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Silverfoxesclub-digest In this issue:
-Fellatio Course - Lesson 9
---------------------------------------------------------------------- LESSON NINE: It's a New Ball Game. Now lets turn to another portion of your partner's anatomy which should not be ignored - the family jewels. Here are two objects which can enhance your partner's feelings more than any other. Many people do not think of the balls as primary sexual objects. Many men are extremely sensitive and just as in lesson eight there must be a certain amount of trust built up between the two of you before he will willingly let you have undisputed use of these two pearls of delight! For today's lesson begin by gently licking his balls with your tongue. As your partner becomes more trusting you may begin to play with his nipples with your fingers gradually increasing or decreasing the intensity as you gauge how he is responding. You may want to gently caress his cock with your hand while you are bathing his balls with your tongue. Remember that the balls are extremely sensitive to pain and he will lose his trust in you if you do not respect any limits he places on them just as you have the right to place limits on the back of your throat until you are completely ready to receive him. It is possible once you have built up this trust to take both his balls in your mouth. He will be more receptive to this if you thoroughly wet them with your tongue prior to taking them into your mouth. Unless your partner is into the new fad of complete body shaving he will have tiny hairs on his testicles. By giving the balls a complete tongue bath prior to taking them into your mouth, you will have pressed these hairs down along the surface of the sac and will not inadvertently cause pain by pulling on them. This may seem a small lesson but you will discover an entirely new world of sensations for your partner when you take the time to get to know his testicles!
Next - Fellatio Lesson Ten. Return to Table of Contents to continue lessons.
George of Boston (Boston Bill) As Ben recently stated . you never know what will inspire a story. So it is too, you never know what will awaken the memory of an event or series of events that you have long forgotten. And then, in your mind, they tell you their story with a freshness and urgency so powerful it astounds you. Not long ago, while opening a package of handkerchiefs prominently pronounced 100% cotton, I was struck with a lightening flash recall of some events from my past that must have been waiting silent and vigilant for years for a stimulus to bring them to my consciousness. They came in a flood of images and words so clear it was as if I were actually alive in that time again. There are strings to this story that I cannot attach, connections to make that I have not made. Let me tell you of the events I remembered and perhaps be so bold then as to beg you to help me link my cotton ties together. COTTON TIES . A TIME REMEMBERED It was the summer of 1960. I was a PFC in North Carolina on army maneuvers. We were playing those infantile infantry army war games . big time this time with Blue Bands . them . fighting Red Bands . us. Tanks, artillery, air support, and guys floating down from parachute drops on to open fields. The droppers were shot repeatedly and no doubt killed several times over while in the air. (I actually bang-banged a few.) But true to army game play, they landed, gathered their parachutes, and ran to the trees for .safety.. I remembered then, as they drifted in their private billowy white clouds, the many times I rigged a toy soldier to a tangle of string and a white handkerchief and never failed to fail in an attempt to transform him into a paratrooper. The damn things NEVER worked! Well..to cotton now. A small group of seven or so of us somehow got separated from our main company . and the war. For a while. We were aimlessly following our not too bright leader . a three stripe NCO sergeant . through watermelon patches, down dusty back roads, across furrowed fields empty of crops, into and out of small fenced share croppers. yards, and basically down any and every road to nowhere. That was army regulation: obey the highest ranked man no matter how fucking dumb he is, no matter how many times he scratches his head and looks at his compass muttering, ....Let.s see now, we.re somewhere.... Cotton. We were seemingly suddenly surrounded by fields of it stretching ahead of us as far as we could see. It had to be ready to pick, it was as if we were in an airplane cruising over a bank of fluffy bleach white clouds. Puffy and billowy, soft and brilliant in the full sun. I picked some, of course. It stuck to my sweat moist fingers, so I took my hankie and dried my hands and picked some more, wanting to feel its unaltered texture. It was wonderful. It was pure. It was natural. The white hankie appeared dingy in juxtaposition . coarse and manufactured. We continued down the narrow dusty wheel rutted road, no longer in the normal world. And soon shocked from this other world into another other world . the world of Let.s Play War. .HALT!. My. God! A company of Blue Bands . a hundred fucking Blue Band Boys! They were a damned army! We no-fussed a quick surrender. Stripped of our weapons, we were bond at the wrists and then we marched with the Blue Boys for about an hour till we came to their headquarters. There we were separated and interrogated, and as the interrogation ended, night began. We were actually fed bread and water! We were led into a sparsely wooded area and forced to sit with our backs to trees which we then were tied to. A burly sergeant about forty years old and wearing tailored fatigues did me. He was beautiful, his bulky arms flaunting dark, course hair, his tight pants bulging seductively. He had a great ass, and a white hankie . clearly bright in the beginning light of the moon - waved out his back pocket, signaling for me my total surrender. He talked as he roughly tied me with a soft new thick rope. Cotton I am sure. .Little Virgin, I.ll be back later to take your cherry ass and let all your fuckin. buddies watch. Come on, tell me something besides your name, rank, and serial number and I.ll make some special arrangements for us to have a little party in my tent.. He called me chicken shit scared rabbit and the like. He straddled over my lower body and rubbed his crotch in my face saying how I.d enjoy swallowing his cum after I gave him a good blow job. We.d both enjoy it he said. Well, he didn.t know that I really would. I was hard as rock from the feel on my face of his nearly as hard dick through the rough material of his pants. It never happened, of course. That was as much .sex. as there was to be that night. We prisoners were left with a lone guard then and we talked back and forth a bit. It didn.t last long, talk only exasperated our position. I fell into little periods of sleep on and off through the night. I remember laughing out loud once after thinking how ludicrous the whole fucking thing was. The army. The .war.. The capture. The moonlight sleep-out. I really hated the fucking army! Morning brought a meager breakfast of some sort of slop - and a prisoner exchange. My crotch-bulged sergeant was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, I didn.t particularly want to be sprouting a hard on in the chow line. We were back in action; on the second day, the war was declared over. Red won . in a major offensive move we captured half the Blue forces. They never had a chance, it was predestined in written orders before the farce began. Marching by a stockaded area holding the Blue prisoners, I was surprised to see the bearish sergeant seated in the grass near the fence that bordered the road. He noticed me noticing him and took his handkerchief from his back pocket and with a smug smile waved it at me in mock surrender. I gave the burly brute the farewell finger salute as I puckered him a sexy, silent .kiss my ass. kiss. Wait. Hurry up and wait . an army guarantee. It was several days after the end of the war that we managed to leave at last for Fort Carson, Colorado. We bivouacked in a large field - hot, and dusty despite the sparse growth of grass. Near a copse of young fir trees, we accumulated a huge pile of trash in a large pit rimmed with the excavated dirt. Waiting for burial when we left were thousands of empty and hundreds of full C-Ration cans. More than a few of the full ones were my contribution . I hated that shit! Except the peaches and pears, they were tolerable. We were issued two of these .meals. a day, breakfast was cooked in the mess tent. The army.s .all you can eat. policy was pushed to the limit there. The day before our exodus, the trash was discovered by the local poor. They came in dozens with burlap sacks . not cotton these . which they filled with the unopened C-Ration rejects. I suppose it was a great discovery for them . one man.s trash was truly another man.s treasure in this case. I think I was destined for a valuable discovery myself that day, but I somehow managed not to recognize the treasure when I came upon it. It didn.t glitter golden as the full, green cans must have for the eyes of those poor Carolinians, it fluttered in a dazzling white cotton cloud. So bright perhaps that it blinded me and I saw only its brilliance and not its message It was mid afternoon and I was taking a solo walk. Sunny and hot. I happened upon a really run-down shack with a small planted area surrounded by an even more time battered tree limb fence. I recognized corn but nothing else. The shack was so weather-grayed it seemed to dissipate in a humid haze. On the porch, an old woman, black as coal, sat rocking in a homemade wooden chair. In a cloud of whirling dust, a white Cadilac pulled to a stop by the porch. A white man got out of the car and approached the woman. I was near enough and curious enough to walk slow enough to see the woman take a knotted handkerchief from her apron pocket. She opened it with withered, shaky hands and took out what appeared to be several folded bills and some change which she placed in the man.s open palm. He tipped his hat and quickly drove away, raising another dusty cloud. No words were spoken. As I came abreast of her, she smiled warmly and greeted me with a friendly, .Good afternoon to you, young soldier.. Her head tilted as if she expected something more from me that the .Good afternoon. I echoed. I walked on. But I had not gone twenty-five or thirty feet, when puzzled over some unexplainable hollow feeling, I stopped and turned back to face her. She was as she had been, handkerchief yet in one hand, seated still in the motionless rocker. I waved to her. She smiled more broadly then before and slowly waved the hand that held the handkerchief, rising now using a crooked hand-carved cane for support. Her apron and dress were so gray. Her skin so black. The handkerchief so white it seemed to glow in a ghostly luminous fluttering. .God bless you, Boy!. An ancient, throaty quality to the wish . yet sounding sweet and fresh and wonderfully musical. I walked on. I do not think I thanked her. When I opened the box of handkerchiefs and these memories all rushed through my mind, I was mystically confused. Why did they come in a group? Certainly time wise they are connected, but is there something more than that tying them together? I have thought about it. I wish now that I had gone back to that Black woman and taken her in my arms and thanked her with all my heart for her blessing. I should have felt of her and smelled her and sat with her and talked to her an drank her lemonade and smiled at her and loved her. She was the key to the treasure I did not recognize. Would the hollow feeling that made me stop and turn back to her be filled if I had gone to her? I know now that I feel a loss for something I never had, but might have had. And I feel hollowness deeper than the pit that held the unexpected treasure of those poor Carolinians. It plagues me. Well, do you see ties I have not linked? Is my lost treasure forever lost? And is there really something I should search for, or am I being overly sentimental? Perhaps a redemption (for I feel somehow sinful) and discovery of a jewel from my past is for you to recognize, not me. If you do, please . may I see it too?
Thanks...........Dick Loved your story! I can relate to it somehow. I was Born at Ft. Knox, and was on Army bases until age 7. When I was 4 I had/gave my first blowjob in 1959 or so at Ft Bragg, North Carolina. Some other little kid talked me into taking turns putting each other's vienna sausages in our mouths. I can only imagine the old lady that you encountered was a person who had really found a well of peace in her heart, and she was engulfed in it so much that it even touched you. I think these people are all over the place, but they aren't the ones that promote themselves so much so you just have to be lucky enough to encounter them. I found out from my mother recently that my Dad, who was a career soldier until I was 7, knew many many gay military leaders of rank, and it was taboo to bring up the subject because they ranked so high and someone could find their ass in very very bad demotion.
hugs Many of you may remember my writing about my community's response to a visit by the r(small r on purpose)ev fred phelps of KS. For those that are interested the following is the most recent letter from the organizers of this event. Just shows what a little ingenuity can do to make a difference. I hope you will take this idea to heart in your communities and when faced with hate turn it into something positive.
dave aka luvhog First, a quick update, for those who did not hear the results of our Phelps Pledge Drive. We raised nearly $7500 for WRAP, and have collected 92% of it, with no strong-arming! WOW! Thanks to all of you. If you haven't heard, the idea is spreading. There are currently three pledge drives going on, in Madison WI, Santee, CA, and Topeka, KS. More information about all three drives is available at the Phelps page of my website: http://www.autbar.com/Every_Minute_Counts.htm I have updated the photo pages of the website as well. I know many of you pledged to our fund drive, but I have also heard from people who missed it. Please consider pledging to the Madison Campaign. The kids there are doing a great job, and I'd love to see them get some great numbers. Remember, a dime a minute is only $6, and a bunch of dimes add up to dollars. A quarter/minute is only $15. Their website is: http://www.geocities.com/everyminutecountswi/ Or you can pledge at the bar. I have a copy of their pledge sheet, and will deliver it to them when I go to Madison this weekend!
Keith The following is a short article on the brains of homosexual men that appeared in a French magazine some time back. Nothing really new or earthshaking about the information, but it does give added support to what we already know. I'm including the French version, along with my own rough translation.
Le Cerveau des homosexuels
The Brain of Homosexuals
Ethan in LA End of silverfoxesclub-digest V1 #186
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