Darkness.  Every light in the house was off, including the usual nightlight in the hallway.  It was as if I had entered a tomb after the baleful glare of the street lights outside.  Silent gloom dampened the sound of the door closing behind me.

I teetered on unsteady feet,  the drinks I’d consumed conspiring to topple me on my stilettos with one light breath.  I braced myself against the door frame and waited for my eyes to adjust, listening to the eerie quietude.  Something groaned in the kitchen – walls and floors settling in the old house.  Windows creaked at the caress of the breeze outside.

Gathering my balance, I took a few more tentative steps toward where I expected the sofa to be.  I had an urgent need to get the uncomfortable shoes off.  They had served their purpose, drawing the random lust of men in the club, accenting the lean muscles of my bare calves and thighs under the short black dress.  But now they were a threat to my life.  I could break my neck and lie in my own drunken waste all night.

My knee thudded into the arm of the sofa.  I exhaled with relief and began turning to sit when  thick arms suddenly circled my waist, pulling so tightly they pushed the air from my lungs!  He held me prisoner, his strength overpowering me as he lifted me off the floor.

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Well, yes, I might be coming later today if I can find a hot guy to tickle my fancy :)  But that’s not what I meant.

I’m about half done with a rework of an older story I wrote for Greg which is partially based on an experience I had at the sex club and mostly based on my own wild, freaky imagination.  I’ll give you a hint:  I’ve been obsessed lately with being bound and gagged in a room full of horny men.  It’s hard to write about because I keep getting so turned on I have to stop and calm myself down.

Also: I’ve decided to start my own Flickr stream.  It’s flagged as adult, meaning you have to click through some warnings and assure the good Flickr folks that you’re old enough to see my bits.  Don’t expect real-life pictures here, this is all avatar-porn from my many MANY partners in Second Life.  I’m learning new Photoshop tricks too, and I’m putting some of my experiments in the stream.

Check me out in all my naked, freaky glory at Halie’s Flickr Stream.   Comments are welcome, just be nice.  Trolls and asshats will be deleted.  There’s only a few photos up for now, but be patient - I really want to show off my massive screenshot collection and will be adding more as the weeks go by. If you’re a former SL lover of mine, be assured I will crop faces as much as possible and focus on my own sexy ass instead. After all, this is about me being exhibitionistic, not blackmailing anyone! :)

<3 H.

Update:  I got an email from Flickr notifying me that my Flickr page has been marked “restricted” due to content.  I guess I didn’t realize I hadn’t already done that.  No big deal, I don’t want kids looking at naked cartoons having sex.  It might scar them for the rest of their lives.

And to think: I haven’t even uploaded the REALLY nasty stuff yet!

Lots of different trains of thought jumbled in my head today.  All of them revolve around sex, naturally.  I’m going to try to weave them together into a coherent little op-ed somehow.

First, I was talking to a friend about why people of both genders would become sexually adventurous.  I boiled it down to three motivations for myself:  Curiousity, Adventure, and Love.

Curiousity mostly happens when we’re young.  As teens, when our hormones start to batter down the ramparts of our good sense, it’s all a big exciting mystery for most of us.  I still remember the first time I ever saw a male penis closeup at full erection, and it absolutely fascinated me.  Still does, in fact – I think the penis is one of the most amazing things ever invented!  It took me several years to feel as though I understood how they work and what they’ll respond to.  Most of the time it doesn’t take much – a stiff breeze, for example.  But learning the right combination of tongue, lips, teeth and fingers that will bring one to frenzied eruption doesn’t happen overnight.

Adventure is harder to explain.  Some people are more adventurous than others.  I love trying new things, or as they say “I’ll do anything once.  Twice if it feels good.”  Going to sex clubs with my ex, Greg, was an adventure.  Picking up strange guys in bars was an adventure.  A key ingredient of adventure, of course, is the presence of risk.  I’m probably lucky I never encountered a serial killer or a woman-beater among the many men with whom I’ve had sex.

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It’s long been one of my secret fantasies to be examined by a sexy, commanding doctor.  It excites me to think about lying on an ob/gyn table in a paper gown with my feet in the stirrups while he uses me however he desires.  In reality, my current gynecologist is a nice middle-aged female who makes me feel very comfortable when I have to be probed and examined.  But what if?

***
I met Doctor Anderson at one of Paul’s club meetings.  I was sitting on one of the leather sofas in the gathering room when he sat next to me and started getting to know me.  His name was Dillon.  He was in his early 40’s with neatly-styled white hair and hypnotic ice-blue eyes.  I found myself feeling very drawn to him and when he told me he was an ob/gyn, suddenly every nerve ending in my body came alive.  I sat up, my nipples instantly growing into stiff peaks.  “Oh, you are?” I said dumbly, unable to come up with a better retort that would impress him with my dirty mind.

He noticed, though.  Maybe it was a reaction he was accustomed to getting from some women.  Maybe he had the same fantasies I did.  “Does that interest you?”  The smile on his face made my panties damp.

I cleared my throat.  Blood rushed to my face.  I had never confessed this to anyone before, and I admitted that to him.  “It’s just not done, you know?”  I said, my eyes lowered as if I was afraid of meeting his gaze.  “Professional conduct and all that.”

I felt him lean closer to me, the heat from his body warming my arm and breast.  “Of course.  But during off hours, what’s wrong with a little fantasy?”

I glanced around the room for Greg.  But he was nowhere to be seen.  He was probably upstairs in one of Paul’s many bedrooms entertaining his inner voyeur by watching other people fuck.  “Nothing’s wrong with it at all,” I smiled, returning the signal by leaning against him subtly.

“Maybe you’d like to come with me?  I can show you my private office.”
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I have a large folder of X-rated porn sites in my internet browser.  Most of them I’ve bookmarked in case I ever became interested later.  Some I just bookmarked so I wouldn’t have to search again.  There’s a theme that seems to run through all of them - my preferences lean toward amateur porn; real people with normal bodies and no “boom chicka mow mow” theme music with fake orgasms.  Anonymous sex with strangers, group sex and gangbangs, and almost all straight man-woman or man-woman-man.  Girl-girl porn’s nice, but it doesn’t set fires in my panties like a good amateur gangbang scene.

So here I am today, a little under the weather with the beginnings of a head cold, sucking throat lozenges and cruising through my bookmarks looking for something to help me shake this zombie feeling from all the cold meds.  Head colds stifle the oxygen to our bodies and sap our energy.  Maybe there’s an antidote in sexual arousal, I thought?

I opened one bookmark that I’d completely forgotten about.  I learned of it back when I was hanging with some people in Second Life who lived the BDSM lifestyle, back before I’d decided I wasn’t cut out to be a full time submissive.  While I don’t really want to promote other people’s websites here, I have to say that the $30 I plunked down for this one was more than worth the money.

It’s called “Public Disgrace“, one of the sub-sites (no pun intended) of Kink.com.  The idea of Public Disgrace is “women bound, stripped and punished in public”.  Now I remember why I bookmarked it:  it combines my submissive fantasies, my fantasies of public exhibitionism and being used by groups of strangers.  All my kinks neatly rolled into one nice package.

I must have been suppressing this aspect of my sexuality for too long, because I forgot what it does to me.  After sitting through an eighty minute video which featured an attractive young girl who volunteered to be stripped, tied up and humiliated by a group of about twenty men and women, I don’t mind admitting that my head cold is much better.  My panties are wet, but my head is clear.

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I have very intense sexual dreams now and then.  Usually, these dreams concide with some combination of watching porn with Mark, having steamy sex with Mark, drinking, having a flirtatious encounter with a hot, hunky stranger and/or becoming very sexually frustrated.

The hornier I get, the darker the dreams become.  I wonder what that’s telling me about my inner psyche?

Last night, Mark and I watched a porn video that was better than most I’ve seen.  Rather than the impeccably coiffed boy toys with twelve-inch cocks you see in most commercial porn these days,  this one featured some very attractive normal-looking actors and something approximating a real plot.

Sorry, I don’t know the name of it.  Mark brought it over with him and then took it home when he left.

The plot made me so excited that I had his pants unzipped before half the movie was gone, and I would have gone down on him but I didn’t want to miss anything.  I had to make him suffer by using just my hand, slowly stroking his gorgeous cock with occasional pauses to prevent him from ejaculating before I was ready.

Premise:  Married couple is bored with their sex life.  Standard stuff, so far, right?  But in this movie, the husband discovers that the neighborhood men have a secret club.  In their secret club, they turn their wives into sex slaves and throw parties featuring the ‘wife of the week’ on a large bed while a dozen or so neighbor men use her sexually, however they want.

By the time Mark and I couldn’t restrain ourselves any longer and had adjourned to the bedroom,  my body had turned into wobbly, heated mush.  As he probed me with his fingers and wiggled his tongue into my ear and mouth, he coaxed me into admitting that the idea made me half crazy with lust.  The ensuing sex was volcanic, more explosive than Mount St. Helens and far more satisfying.

If I thought that was the end of it, I was wrong.  We fell asleep easily, exhausted from our carnal exertions.  When I woke up this morning, my panties were damp and musky and I was lost in a sexual fog, unable to push my dream out of my head.

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A very good SL friend of mine messaged me the other day.   I’ll call her “Nina” for the purposes of this story.  (An “SL Friend” is one you know through interaction in Second Life but have never met in person.)  She’d been offline for a long time, gathering herself and rededicating her real life after breaking up with her long-time SL partner.

It wasn’t one of those insta-loves we see declared so often in profiles.  You know the ones – exaggerated declarations of undying love, photoshopped pics of their avatars cuddling against a sunset.  This couple was together for a very long time, by SL standards, voicing and video-camming as often as they could.  And they even met in RL to see where things might lead.

I was rooting for them both.  They both deserved to find love with someone who cherished and valued them for who they are.  From the scattered reports I received while Nina was across the Atlantic with him, I had expectations that things would work out.  The fairy tale would have a happy ending.

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(This is a fiction piece I’ve decided to enter into an in-world SL erotic literature contest.  The catch is that I was limited to 1,500 words and the story had to have a Christmas theme.  That meant I had to cut back on my usual florid verbosity.  But it also forced me to be more concise.  I’ll leave it to you whether it works or not.

UPDATE Dec. 24:  I won the contest with this piece!  Check my in-world SL profile for the location of the Erotic Writers’ library.  Pick up free copies of all the members’ work there.)

My husband Greg’s company Christmas party was in full chaos mode.  Among the tinsel and mistletoe, loud chatter mingled with the music of the sappy lounge band.  Couples were dancing.  Co-workers were flirting.  Everybody was drunk, including me.

The boss, Grant Jameson, was holding court in the crowd, all six foot three of him. He was finely toned from exercise; his salt and pepper hair styled perfectly, his Van Dyke beard giving him the air of a millionaire CEO.  He was a woman magnet.

I was standing at the bar, waiting for another drink when I heard Grant’s deep, silken voice close to my ear.  “Good evening, lovely lady.  You look smashing tonight.”

I turned, ready to scold him, but his pale grey-green eyes froze me in place.  I blushed and stammered a thank you, forgetting that I was angry with him for denying Christmas bonuses to his employees this year.  When Greg had given me the news, I had used words like “bastard” and “Scrooge”.  Now, standing close enough to smell his cologne, all I could think of was “hunk”.

Grant had a reputation as a womanizer.  He’d hit on me at other parties but I had always declined.  While I probably hadn’t done any favors for my husband’s career by refusing him, I wasn’t a cheater … yet.

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I waited until Mark returned home from his business trip to Los Angeles before I confessed my sins to him.  I felt nervous, not sure how he was going to react to my indiscretion even though he’d been the one to draw first blood by sleeping with someone.

I sucked it up and decided that it didn’t matter how he reacted.  The important point was that I needed to be honest.  I required it in order to live with myself.  Perhaps my one-night stand with Devin had been a mistake. Maybe I’d exercised bad judgment.  But I couldn’t change it, now. What was done, was done.  I would rather lose Mark by being honest than to hide it and have him find out later.

So I asked him to come over after he had a night to rest up from his trip.  I originally meant to just meet him at the door in my usual tshirt and jeans, but something stopped me.  Fact was, I did want to keep him.  He’s the sexiest, smartest, nicest guy I’ve ever known.  He knows what excites me and he knows exactly where to touch me.  I’d survive losing him, but I didn’t like the prospect.

So I decided to fight dirty.  I slipped into a hot bubble bath, splashed on my favorite Thierry Mugler perfume, brushed out my blonde hair and started digging through the closet for something slutty.  I settled on this sheer red babydoll that Greg had bought for me but I’d never worn for Mark.  It had gotten a tiny bit snug around the breasts since I’d last worn it, so I just skipped the bra and let my dark aureoles peek through the sheer lace.  The red thong fit better, but still snuggled a little too tightly between my legs.  The way it was rubbing against my ass, it started making me wet before Mark ever showed up.
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They say that our adult sexual kinks develop early, based on formative sexual experiences that happen to us during our youth.  I can point directly to some of my first sexual adventures as the catalysts for the kinds of attitudes and fetishes I have today.

For example, take car sex. I love having sex in cars, especially in big back seats.  Even vans or SUVs have their appeal to me.  And I know why, too.

When I first became sexually active at a young age, we usually couldn’t afford a motel room and in most situations our parents were home.  That left my date’s car.  My first time was in the back seat of a Honda, and I still remember fondly how turned on I was and how much I wanted to have sex with that boy.  That first encounter was also marked by another indelible memory.  After we’d finished doing it, a local policeman caught us, shining his bright light into the backseat where I sat, stark naked, legs open, face flushed from energetic fucking.  He chased us off, but I still remember the secret tingling I felt at being so publicly exposed and being caught doing something so naughty.

It set the wheels in motion for all the wanton freakiness I experimented with over the years.   It also set the stage for my most recent adventure.

I’ve mentioned Mark before.  He’s my latest guy, the successor to the lovable but too-quirky Greg.  Mark is one of those hunky, intelligent, soft-spoken studs who can make you orgasm with his eyes.  He has dimples that melt my panties.  His demeanor can be frustratingly level-headed and reasoned, but I love him for that.  When we started seeing each other some months ago, I thought maybe I was done fooling around so much.  No more sex clubs, no more random one-night stands.  I was all set to be a one-man woman.  Mark’s woman.

Mark said he didn’t have any interest in seeing other girls, which flattered me for a while.  But that was before he started spending so much time travelling on business.  He’s gone for days or a week at a time, leaving me home alone to either cyber with strange men in Second Life (with his knowledge and consent) or to webcam with him in his hotel room.

Don’t get me wrong, doing a strip for him and masturbating on cam can be a turn-on.  But it doesn’t replace the real thing.

I’m not a clingy, possessive woman.  Mark knew this.  Our long conversations on fidelity had probably set him up for what happened next, so I blame myself, too.  I’d told him all about my relationship with Greg and how we had allowed each other to fool around as long as we were honest.  But based on what Mark had said so far, my understanding of our relationship was that we were to be strictly monogamous.  I refused lots of dates with other guys because I thought it was a mutual decision with Mark.  The catch?  We hadn’t really discussed it in detail.

Then Mark dropped the bomb on me:  We were on Skype a couple of weeks ago and he said he had to confess something.  He blurted out that he’d slept with a woman he’d met at one of his client companies.  He hastened to assure me that it was a one-time thing and he wasn’t going to be seeing her, but I was stunned.  I’m sure my face betrayed me, too.

Cheater.

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