Collarspace.com

Horizontal Line
Vertical Line
Horizontal Line

Horizontal Line

Horizontal Line

Friends:
kinkynickyneed2COLLARS

Horizontal Line

Vertical Line

I am a professional, self employed 55 year old man, 6' seeking to establish a long term relationship with a local married woman in the central CT area. I am looking for a private consistent opportunity to explore an intimate relationship. Privacy, monogamy and respect are non-negotiable foundations that must be agreed upon. I am not looking to change my situation at home or yours - No Drama. I am looking forward to building a relationship that is all about having intimacy in all areas - emotionally, conversationally and physically. This relationship is outside the boundaries of our current marriages/relationships. I'm not leaving mine and I don't want you to either. It includes intimacy: emotionally, conversationally and physically. Imagine a relationship where: 1) You are not trying to figure out who you are - You Know, 2) You're not trying to buy the first house - You've already done that, 3) No kids - You've got them, 4) You're not trying to establish yourself professionally - You've accomplished that, 5) No arguing or stress - we don't pay bills, raise kids or operate professionally together. When we are together it's only about pleasure, a power exchange involving both mind and body and our relationship. http://barrister1.blogspot.com/ To learn about me in depth...
Looking for a partner to engage in the temporary power exchange paradigm.

I am a product of the Old Guard or Samois culture.

I am not the U.S. Army, here to make you all that you can be. I am not here looking for romance, love or "the one. " If it happens it happens.

If you view your submission as a "gift" please keep it.

I am not looking for dependency, to have my house cleaned or a slave (I
get my own coffee, thank you very much).

I seek intelligence, life experience and strength beyond all else since I prefer a level playing field. I believe in the symbiotic nature of the BDSM relationship.

I don't care what you look like, your race or what kind of car you drive. Be honest about what you expect and possess the ability to communicate openly.

Be in the states of either CT or VT.

I am married and therefore encumbered and seek a partner in the same position.

Horizontal Line

10/28/2010 7:38:19 PM
At first glance, we knew we’d changed. She had some wrinkles and I was graying. Her hair was shorter-red; mine thinning. She was a state provided widower, while I was ending a mid life crisis. Life had made her tough as nails while I, somehow, had maintained my sensitivity. As we embraced, our bodies provided confirmation, we’d grown fleshy. Though we had changed-the intentions hadn’t.
I removed my glasses. My tongue slipped into her mouth. She met it with hers-thrusting-darting-playing tag. I was stunned and enflamed to find her kiss was still the same and that old familiarity was still capable of producing the heat of attraction. I didn’t know if old loves or old lusts died harder.
I reached for her breast, cupped it, caressed it. It was a softer, fleshier thing, no longer pert and perky, time having done its work well. What her breast lacked in lift had been replaced with substance but lacked the pendulous appearance of a National Geographic photo shoot.
I moved to her back, shoulders and down to the small of her back. I wondered if that lovely spot still existed. It did but had lost little definition. Good. That evened things up. I buried myself in dedicated kissing, losing myself in arousal, striving to be free of the burden of aging.
I pinched her nipple lightly with two fingers. “You can still go bra less.” I said pulling away from her kiss. “At the beach you used to drive me nuts when your nipples got hard. You know, the way your nipples would show through.”
She giggled: “Womanly badges.”
I started nibbling on her ear. “And still arresting!”
I prayed that with age came wisdom once our clothes were off.
A jolt between my legs told me to stop worrying and start enjoying. A jolt like that had started it all, years ago in younger days. I was in the front seat with her, our friends in the back seat, cruising, she driving, and, as we turned a corner, I leaned into her. I put my hand on her knee, as if to balance myself. An electric touch, it had forced me to a decision, lose the girlfriend and make myself available to her.
The touch was still electric enough to make me available yet again.
We shed our tops and our torsos pressed the flesh. Her warmth and the now exposed skin were familiarity, renewed. We rubbed our bodies together-petting body slams-and my hands strayed to her breasts. Fingers tugged at both nipples while my mouth travailed downward for follow up. I recalled, rightly so, that my mouth upon her nipples would flare the fuel between both our legs.
She went for the belt buckle, then the zipper, to free me. My cock firm and ready, and her hand grasping and eager, raced to meet each other. She remembered the spire I was, the girth that had satisfied, and as she caressed the length, I realized I’d forgotten the actual feel of her-soft with a volcanic inner core. I moaned, she still sucking. I swayed backwards onto the bed, wanting her to explore more of me, me wanting to reclaim what I’d once known so well.
Letting go of each other, I helped her shimmy from her Dolce and Gabbana, surprised to find her pantiless and shaved.
“No bush,” I smiled, bringing my fingers to her mons, touching, exploring, examining the crevices as if I had never seen them before.
“You remember the time I mixed Summer Blonde with sea water and tried to bleach your hair, don’t you?”
“Yeah ,” I said. “But I thought you were being weird and I thought it was a sacrifice on my part. Of course years later , I realized I was the weird one.”
“No, no you weren’t. I was the weird one. Still am.”
“So you claim.”
“Ah, your old habit of self effacement!” The volcanic core in another form.
Aware of her subtle attitude, I smiled gently, focused on her pussy, examining her. I placed a finger on her clit , imperceptible movements making her groan.
“I understand how to work this better,” I told her, gazing into her eyes briefly, returning to her clit. My finger again began to circle it, rubbing, the build up slow, never any direct contact, working her arousal. But I was also intent on exploring her nuances and folds and I spread her with my other hand. There I found a surprise.
“Whoa!”
“Labia rings…”
“I see.”
“Go ahead, touch them. You can even tug on them.”
I was tentative in my approach, in that initial touch, so like a new lover with a virgin, showing her the ropes of her pleasure.
She demonstrated, tugging, rotating the rings, then directing my fingers back into place. I laughed, softly but sensitively.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do that stuff. Make love to me the old way and I’ll be more than satisfied.”
I smiled and went down on her. My tongue knowing more now than then, so much so that it forced me to stop comparing the past and present.
I concentrated on her clit, swirling, pressing, lips gently nipping now and then for added effect. Fingers wandering, playing with the rings then finding their way into her. Wet, hot, she accepting them greedily. I remembered how sometimes I would eat her to such arousal that I feared her screams would bring others as rescuers. How she cater to my craving, accepting three fingers to the knuckles. How we had been too inexperienced to know we were toying with fisting.
Now, imagining the possibility of completing that play, her every little twitch became a warning to her orgasm, the thought of taking her, imagining all of that, while my tongue and fingers played with her, she came.
A new eagerness exploded with that orgasm. “Let me suck you,” she begged.
I pulled away from her. Shedding my pants completely. “No,” she said as I hovered over her. “My way. I need the control!”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Say yes.”
“Yes!”
I sank my length into her. “I want you,” I said by way of explanation. I started moving and said: “You’re wetter than I remember.”
“Things change,” she managed to gasp before caving to my fullness.
“Good, you feel incredible. Just right.”
I took a nipple, making it go the motions.
“And you taste delicious, you know that?”
She kissed me to prove it.
I knew how to mix just so, deep strokes, long and succulent; drawing the head to the edges of the labia, teasing, shallow; swift ones to test her, wear her down. She neared. She knew I knew she was close. I plunged into her, bottoming out.
“Grab my ass,” she begged me. “Please.”
I did and she cried out, bucking at the feel of my fingers grabbing her cheeks, digging into her flesh. I lowered my head, taking her nipple in, first sucking then nipping. She exploded around me. I deep within, her clutches, spasming, my own lightheadedness as the bed rocked and creaked its complaints. She went limp beneath me but retained her grip. I watched as she rested and returned to lucidity, me slowly but relentlessly thrusting the whole time, as if it was some minor habit.
“Roll over,” I said, withdrawing.
She did and uttered, “Good God.”
I gasped and knew why she cried out when I had grabbed her ass. Bruises. Compliments of a recent spanking.
I touched her gingerly and, though she flinched fully and suddenly, she also moaned with the same passion she had expressed with my other touches. I knew now but still waxed serious, the past catching up with me.
“I did this to you,” I said remorseful. “I made you a masochist.”
“Your love made me a masochist,” she declared firmly, sparing me the reproach. “Forget the details, come on, forget it. Take me!”
She backed into me and pressed me into her. I took aim and entered. She gave ground grudgingly but welcomed the penetration. I felt reluctant.
“You can’t hurt me,” she counseled. “Just do me.”
I took her by the hips and slowly worked her. She became noisy. Stroke by stroke, I convinced myself that I could not hurt her. I relented and indulged myself by plundering her. She upped the decibels, begging me to work harder, to tear her up, to rut her, to never stop.
In times past that would have sent me over and I would’ve come. Maybe it was the poor choice of words. Tear me up, only works on a sadist.
“Roll over.”
She did. I draped her legs over my shoulders, her ass angled upwards. I resumed the sodomy. I played with her nipples, pinching and pulling. An old trick, my failsafe. She started shaking head to toe. She was nearing, again, just like old times but me in a new venue.
“Oh God.” The signal was the same, timeless.
I slammed into her, repeatedly, relentlessly-finally groaning, shivering, remorseless as I became rigid so I could better feel each ejaculation. Wet warmth flooding her leaving me shivering, chilled and guilt ridden.
Just like old times. . .
//
Downtime followed. Lying there we resumed looking at each other’s bodies. Memorizing them. Our skins were softer, our bodies fuller in spots, yet my cock and her cunt looked essentially the same. And they spoke to each other in the same way as long ago.
But we weren’t just cock and cunt. Our entireties had changed, bodily in countless little ways, our essence in ways profound.
I looked at her now wanting to revel in the body before me but too perplexed. Happiness couldn’t be had here. The gulf between us too large for anything but solace and love.
You can’t go home I wanted to tell her but words failed me so I drew her head to my chest, held her, caressed her hair.
She sighed and started, “I wish. . .”
“Shhh. I know. I wish too.”
Long ago though, I learned that wishes don’t sustain: dreams do. And, laying there, with her in my arms, I realized the harshness of the world had dashed both our dreams and those dreams that came after didn’t include her because I was incapable of embracing them. Because, years ago, after her, I had abandoned my own singular chance at sustenance and gypsied my way through life, forever too skittish to trust again in dreams, forever avoiding them.
And, despite my own longing to have her and have her often, I could live with the limitations of her being with another. Love had indeed made her a masochist and me a sadist. A good one at that. The only problem from where I sat is the realization that I was a sadist didn’t make me flinch.

Vertical Line

Horizontal Line
Horizontal Line
LindaLeeTries
 
 Age: 28
 Liverpool, United Kingdom