Black Book Diaries: 1

The stories that have the most impact on me are the true ones—or at least the ones with the claim or illusion of truth to them. Somehow, reflecting on these flesh-and-blood authors actually participating in the tales they tell here adds an extra element of eroticism that makes the story all that more evocative for me.

So, when I considered the idea of composing my own stories, I was naturally and persistently compelled to draw from life. Leafing through my black book, I felt extremely fortunate upon realizing that I had enough encounters to constitute a body of work, more or less. For the fact is, and this is neither a boast nor a complaint, I've just been something of a hound these last couple decades. Don't get me wrong; I'm a nice enough guy, and have a great, great deal of respect and affection for women. One might even say veneration. But they get into my head from time to time—the smart ones, the beautiful ones, the creative ones, the shy ones, the tempestuous ones—and I get an overwhelming desire to fuck them. That desire often turns into an outright ambition.

Somewhere along the way, and without really being conscious of it, I became somewhat adept at what is commonly called "the art of seduction." That's a rather hackneyed phrase; I don't know if it's an art, but it may qualify as a skill. Some women at particular points in their lives are more susceptible to being swept off their feet, as it were, but most are not. The key to seduction, then, has always been patience. Most women have a large emotional stake in sex, but a sense of trust seems to be the most critical quality that one has to establish with the seductee—enough trust to slightly temper the danger of what they feel themselves growing inclined to do. And with many of these partners, there was definitely an element of danger involved; many of them were married, with boyfriends, or lovers, and sometimes more than one.

As I said, one rarely runs across an object of desire when they are entirely free of some kind of romantic complication or other. But to me, that's been part of the beauty and the challenge, not to mention a large part of their allure. The player on the make, looking for a boyfriend or fuck-buddy, inevitably lacked the kind of passion and abandon that many of these women demonstrated once they recognized their own desire and ultimately gave in to it. Sometimes, admittedly, it was even more than I bargained for. I began to understand at some point that so many women lack something in their lives though quite often without being entirely aware of it. Not all, of course. I have a number of very good female friends who, I could tell from the outset, were very content and secure in themselves, and had no need or interest, not even a repressed one, for me to insert myself in their lives (or in them) in that way.

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Most likely none of the women in these stories, on the odd chance of coming across them and recognizing themselves (which I will naturally take the proper pains to prevent), would not be pleased or flattered to find themselves portrayed here, however flattering my version of affairs may be. Brenda would perhaps be the lone exception.

I once worked in the marketing department of a large consulting firm when Brenda joined the company. Though she was young, her jet black hair was shot with gray: very dramatic, something of a Susan Sontag thing going on. She was much more sturdily built, however, with full, round breasts (as best I could tell from the conservative business outfits she wore) and a bit broad on the bottom—the classic pear shape. She had bright, clear gray eyes and, I thought, a wonderfully plump, sensuous lower lip. She seemed somewhat shy at first, natural for a newcomer, but was friendly and enthusiastic. Almost too enthusiastic, I thought; there seemed something a little false or contrived about it. But I learned a long time ago to avoid judging people too quickly; all people are ultimately unknowable, and always far more complicated than one could ever surmise.

We had some brief occasions to work together, though nothing too involved. Work projects are usually a good way to get to know a woman fairly quickly; sharing a common goal and common effort is a bonding experience. You get to know a lot about a person in fairly short order. I hadn't really thought about Brenda in a sexual way at all upon first getting acquainted with her. I even considered that she might be gay. Mostly because, as I said, of her very conservative appearance: far more conservative that the other women in the office. She wore lots of long, heavy skirts, fussy pleated blouses, big jackets. She complained that none of these business clothes really fit her very well because she had recently lost a great deal of weight, and I was inclined to believe that might be true. I've known several people who were once heavy and even after losing a lot of weight still camouflaged themselves in oversized, unflattering things.

We both found ourselves working together at a client site, and so began to drive back and forth together from our office to the customer's, and that's when I began to know her better. She liked to talk about herself, the things she was doing, her various non-work enthusiasms, and I was glad to let her. My contributions were usually jokes, observations, random opinions, and the occasional bit of flattery. She was pretty, and I began to think she was hiding something behind all those bumptious outfits.

That particular project ended and she went off to work with a different customer while I returned to my office, but from that point we kept in touch somewhat regularly by e-mail. She would write to me asking for help, advice, or information, and I would always respond quickly and usually include pleasantries, remind her of some joke we shared about someone, a bit more flattery that was a little flirty. She'd respond in kind, and sometimes the thread would go on throughout an afternoon.

Things became even more flirtatious, and soon our e-mail exchanges were rarely about work. Still, I really didn't know if I wanted to fuck Brenda. Flirting with her, and seeing how far that could be pushed short of crossing some line, was one thing. Also, I knew she had very recently started dating someone, and that's typically not the most opportune time to try to pursue a seduction. People in the early stages of a relationship generally feel good about themselves, and are unlikely to be too distracted.

I had recently quit smoking, and in addition to using the patch, I usually carried a pack of Life Savers with me to suck on during the occasional craving. One day, during one of our e-mail exchanges, Brenda asked me if I had tried Crème Savers, a creamy fruit-flavored hard candy. I wrote her that I hadn't; were they any good?

"I'm sure they are," she wrote me. "I always enjoy having something creamy sliding down my throat."

I honestly can't remember how I responded to her e-mail. I can remember that immediately after whatever I did write and send, I locked myself in the men's room stall and pumped a pretty substantial load into a wad of tissue. Suddenly the notion of Brenda sucking my cock, still somewhat occasional and abstract at that point, had become very vivid to me.

At the time I was somewhat farther along in the e-mail seduction of someone else (a later story in the series) and had been composing a very erotic letter—a fantasy I was having about this other woman, and one that I hoped to send her soon, as our exchanges had recently become very intimate and things were heating up. Brenda's forwardness with the Crème Saver e-mail, however, had caught me a little by surprise—a pleasant surprise. The very next day, when she wrote me to ask me what I was up to, I responded that I was bored with work and so was wasting the company's money and entertaining myself by writing erotica.

"Oh my God," she wrote me, "I write erotica, too! You can't tell me something like that and not share. You absolutely have to share."

What I had written so far was pretty explicit, but I figured, what the hell; she had already offered a fairly unmistakable innuendo, and she requested it, so it wasn't like I was forcing it on her. And the information that she also wrote erotica, so uncharacteristic with the early impressions that I had formed of her, was too intriguing not to explore. Most importantly, I also knew that once I sent her a sexually explicit story fragment to read, I would be in her head, if I wasn't there already. I would gain a sexual role in her imagination.

A couple hours passed after I sent her the story fragment before I heard back from her. I wasn't surprised by that. She may have decided not to read it at work (always a risk), or she may have read it and spent some time fashioning a response or, more likely, trying to decide whether or not she should send the response she fashioned.

"I was going to save this to read until I got home, but I just couldn't resist," she wrote to me. "Now I wish I had waited, because I am SO wet." Included in her e-mail was a link to a Web site where, to my surprise and delight, she had posted a number of her own stories.

I read them all that afternoon. Spent the entire afternoon, actually, pouring over those tales that I had to believe offered an uncurtained window into her erotic psyche. Brenda plainly enjoyed sex and enjoyed fantasizing about it in a variety of ways. Things had moved far faster than I expected, but then she turned out to be far more sexually sophisticated than I would have guessed. The gauntlet had been thrown down, as far as I was concerned.

I wrote: "I devoured all your stories, lecher that I am, though I have to say that I only barely made it through the second one before I had to lock myself in the men's room stall and relieve my aching hardon. So I think your work produced the desired effect. Yes, I jacked off. Yes, there was a large load of cum."

She responded: "The ladies' room here doesn't offer that kind of privacy, but don't worry, I'll take care of things as soon as I get home from work, thinking about you with your cock in your fist... whew! Glad you had fun!"

The next day I didn't go into the office but made up some excuse and promised to work from home. I wrote Brenda in the morning, a fairly innocuous e-mail, and mentioned that I was feigning back problems, was at home all day, and would she be interested in having lunch—my apartment was conveniently close to the customer site where she was working. She seemed to hem and haw over this for a while, but then said she thought she could get away, and that she would stop at a nearby deli and pick up sandwiches for us.

Eating sandwiches wasn't what I had in mind, but then again, I recognize the importance of appearances. So much depends on the mating dance. (I also considered the possibility that she might actually be hungry, as well.) And of course, I hadn't asked her if she would like to come over at noontime and fuck. An important part of the first stages of seduction, I've learned, is to leave open the possibility that, indeed, nothing might happen. Some people talk a good game, but getting cold feet is not unusual. She might not have wanted to come over and fuck; but she may have wanted to come over and test the waters, as it were. She may have just wanted to feel the temptation, the sexual tension; there is something to be said for sampling and savoring that, and resisting the urge is often an important prelude to ultimately giving into it. Or, she may have just wanted to walk in the door, push me down on the floor, climb on top of me, fuck my brains out, and then have a sandwich.

Keep in mind, I still wasn't sure that I should fuck Brenda. I definitely wanted to. But I wasn't interested in a romantic relationship with her, and I didn't want something to happen between us that would prompt her to dump her new boyfriend and have any expectations beyond the physical. Thinking over all this, I knew I had to somehow convey this information to her in some delicate manner. Maybe I was the one getting cold feet. There were still a couple hours until she would arrive for lunch. I re-read some of our e-mails, and a couple of her stories, and jacked off again, hoping to take the edge off things.

She did indeed arrive with sandwiches—smoked turkey, gouda cheese, avocado, dear girl—and we ate them at my kitchen table with a couple Diet Cokes. We talked about work. I asked her about her new boyfriend, and she laughed and described how, even after three dates, he still hadn't tried to kiss her goodnight, and how frustrating that was. She asked me for the first time if I was involved, and I explained (falsely: I'm a prick, I know) that I was, and quite happy with my situation. I thought I detected a bit of disappointment. But I had to be honest; I couldn't lead her astray or misrepresent my intentions. I wanted to fuck her in the worst way by now, but I've let that urge overwhelm my judgment and my sensitivity to another woman's situation before, and it almost always leads to something regrettable.

She asked then about the erotica. I explained that I had an almost epicurean interest; I liked erotica, and I liked sex, and I liked it frequently. "I have fantasies and desires like everyone else," I said, "Or like I imagine everyone else has. Sometimes I just think mine are more... persistent."

I cleaned up our lunch items. She stood near the sink and continued to chat with me while I loaded the dishwasher.

"Well," she said, softly, "I guess I should get back to work."

"Ug," I said. "Hey, why don't you just call in and say you're under the weather, and hang out here this afternoon?" She was leaning against the kitchen counter and I stepped toward her.

"That would be wonderful, but I've got a meeting at 2, and then some other things I have to finish."

"Too bad," I said. "I've got a bottle of wine with your name on it. It's a Cabernet, but it distinctly says 'Brenda.' In my handwriting, of course. In crayon."

She threw her head back and laughed—that jet black hair, that shock of gray—and I moved in very close to her so that when she stopped laughing, her eyes were near and level with mine.

"You might... try to convince me..." she said, and as if she were falling into a sleep, she gently closed her eyes. I could feel her breath on my face.

"Okay," I whispered, and pressed my lips softly to her mouth.

That sensuous lower lip. I felt it press against mine, lightly at first, but then more insistently. Then her mouth opened, and I felt her tongue, and I tilted my head to the right to taste her completely. We both began to breathe heavily, and she brought a hand up to my cheek and held it firmly there.

"We probably shouldn't do this," she breathed as we broke briefly and then continued.

"Probably not," I whispered back, slipping my fingers into her hair, lightly cupping the back of her head.

"We could get fired if someone found out," she said.

"Mmm... yeah."

At that, I pulled away, breathing heavily. We were both still more or less at a right angle to one another against the corner of the kitchen counter, and I stepped away across the kitchen, backing up against the stove.

"Yeah," I said, making as if to compose myself. At this point, I didn't want to press her. I wanted to see how interested she was in taking this anywhere, and also to tease her a bit. If she had any second thoughts or hesitations, I didn't want to just steamroller them by being too aggressive. It was her move, and I knew that if she made it, she was committed and there would be no turning back.

"I guess it would be a little risky, considering all the circumstances," she said, though faintly smiling. "A.. what the hell."

She stepped forward briskly and grabbed my shirt front in her fist, pressed her mouth hard to mine. I cupped her ass in my hands and pulled her firmly against me, so she could feel my hardon through her heavy skirt. She reached down and rubbed my cock through the fabric, then quickly yanked open my belt, unhooked my pants. She fumbled with the inner trouser button, so much so that she started to laugh, broke the kiss, looked down and used two hands to finally unfasten it. Then she brought her lips back to mine and plunged a tongue into my mouth as she carefully drew down the zipper.

Brenda moaned softly when she reached inside the waistband of my boxers and finally took my cock lightly in her fist, and I gave my own little grunt of pleasure. She curled her fingers around it, only enough to make the faintest contact against the skin, then slowly began stroking it before very carefully taking my lower lip between her teeth and pulling it slightly before breaking away.

"Mmm, I want this," she whispered, then bent over and took my cock into her mouth.

I tucked back the dark hair that had fallen across her face so I could see her lips on my cock. She ran her tongue-tip along the top of the shaft before very gently touching it to the glistening bead of pre-cum on the head. She flicked at the sensitive underside of the head a bit before placing the flat of her tongue at the base of my cock and licking slowly and firmly up the shaft. I was rock-hard and incredibly turned on by her ministrations, and thought that if I hadn't jacked off before her visit, I probably would have unloaded pretty quickly, standing there in that sunny kitchen, this dark-haired girl with whom I'd just shared lunch working her tongue and lips over my erect cock, making little murmuring sounds as if this was the only thing she wanted all along. I wanted to cum in her mouth, to give her that "something creamy" sliding down her throat, but I also wanted to fuck her before I fed her my load.

Now she was working the shaft in and out of her mouth, going about halfway down, occasionally following the path of her lips with a twisting pump of her fist. She was still bent over, and though I would have preferred her on her knees or squatting in front of me, it gave me the chance to hike up her skirt from behind, reach between her legs, and stroke my fingers against her pussy. Unfortunately, it was firmly girded beneath layers of pantyhose and panty, but that wasn't enough to camouflage the heat and the dampness between her legs.

I decided to talk dirty to her; the people in her stories spoke that way to one another, as did the characters in mine, so I assumed that she liked it.

"Mmm, Brenda, that's so good, baby," I whispered. "Yeah, suck my cock, honey. I want to fuck you. I want to feel my cock in that hot cunt of yours before you make me cum. Let me fuck you."

I drew my hand up over her ass and grabbed the waistband of her panty hose, hoping to start working them down. She pulled her mouth from my cock and swiveled her ass out of my grasp.

"Oh," she was panting lightly, "I can't right now," and she went down on her knees finally, still twisting her fist along the length of my cock. "If I let you start fucking me then I'll never get back to work this afternoon. I have my heart set on a mouthful of your cum."

She brought her mouth back over the head of my cock and resumed sucking, bobbing on it a bit more rapidly, but still only taking it about halfway. Her new position on her knees felt better and was more exciting for me. She seemed so careful, however, to make sure I didn't feel her teeth that the friction of her mouth moving up and down on my cock seemed almost too light.

"Oh, yeah, baby, that is so fucking good," I said. "Do you want that mouthful of cum, baby? Hmm?"

"Yes," she gasped, and said between sucks, "Cum in mouth. Give me your load."

"Oh yeah," I said, "I'm gonna give you a nice, creamy load of cum, baby."

I needed to increase the friction. With both hands I drew back the hair from both sides of her face, held her head, and gently began pumping her mouth with my cock.