This doesn't feel over because we care about each other too deeply. We're lovers." "We are. The lust and affection I feel for my slave is real. We have a bond that is undeniable." "We're fucked." He sighs. "We're fucked." Then I make a real confession. I came close to calling him in my hysteria a couple of nights ago. While I was fending off further self-injurious impulses and muffling my screams with my pillow, I considered calling him late at night on the cell number that was obviously for emergencies only. 'Well, this is a fucking emergency!' I thought and imagined calling to tell him I am in pain and I need him, even if such a call would ruin his life. "It would have been awkward," he said with a laugh, "but of course I would have spoken to you." "Really?" "Of course. I tell you I want to be there for you. What good is that if I'm not when you need me?" I think I just ask, "Really?" a few more times, in disbelief. I am so happy at his response, lack of apparent terror at what I almost did, and so glad I did not call. In my despair that night, I had dramatically accused him of leading me down a one way path to nothing. Though I took that back, he wouldn't allow me to deny there is some truth in that. There is something fated about our connection—it doesn't seem possible to undo it or to make myself truly want to. The image that plays over and over in my mind as an illustration of this inexorable state is one from the last time I was with him. I wear my collar to the bedroom as I crawl on the end of his lead. As I reach the door, the image evaporates, so I rely on my Owner's delicious account of the events of the next two hours. He was alarmed when I said just days later I remembered very little. It was that I was deep in my substate, very different from normal consciousness, but also that I was so blissfully free of all pain I didn't want to remember that. The contrast of such pure contentment with the reality of missing my Master so much and spending my days on the phone contending with a sexuality so different from what I share with him was to hard to bear. I couldn't stand the memory of being that happy, even as I crave the next visit. I crawl to my lesson. We had decided the time had come in my training to experience pleasure and pain at once, rather than alternating between the punishment that gets me welcoming wet for him and the orgasm he uses to dominate me after his hand is unable to resist the effects of his more sadistic side. I get on all fours on my bed, exposed. My Master has his crop in hand from the entrance way, but seeks something more for my vulnerable back. "Where is the flogger?" I can tell he is surprised I'd forget anything. "I hid it, Sir." I hadn't really meant for him not to find it—I like the feel too much—and he spots it quickly on the wall, in the vase where there are usually roses. He returns to the bed to tie me down, placing my wrists in his leather cuffs and tying them together and to the head board. I raise my head from my position on my belly to watch his hands work, to watch the intent look in his eyes, the smile like he'll speak at any moment to tease me about how I watch his every move. When my legs are tied down, I feel the crop on my buttocks and thighs, which always shocks on impact—it makes a sensation in two parts, the first of which is a biting pain that frightens me before receding into a more sensual throb. When the blows come fast enough, all levels of the pain it causes can be felt at once, like fireworks dying as new colors appear. The flogger to my back is pure pleasure, though I know the sensation is in the category of pain. I always want to be struck harder—it's a pleasant sting that is instant gratification—not complicated or scary as the crop. It's a sexual feeling, like being fucked on the surface of the skin. My Master alternates between the two implements, restricting the crop to the fleshier areas of my ass and thighs, while the tails of the flogger are free to catch me everywhere—the side ribs, the back of my neck occasionally, or between my legs. He does not stop when he enters me with his fingers to fuck and punish me at the same time. I learn that pleasure is not pain and pain does not transform into pleasure, though each contains an element of the other, but that I can feel both at once. Pain is still pain, even when I want it and respond sexually every time I'm in this aspect of my Master's care, and the fingers controlling me from inside have me struggling in my ropes more than the punishment. He notices me grinding my pubic bone into the mattress and lets go of the crop to reach underneath me, get to my clit while he fucks me fast and deep with his other hand. I beg him for it: "Please touch my clit so I can cum for you!" He does not deny me and I attack him with the same intensity he's offered me, squirming on my Master's hand with no thought of anything but release from pleasure. My next plea is for him to please stop. Actress He lies beside me, and pulls me to him, tells me to rest my head on his chest. I love this closeness and am surprised the affection I feel and knowing it will soon be over doesn't have my hearting aching, clinging to this moment in a way that causes me to suffer. I never feel any hurt in his presence. He's like an opiate. After all the running around he's done today to get to me, it feels good to him to rest with his pet, though he laments I make him lazy. I don't mind at all—we seem to drift on the same currents of relaxed peace and crazy passion. The one rises naturally from the other and I am content to passively give myself to both. "I promised you an exploratory session," he tells me, reading my mind as he shifts onto his belly. I straddle him, pressing wet and open against his lower back. I had mentioned while we were apart that I fantasized about him lying still and allowing me to serve him by touching and kissing him all over. He does spoil me because it's not his nature to be still, to be touched without putting his hands on me, too. It does feel a bit strange to me as well, being on top of him, looking down, not that we had switched roles in the slightest. His back beneath me, like a canvas, I'm not sure what exactly I mean to do. This is not meant to be a massage, but even so I feel the urge to dig my fingers into him, not to relax him as much as to get inside of him, in a way. Even possessions can have possessive feelings about their Owners. But when my touch becomes too much like an ordinary backrub, I change to a feathery touch of fingertips, exploring each part of him. I take in with my eyes and hands the parts of his back and arms so smooth they almost shimmer white, the hairy parts of his flesh he complains about, the birthmark hidden under his arm. I have to taste and replace my fingers' exploration with my tongue, swing my leg over him to crawl along beside him, reach every contour. He's been generous, but he's had enough. His restlessness makes me smile and I return to lying prone with my Owner kneeling above me—more familiar to both of us. He presses his erection to my lips and his hardness excites me out of the trance I'd put myself into licking his back. In my mouth I can feel I will have his pleasure at any moment and I cum hard under his fingers with his semen raining down across my breasts. He massages it into my skin and I absorb him, take his essence in through my skin like I can't deep in my womb. My Owner bites my neck expressively, fierce even in satisfaction. I ask permission and walk trailing my chain lead to the kitchen to light a cigarette off the stove. I stand there in a daze, smoking, feeling so complete with the collar and his cuffs, it's like I am entirely dressed. This is natural. I return to find him beneath the covers. "Isn't it more intimate this way?" Another of his observations during our play than can sometimes confuse me. I don't see how I could feel any greater intimacy then I already do, but agree and climb under with him. We kiss and for a few days that was my strongest memory of the visit. That long kiss that made me feel as Owned as any carving into my skin. It was heavenly and ended at the tip of his cock to clean him after we pushed down the blankets so I could stroke him freely. I had separated from his lips to lap all his cum from his belly and he gently reminded me to finish my service, which I did with "debauched devotion," he would later write to jog my memory. I remember well. "Possessed," he says gravely, making my heart skip, "there isn't time to carve you today." I smile. His tone had prepared me for some greater disappointment. However, the fact that we have to put our clothes on and leave is unpleasant enough. I remember slipping and saying his first name when getting out of the cab with him at the bus station. I asked, "Oh, God, did you hear that?" as I had spoken it softly. He did, he told me in an annoyed tone, while also pulling me close to him as we walked down the street to spend our last half hour. At the corner, there were two directions we could go. "That way is too crowded on a Saturday afternoon," I said looking at the main street. "Are you ashamed to be seen with you Owner?" "No! No, Sir. You know I'm just antisocial." It wasn't just that. I would be the opposite of ashamed to be seen with him and not just because he is very striking. It's that it's as obvious he Owns me as if I were still on the lead and that does make me proud. I also look prettier when I am happy and am never happier than when at his side (unless I am beneath him). What I did not want was to run into anyone I know and have to introduce him. I couldn't bear to have to speak his name again. If only I could say, "This is my Master," and not, "This is my friend, M." He had never spoken my name once until that night, ironically. He called to let me know he had made it home safe in all senses. I had to phone in for work soon and wanted some extra support before having fake encounters using a series of fake names—not the way I wanted to end a rare day with my Master. "Before I go on, Sir, please say my name to me, my real name." He had been confused by this request, but broke the rules for me because I was adamant I had to hear my real name once more. He called me my "Christian name," but I had meant, "Possessed." So we walk down a quiet, bland street. Having spent most of the afternoon in bed, I hadn't noticed I wasn't much steadier on my feet than when he'd arrived. He takes my arm to support me as I trip over my own feet but doesn't notice to slow his pace. He walks like one used to large cities to begin with, but now is distracted as he is at the end of our visits. I always attributed that sense of distance to his nervousness at having to rely on Greyhound, not wanting to get stranded somehow, maybe feeling ready to get back to his own life, maybe he's concerned I will cry when he leaves. That afternoon it occurred to me as we talked politics the way we do as we return to the ordinary world: He's as sad to leave me as I am to see him go. "Can I see your tattoo?" It's a pretty, friendly, slightly off and very pregnant woman on the bus I take to return to my neighborhood. "Sure," I say, slightly unnerved at the sensual way she caressed my arm. She comments on the angel first and then, "Oh God, is that blood? Why would you do that! I don't mean to be offensive; I'm just trying to understand." "I got it for my man," I begin, and then explain how in tattooing iconography bloody blades combined with other elements just mean you feel something deep enough it seems to go right through you. I don't mention I chose that razor blade because he has one like it with my actual blood on it. Moving on: "Yeah, I'm a little blue. I just put him on that bus," I say pointing to the coach still parked within view of the city bus terminal. "Are you OK?" Her big eyes are filled with excessive concern for a stranger. I can tell she finds this tattoo very sad and interprets that we just ended things and my heart must be broken. "Oh, we're still together. He doesn't live here, but we are together." I smile, but she still looks puzzled. I don't blame her; we are still trying to understand it ourselves. "When you find the right person, you make some sacrifices." "Is he good to you?" "Never once tried to hurt my feelings or make me ashamed." "Do you know what my last boyfriend said to me? He said I was boring!" She says, resting a hand on her spherical stomach. I hope that guy's not the father. "I don't think you're boring at all." Neither would my Master, I think, launching into wolfish seduction mode, except it's my stop and she doesn't seen too stable. "Well, this is me. Goodbye."