Bryce Lloyd

The idea was, they were supposed to check in, put the luggage in the room, and see some sights. He looked tired, and she wondered if he'd be too tired for that agenda. She was worried he'd feel like sleeping. He'd given her the room key, so he could carry the bags with one in each hand. As the door clicked, he was pressing, lightly on her back, urging her into the room. She heard the door click behind her, then his voice, calm, direct, and not at all tired. “You don't actually care about the tourist stuff, do you?”, he said, not really asking. “No”, she said, “I don’t”. She looked in his eyes. He was smiling, but also looked quite determined. In a moment, he'd pulled a few objects from his bag. “Get on the bed”, he said. She took a moment to think, unsure what his smile meant. She figured there was only one way to determine that. The first, and only thing she saw was a blindfold. It was in the style of a sleep mask, and he pu...

It had been her idea. Seeing a movie. They had not done that for quite a while. She liked movies. She liked to go somewhere. Somewhere with the two of them, as it had been at the beginning. He did not surprise her by selecting an extremely boring documentary about agriculture. It's not like she could get him to go see anything  FUN . But it was a movie, and she was happy. He had put a blanket in the car, and he brought it with him to the theater. “It might be cold in there”, he said. He spent a long time inspecting the room. He'd taken forever selecting popcorn and candy, and the previews had already begun. Why he was scanning the room was unclear. It was a weeknight, and the room was almost empty. They could sit absolutely anywhere. He eventually saw some seats two thirds of the way to the back, in the middle, and they sat there. It was kind of cold. He had spread the blanket over the two of them. It was nice and warm, and the candy was nice. Who...

Darkness. Everyone was too tired. We slept. But I am awake, and I am hard. Sleeping, as you seem to be, at first I just rub my cock with my hand. But the smell of you, and your body close to me are too much. As I begin to slide your panties off, you seem asleep, but there also seems to be some volition in your actions. Subtly, you are helping. I rub my cock on you from behind, and you respond. Never really awake, but on your back. Legs spread a bit, I spread them more. And I am on you, pressing into you. You are wet. My cock slides in, with some effort at first. I stay there for a moment, inside you, not moving. Then gradually building to a good fuck. Never admitting to being awake, you moan a bit, but do not open your eyes. I cum in a geyser inside you, and rest for a while. I roll over, and sleep overtakes me. Really deep. All is right with the world.

The restaurant was not big, and not crowded. It was noisy. But dimly lit. He had asked for a table near the back, away from the door, and away from major traffic. Or, at least she assumed that he had. She'd seen him speaking to the Maitre'd before they sat, and he seemed very insistent. He sat next to her, which was unusual. He usually sat across the table, but here he was beside her. It began normally, with airy conversation, but he casually took a little box from his jacket pocket as he spoke. He put it on the table, and kept talking. She became curious, but she let him talk, and wondered. After a bit, he pushed the box toward her. She looked inside. It took a few minutes of examination to determine that the odd little object was a vibrator. It was more like a work of art. Only when she managed to switch it on did she understand what it was for. “Why are you giving this to me here?”, she asked. “Well”, he said, “read the card.” She notice...

It seemed an unusual order. She was just to go to her desk in her office, and sit and work. And she was to wear a dress. She figured he was planning to take her somewhere after she worked. Maybe he would show up and surprise her. The office was dark and quiet, as it always was on weekends. She drank some of her coffee. She plugged in her laptop. And she sat down. There was an email message from him. “Don't move, or jump, no matter what you feel. Keep working.” She began to suspect what was about to happen, but not before she began to feel a hand slide up the inside her thigh. At first there was an occasional stroke on her panties, then a pause. This went on, making her jump each time. She began to notice that the strokes became more frequent several minutes after that. Quickly, it became a continuous rubbing. Email came. “Keep working”, it said. How was he doing that with one hand? She could feel her panties being pulled off, and the hand playing wit...

“I’m so, so sorry”, she said. His face was unmoved. He did not look angry, just, hard. “I’m  SO  sorry, she said again.” He walked forward, and he was very close. He didn't seem like a big guy, but this close, he seemed to loom over her. “Sorry”, she said, very quietly. “So you say”, he said. Then his hand was behind her head, stroking. It slid to her breast, and he began to feel it, gently, finding the nipple with his index finger. She froze, not knowing what to do. She was trying to say something, but no words were coming. ‘I’ll need a  FULL  apology”, he said. She was trembling. The hand moved and she could feel it inside her skirt, rubbing her panties. Up, and a finger on the waistband. All while staring directly into her eyes. “I don't have time for the full apology at present”, he said. His hand slid into her panties, and deliberately to her pussy. “But I'll expect it this evening. Come to my home at 7:00.” She gasped w...

When he walked into the cube, he knew that Jamal had been rolled again. The product manager, again, had managed to extract some kind of work from him that was not in the schedule, not on the radar, not in budget, not supposed to be done. He didn't even have to say anything. It was clear from his face. "Jama"l, he said, "how many time have I told you. You CANNOT agree to anything. You DO NOT OWN YOU TIME. I OWN YOUR TIME." Jamal explained that it was just a minor tweak, and that he would do it after hours, on his own time. "No, Jamal. Not OK. What did she ask you to do?" It was just a little tweak to the UI. Hardly worth mentioning. Wouldn't take long. He began to go over, again, how there was an entire QA, documentation and delivery universe to be considered, and how these things always expand, and how staying until midnight means crappy work the next day. It was the stuff he'd been saying often enough that it rolled from his mout...

“Will you help me out of this dress?”, she asked, not quite needing help, though the dress was a bit difficult, but yet wanting to surrender it to him, to have her nakedness be the work of his hands. His hands were nice, she thought. And she liked the way they felt. He began to unfasten the rather complex closure of the dress, and her heart ran a bit faster. No one knew where this would go, but here her dress was coming off, the work of those hands. She got a sense for a moment as he worked the clasps that he'd very much rather be tearing it off, making a rag of the dress she had spent so much time selecting for this night, but he patiently did as he'd been asked, and the dress fell, intact, to the cool stone under her feet. A little gasp escaped him, and she realized that he liked what he saw. His hands were resting on her shoulders, and they were silent, still for a moment. The next thing was obvious, but she suddenly felt shy about asking, so she did not ...

So, here's a weird topic. Around 2000 years ago, a Roman named Virgil wrote an epic poem called the Aeneid . And it contains a story which had a huge effect on me, and made me think about the world differently. And I'm going to tell you about it. Isn't that exciting! The Aeneid is, roughly speaking, a story about a bunch of Trojans, who, after the Trojan war, which they did not win, went wandering through the world, and eventually find Italy, and become the progenitors of Rome, and the Roman empire. Like all epic poems, it's long and rambling. Aeneas, the protagonist of the story, and the person after which the book is named, goes wandering around getting in all kinds of trouble, everywhere he goes. And he get's cursed quite a bit. The most famous of these curses is Dido's curse. He and Dido had been, well, rather intimate, and then he suddenly took a notion to leave, and she put a curse on him that her people and his would fight endless war until one of the...

Beauty is personal, and it is cultural, and it is considered a shallow and fleeting thing. It is the number one hit on the empty flattery hit parade, and one could be forgiven for heavily discounting it. It is not the most important thing, but to deny that it has any importance at all is a lie. I am very aware of beauty, in general, and as it applies to people (with emphasis on women). I think about what it is, and what it means. People often speak of beauty and attraction as though there is some kind of mind body dichotomy. People speak of someone having a kind heart, or a beautiful soul, and they also speak of a beautiful (or hot) body, and these things are spoken of as if they have no connection, and are entirely distinct realms. I do not agree with this. A person's appearance is, to some extent a phenomenon of matter. People are constructs of flesh and bone, muscle and sinew. But they are alive, and they look alive because the person, the person within animates the stuff of the...

I have a secret ritual. Maybe it’s a rite. That’s what the spelling corrector suggests, and who am I to argue with a spelling corrector. When I get a new implement, I go somewhere secluded, unseen, and I try it on myself, before I use it on anyone else. To me, this is a very personal thing. I need to know what it is, what it feels like. I am not a switch. I will write about that, some time, but I am surely not a bottom. This is without passion, without pleasure. I am carefully gaging what the implement does, how it’s feels. So I can understand it. I am internalizing the tool. Making it integral to my being, because, how can I top if I don’t know what I am doing, really. There was a disastrous incident with a crock pot and wax, where I did not do this. It is an error I will not repeat. In my solitude, as a craftsman, I learn my tools. And I think I am better for it.

Even among those around me, I have been given much, and my good fortune, my privilege, my many advantages are manifest. And these advantages make it easy to be blind. Because of who I am, and what I look like, life presents me, over and over, with an easy path, should I elect to tread on it. And that temptation can be overwhelming. And to take it is to sleep on my feet, and make the world I stand in smaller and meaner and worth so much less. But the harder path, the one that does not look like a path, is the one where all the life happens, where the anesthetic of easy, easy existence wears off, and clouded eyes become clear. It's full of sharp edges, and ugly truths, most especially about one's self, and it is easy, easy to retreat again. But those who have loved me have taught me well. They have not allowed me to be small, and they have shown me the value of that harder path, even as I stumble along it. If I bark my shins and wander, bloodied, away from that smooth road, I do ...

When I walk in the world, you might not recognize me. I might not be the one you were expecting. That guy who is the peace maker, the one who brokers deals, mends fences finds common ground. That’s me over there. The conciliatory one. The sympathetic ear. The one who fixes the hurt feelings, greases the wheels. You heard that story about the guy, right. The one who went up to see the person who was causing all the trouble, blocking everything. Went up to see the person who says no to everything, and calls everyone an asshole. Went up and got that person to do everything he asked, and more. By listening, calmly, patiently. That was me. And I am patient. I wait as the world ticks along. Wait for everyone to wear themselves down, talk themselves out. Wait for it to all go quiet. Could I possibly be a Top, a Dom, the man in charge? Could that be the Bryce Lloyd who writes these things? It doesn’t seem to make sense. But it does. I need make no show. I am not trying to prove anything. I hav...