Here’s Jill with my Canon PowerShot Pro.  I’ve had it since 2004, and it’s accompanied us on virtually every vacation we’ve taken together.  This camera has photographed the Grand Canyon, Blarney Castle, Mendenhall Glacier, Hollywood Boulevard, Times Square, Space Needle, and Red Rocks Amphitheatre, among other noteworthy places.

See who else is being naughty this week!

We’d been planning it for weeks.

Actually, that’s not true.  It had been months.  It was in summer – our anniversary, to be precise – that she sent us a message to let us know she’d be coming out to San Francisco in November and ask if we’d be interested in getting together.  We were pleased by her inquiry, so much so that we took a break from toasting to our marriage and wrote back to let her know that, yes, we were definitely interested.

Three weeks ago she wrote again, this time to give us her itinerary.  We had already arranged to have my parents look after our daughter for a couple days during her visit.  Leaving our child with a babysitter is always dicey.  Typically the relatives we trust to look after her are unable or unwilling to watch her past eleven PM or midnight, and while this is helpful on those occasions when we want to meet friends for drinks or perhaps see a movie, we had no intention of rushing through our evening.  So the fact that my parents were able to take her for as long as they did was quite serendipitous.

She told us that she could meet on Tuesday or Thursday evening, though Tuesday was preferable.  Of course, Tuesday was Election Day in the United States, and a flurry of thoughts ran through our heads.  We tend to follow election coverage pretty closely, moreso during a Presidential election year.  And while we were certainly excited by the prospect of finally getting together, we weren’t sure how this very important election might affect our plans for the evening.  Obviously we didn’t mind skipping the Election Night coverage for once.  Also, the overall stakes of the election had us pretty stressed out.  It would be nice, we agreed, to distract ourselves with a little adult fun.

On Tuesday night we drove out of our  suburban paradise and headed up to the City.  The traffic was considerable as expected, but we listened to the news on the way, and it kept us optimistic.  We met her outside of the bar in her hotel; she wore a black dress, boots, and a red sweater.  We’d admired her for months, quite openly, on her blog and on Twitter, but neither Jill nor I were prepared for just how stunning she was in person.  The first thoughts that crossed our minds did not involve dinner or even drinks, but rather taking this beautiful woman upstairs, stripping her clothes off of her, and having our way with her before letting her have her way with us.

It had been a long day, however, and we were all hungry.  After perusing the menu at the hotel restaurant, we decided to take a walk.  We settled on a nearby spot called John’s Grill, tempted by its promise of 63 Cocktails.  Once inside, we found a mere ten cocktails on offer – actually nine, since the one I selected was unavailable – and the waiter explained that the number 63 is the restaurant’s address on Ellis Street.  Despite the misleading come-on, the food was good.

As we waited for our dinner, we discussed politics among other topics, and it occurred to us that given the  importance of the election our evening would have been much different had our dining companion been a staunch Republican.  In the middle of our meal, as I tried to check election results on my phone, a friend texted me that Obama had won.  I confirmed it, and we all exhaled.  The stress lifted.  We had one thing and one thing only on which to focus for the rest of the evening, and it didn’t involve politics.  Or clothes.

We found ourselves in her hotel room, sitting across from her on the sofa while eyeing the comfortable king-size bed not far away.  I started by releasing Jill’s breasts from her top, doing my best to distract the two women from their conversation.  It worked, naturally.  I asked her if she’d like to have a taste of one of Jill’s nipples, but quickly retracted the offer.  No, I didn’t want to keep both for myself, though it was tempting.  Rather, I was preoccupied with thoughts of Jill and I spoiling our lovely new friend instead.

I stood behind her, nuzzling her neck, as Jill kissed and caressed her from the front.  It didn’t take long at all before I began to undress her, revealing first the sexy black and white bra featured in her Twitter avatar, and then the full and tantalizing breasts we’d seen so often in her online self-portraiture.  They stood close, pressing their breasts together and noting similarities between their respective pairs.  My hand settled between her thighs as Jill began to lick and suck her nipples.  Eventually I suggested that we move things to the bed.  She and Jill lay on the bedspread as I removed the rest of her clothes.  Jill was next to undress, and then I.

We lay naked together, Jill and I each sucking one breast as our hands traversed her fine figure.  Her arousal was evident as we parted the lips of her pussy.  Our fingers worked together, circling her clit and feeling her orgasm build.  But I needed a taste, and I kissed my way along her body before settling between her legs and devouring.  As Jill continued to work on her breasts, I lapped as though I’d never tasted a woman before, and sated myself on her sweetness.  

The exquisite debauchery that followed was eventually cut short by our friend’s need for an early start the following morning, as well as our need to claim our car from the garage before it closed at midnight.  As Jill and I took our leave, it occurred to us that we never would have predicted that our candidate’s victory would be only the second greatest part of Election Night.

By “van dyke” I’m referring to the beard-and-moustache combo, not these guys.

2. The say ‘putting on the beared’ means going down on a lady with a full bush. Do you prefer a bearded, trimmed or bald pussy?
Putting on the beard, huh?  I can honestly say that I’ve never heard that expression.  Normally when I want to refer to going down on someone, I simply say “going down”.  In the event that my meaning can be misconstrued for, say, use of an elevator, I have been known to favor the less ambiguous “eating pussy”.  I’ve never been a fan of “eating out”, because it sounds too much like going to a restaurant for dinner.  Anyway, I hate to say that my preference is to go down on a completely-shaven pussy, because I fear that it makes me sound shallow.  It’s not an issue of taste or even of cleanliness; it’s simply easier.  I strive to do a good job where oral sex is concerned, and it’s a bit easier when some gardening has occurred.

3. What’s your preferred style of ‘tashing on’? (snogging)
This question came close to breaking my brain.  While I’ve heard the expression “snogging”, “tashing on” was a new one for me.  I did a Google search, which returned among other results the following, from Urban Dictionary:  “Local Geordie dialogue for getting off with, ‘pulling’ or ‘Snogging’ with another person”.  Needless to say this didn’t clarify anything.  I understood “snogging” to mean kissing, but decided to do a search in order to not sound completely out of my depth.  One site likened the term to what others call “making out”, i.e. kissing, caressing, fondling, etc.  So essentially this question seems to be asking for my favorite way to make out.  I wanted to give an answer along the lines of “while bending Jill over the sofa and fucking her from behind”.  While I do enjoy this sort of makeout session, it’s not my favorite.  I tend to prefer one of those ridiculously-sexy standing-up-face-to-face snogs, complete with hands fumbling at belt buckles and shirt buttons.

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…here is Jack in his scary ghost costume…

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

How did you get into fisting?

(Submitted by Cougar in Training)

Jack’s Answer

I’m fairly certain that the first time I fisted someone was around age twenty-one or twenty-two.  The woman was a casual fuckbuddy who sustained me through a couple otherwise dry spells during my twenties.  During a long and very exciting session of foreplay one evening we found ourselves naked and making out on her bed.  She was playing with my nipples while I fingered her pussy.  I’d slipped two fingers in, but she wanted more.  Soon I had four fingers inside her, my thumb rotating slowly on her clit.  Then she asked me, somewhat awkwardly as I recall, to give her my thumb, too.  I was aware of fisting, though I’m pretty sure I regarded it as the stuff of urban legend; still, I did as I was asked.

I didn’t get my hand all the way inside her, i.e. all the way to my wrist, but for all intents and purposes my entire fist made it in.  Having already found her G-spot I resumed stimulating it.  She climaxed almost immediately, her intense moans during the buildup the perfect encouragement for me.  When she drenched my hand and my arm I was fascinated.  I’d found a couple G-spots in my life, and I’d made a lot of women very wet in doing so.  But nothing like this!  When I’d seen women squirt in porn I wasn’t sure whether it was some sort of camera trickery, or a talent only a small number of women possessed.  And now I’d made it happen!

Being a geek, I’d read up extensively on female sexual response and was aware of the debate over whether female ejaculate was urine or something else altogether.  I was pleased to learn that it wasn’t urine.  She, on the other hand, was mortified.  She apologized profusely, insisted that she’d never done that before, and hurried to get me a towel.  I did my best to assure her that she had nothing to worry about and that I was in fact totally turned on by it.  It didn’t help.  Continuing to apologize, she tried to clean me off, not that I necessarily wanted her to.  At this point I’m pretty sure she was near tears, and I went into full-on aftecare mode.  I suggested that we take a shower together, and as we huddled close under the water she relaxed a bit.  I told her how exciting it was for me, and she admitted that it was the hardest she’d ever cum in her life.  Still, I’m not sure that I ever fisted her again.

Jill’s Answer

Jack was the first person to ever fist me.  He found my G-spot pretty early into our sexual relationship, and I loved the sensation.  It led to very intense orgasms and always resulted in me squirting.  As we continued to experiment with G-spot play, Jack would put more fingers inside me at my urging.  The first time it happened he was stimulating my G-spot with two fingers and my clit with his thumb.  I asked for more fingers, and he put in the other two, and continued to use his thumb on my clit.  Eventually he took his thumb off my clit and replaced it with his very eager tongue.  As he licked me, I could feel him slip all five fingers inside me.  I felt so full, and I knew my orgasm was near.

I loved feeling his fingers undulate against my G-spot at the same time that his tongue danced over my clit.  I knew I was going to cum very quickly, but I wasn’t prepared for just how quickly it happened, and for that matter how intense the orgasm was.  I’d never felt anything like this before.  My orgasm was earth-shaking, definitely the most profound I’d ever had.  My ejaculation was torrential as well, and I soaked Jack’s face, chest, and hand with my juices.  I wasn’t expecting it, and I worried that he was going to be turned off by what I had done, but he didn’t even slow down.  It was very enjoyable, almost too enjoyable.  Definitely not something I was used to experiencing.

G-spot orgasms are my absolute favorite kind, but I can’t always handle them, and sometimes I actually cry from the intensity.  I have to be in the right frame of mind in order to relax and get the most out of them.  If I can do that, it makes it much easier to allow Jack’s fist all the way in.  Of course, I suspect that Jack loves fisting me even more than I love being fisted (which is saying a lot), and sometimes he’ll pull it out as a party trick when we are camming or performing for a live audience.

We’re down to our last sexy question and we need more if we’re going to keep Formspring Friday going!  If you’ve got one to ask, please drop us a line on Formspring, or use the handy Formspring widget on the right-hand side of our blog.  (While you’re at it, be sure to check out Cougar in Training, and thank her for consistently providing such awesome questions!)  To see who else participated in Formspring Friday this week, search #FormspringFriday on Twitter!  If you have a Formspring account and you aren’t already participating, feel free to join in the fun!

The main theme at The Naughty Hangout this week is “Books”. The picture we’re sharing features me reading The Ethical Slut by Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy.  Jack brought the book to my attention, and although we aren’t polyamorous and do not have an open relationship, the principles espoused by the authors are ones that I find very appealing.  I wish I had known of this book when I was single.  The alternate themes this week are “Journey” and “Weathered”.  My reading of The Ethical Slut continues the journey that began when I read Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jethá’s Sex at Dawn and Tristan Taormino’s Opening Up.

Be sure to mouse over the image to see how we handled “Weathered”!

-Jill

See who else is being naughty this week!

When I heard her name, I immediately thought of Archie Comics.  You ever read Archie Comics?  Big Ethel was this lanky, Ichabod Crane-like character, boyish and plain, who was always trying to get Jughead to go out with her.  Now that I think of it, she looked an awful lot like Jughead.  So when I heard that her name was Ethel, the first thing I did was try to think of a way to back out gracefully.  She was probably a very nice person, but her name didn’t exactly conjure up visions of beauty in my mind.  I imagined a long, cartoonish nose, buck teeth, and social awkwardness so profound it was comical.

As my mind wandered, I considered that she might instead bear a striking resemblance to Ethel Mertz, the landlady of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo played by Vivian Vance on the 1950s sitcom I Love Lucy.  I wasn’t sure which option sounded less appealing; while Ethel Mertz was probably better-looking than Big Ethel, her advanced age was a turn-off.  Sure I’d jerked off to her (and Lucy) one time but that was purely out of desperation.  The middle-American WASP hausfrau type just wasn’t for me, and Vance’s TV husband William Frawley wasn’t wrong when he described her as “a sack of doorknobs”.

I decided not to cancel.  The only women named Ethel were hideous crones, of that much I was certain.  But I had to follow through, if only to sate my morbid curiosity.  I practiced a raspy cough, and I figured that if it was really bad, like so bad I couldn’t stand to be seen with her, I’d use it as an excuse to wrap things up early.  As I pulled up to her apartment, I chuckled to think that the only way I was going to make it through this date was by having a few drinks of ethyl alcohol.  I’m such a wit.

When she opened the door, I was stunned, and I silently congratulated myself on making the right decision.  I’d never seen such an attractive woman.  Long blonde curls encircled her pretty face, dazzling blue eyes sitting above high, well-defined cheekbones.  Her smile was warm and welcoming, her lips full but not pouty.  And though I tried not to be obvious about it, my eyes were drawn to a very prominent pair of breasts that I hoped to have the opportunity to fondle and suck.

Though I make no excuses for my shallowness, I felt like a bit of an asshole for prejudging her.  I decided not to mention that I considered calling off our date due to my misgivings over her first name.  As the night went on I felt foolish for drawing a conclusion from something so superficial.  And that night, when she was riding me hard on her living room sofa, I promised myself that I would never do it again.

In 2010 we posted fifty-two consecutive weeks of pictures at OHNT.  We’re posting them on our blog, one per week.  They can be found here, along with background information and all the comments they received.