For Your Eyes Only

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Earle W. Brown

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intent of informing and educating the adult public on various aspects of human sexuality. As

such, it is deemed to be socially relevant and educational.

Readers are advised that this is a work of fiction and all persons and circumstances

depicted herein are also fictional. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, or to

actual circumstances are unintended and coincidental. When used, the names of public

places and commercial establishments are used solely to convey theatrical realism to a

totally fictional setting.

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ISBN: 0-595-30123-1

Contents

Dedicated With Love

• Introduction

• Just Call Me Michelle

• Whatever Carla Wants

• The Packer

• The Truck Driver

• The Bartender

• Pay Me !

• La Concha Hotel

• Penalty Clause

• Free Flight Instruction

• The Poker Club

• Mountain Man

• Live—In Lover

• Love Slave Coalition

• Late Night Raffle

• Take Me To Nassau !

• Carla’s Student Dorm

• Amber’s Cum Bucket

• Super Slut’s Four—Way Simultaneous Cum

• Embryonic Dominatrix

• Biker Babe

• Property Of Key West Pagans

Warning

Epilogue

About The Author

Forever Love

Dedicated With Love

 . . . . . to those unique and very special women

who brought precious meaning to my life

and truly enduring memories.

You have meant all the world to me, and more.

I still remember and love you all

and I always will… . .

INTRODUCTION

Sexual fantasies have been a precious and significant element of my sexual life and of the sexual lives of many of the women I have known. To be best indulged however, such fantasies should not be hidden away as they so often are. Instead, they need to be shared by and between lovers. They need to be grown, expanded and molded to our own highly individual passions.

They have a definitive role to play among those of us who savor a form of sexuality where it is believed that the simultaneous stimulation of each other’s brains, through fantasy verbalization, is of at least equal importance to the simultaneous stimulation of each others bodies. The process is most aptly described as brain-fucking.

At their best, fantasies are make believe magic carpets in their ability to transport us all to a world where our most secretive sexual desires can be seamlessly achieved. The actors we create glide across a stage that we design and move effortlessly through situations that are constrained only by the lascivious boundaries of our imaginations. We are free to voyage through sensual seas unhindered by the limitations of law, the moral constraints of our cultures or the judgmental attitudes of our peers.

With the right partners, we can allow ourselves to be purely motivated by self-indulgent lust in a focused quest for the absolute peaks in sexual thrills. With practice, we can learn to masterfully orchestrate each other’s orgasms with deft and knowing skills.

This is a private journal of atypical romantic erotica with an unusual focus on plot, style, grace and humor. It follows a contemporary couple through a labyrinth of lascivious adventures as they probe for the ultimate peaks in sexual gratification. Max and Carla are the central characters in this sophisticated adult love story. Although deeply committed to each other, they have developed a singular addiction to unbridled lust and to a dramatic expansion of Carla’s sexual horizons. This journal is simply a collection of standalone, salacious vignettes that explicitly documents their adventurous and highly unconventional journey of love and romance.

September, 2003

Key West, Florida—E. W. B.

JUST CALL ME MICHELLE

I first met Carla in Miami, although I didn’t know her by that name until some two years later. When I first encountered her, she said, Just call me Michelle. Here is how it all went down… . .

At the time, I was living aboard my 38’ sailboat Vendetta at the Marriott Hotel Marina, next to the Omni Mall, in downtown Miami.

And what a marvelous marina it was. Very secure with electronic access, clean, modern, free cable TV, complimentary Miami Herald newspaper delivered to the boat each morning, free ice cubes and even underground parking for my car.

The marina was part of a very large complex that housed hotels, apartments, and condos together with several large department stores. Additionally, there were a large number of smaller stores and shops of all kinds, movie theatres, health clubs, swimming pools, tennis courts, grocery stores, pharmacies and well over a dozen restaurants and even a branch post office. All were part of a major urban complex that was readily accessible by foot without ever leaving the complex or having to go down to street level.

Meanwhile, my personal ad running in the Sunday edition of the Miami Herald, kept my after cabin bedroom well supplied with a diverse collection of females. The many restaurants and bars in the complex served as an ideal location for conducting initial interviews for those that responded to my ad. For those women that survived this chemistry check, Vendetta was conveniently located just a few hundred feet away. Yes… . . life in Miami was very good indeed… . .

Except for one small detail. Although I had far more than my rightful share of sex, I really wasn’t seriously infatuated with anyone. All in all, I really don’t care much for the dating game. Given my druthers, I much prefer being in love with one very special woman.

Then one day, I received a short, typed, unsigned note in response to my personal ad. When I read it, I knew beyond a doubt that my life would never be the same again. It read as follows:

I am a slim, gorgeous 24-year-old married woman that has a major-league need for good-looking, hard-bodied, well-built men, 25-45, that turn me on. My sole interest is in brief, periodic, impromptu encounters for great sex at your place, not mine. Don’t waste my time or yours if unable to meet my demanding standards. Send photo, bio and phone number to PO Box 4280, Miami, FL 33162 only if fully qualified.

Within the hour, I hand-carried my response directly to the post office.

About a week later, my phone rang. Hello Max, said a seductive voice. I’m the slim, gorgeous 24-year-old that wrote to you recently.

Well hello! I responded. Your note was so fantastically direct and explicit that it blew my mind.

In other words, you think I might have a well developed capacity to cut through the crap and get to the nitty gritty? She asked.

I do indeed, I responded. I’d guess that you wrote the book on the subject.

Max, I could be at the Marriott in about 45 minutes. Could we meet there at 3:00 p.m.?

Bank on it, I said. Do you have a specific place in mind?

It’s your turf, she answered. You pick it.

Okay, go to the main lobby of the Marriott. There is an escalator to the second floor. At the top of the escalator, on the second floor, are several chairs and sofas. I’ll be there at 3:00 p.m., I promised.

Okay, I’ll see you then, she said.

Wait! Just a minute, I asked. Describe what you look like so I’ll know you and, by the way, what’s your name?

You don’t need to know me, she replied. I have your photo and I’ll know you. As to my name… . . just call me Michelle.

She hung up.

I was sitting on a sofa, waiting, on the second floor of the Marriott at 2:51 p.m. She came off the escalator just after 3:00 p.m.

She was truly a fantasy woman. Long, dark brown hair framed a beach-tanned, high-cheek-boned face with full, sensuous lips. She was slender, with a gorgeous figure hugged by a form-fitting white silk outfit.

As she moved across the floor, I noted that she didn’t walk as most women do. Nor did she stroll or sway provocatively. This one had a very definite, self-assured and authoritative… . . strut!

Hi Max, she said. What’s with the shorts and the sandals? I thought you would be in a three-piece suit like your photo, she teased.

I’m retired from all that foolishness, Michelle, I responded. I’m a boat person now and it takes either a wedding or a funeral to get me into a suit anymore.

We chatted together for a few minutes more in such a warm and easy fashion that an onlooker would have sworn that we had known each other for years.

Then Michelle said abruptly, Okay, I’ve seen and heard enough. Let’s go down to your boat. I’m ready to get laid. Do you think you’re up to it?

Yes Ma’am, I do believe I can handle your problem, I drawled in my best hillbilly imitation. At least temporarily, I added.

She laughed and took my arm and we walked out of the hotel and down to my boat.

Once aboard, she told me, I’ve only got an hour. Let’s pass on the boat tour this time. Where do we fuck? She was removing her clothes as she spoke.

Within moments, we were stripped and lying on the double berth in my after cabin. I gradually got acquainted with her lips, her face, her hair and her breasts. Her pussy fit me like a velvet glove…

We found instant compatibility! We were both heavily into verbalizing and into sexual fantasy talk… . . which she referred to as brain fucking!

Over the next hour I slow fucked, fast fucked, hard fucked and brain fucked her through a whole series of orgasms. She came easily and frequently. Sometimes she rode the crest of a whole series of orgasms, that blended together, and went on for what seemed like minutes.

Conscious of her schedule, I was keeping an eye on the clock and at about the 50-minute mark, I started to lower my guard and relax my control. Within a few minutes more, I was roaring my way through a major climax as I pumped everything I had into her.

My, you do make a lot of racket when you come, she whispered into my ear. I’ll bet on a clear night, dogs start barking up to six blocks away, she giggled.

Within a few minutes however, she was quickly getting dressed. Don’t walk me out, she instructed. I know the way.

As she kissed me good-bye she said, You made the cut Max, I’ll visit you and ‘Vendetta’ again.

A couple ground rules, she added. I can’t schedule or plan when I’ll call you. It may be anytime from 9:00 a.m. to midnight. I’ll only have one or two hours maximum and I’ll have to come over immediately. If you’re not here or if you’re busy or if you’re with another woman, that’s okay, I’ll simply call someone else. Sayonara!

With that, she was gone down the dock.

Over the next several months, Michelle the mystery woman, visited me about once a week on the average. I gradually began to put the pieces together so they made some kind of sense. She gave me very few actual details on herself, just fragments of conversations which I put together with a lot of speculation on my part.

Basically, she had married an older guy for money about two years ago. He was a wealthy man that she liked well enough but did not love. He was apparently a prominent south Florida individual but I never knew whether he was in business or in politics or in some other field. Whatever his field was, he was obviously a 16-hour-day workaholic which gave Michelle a lot of free time. His sex drive was very much on the low side because she told me they had sex only about once a week. For a woman like her, that bordered on criminal neglect!

Her sex drive was just the opposite of her husband’s. I have never known a woman who had anywhere near her desire or capacity for casual recreational sex with multiple lovers on such a sustained basis.

Apparently, I was one of seven lovers that she maintained in, as she called it, my stable. When she tired of one, or when one moved away, she went back to the Miami Herald’s Sunday edition and searched for a replacement as she had done with me. One time I asked her about the guy I had replaced. She smiled and said, I replaced him because he asked too many questions and because he didn’t want to follow my ground rules. I got her message, loud and clear… . .

Her ground rules were interesting. They were designed to ensure her absolute anonymity. They also incorporated another very easy to grasp concept: Do it my way or no way!

For example, her lovers could never walk her to her car. Also, they were warned never to try to follow her. That ensured that they didn’t know the make or model of the car she drove and also that they had no opportunity to copy and trace her license number. She did tell me that she frequently parked elsewhere and either walked or took a short taxi ride to visit her men.

I commented one time on why she never carried a purse. It’s simple Hon, she laughed. I never carry a purse or any ID of any kind when I’m on a date. That way no one can ever search for a driver’s license or anything that will tell them my real name or where or how I live.

Nor could I ever get her phone number. She never gives one out. She could contact me or her other lovers but none of us had any way to contact her, ever!

She did maintain a P.O. Box which she changed periodically. She really only used it to receive the initial contact from someone she had written to in response to their Miami Herald ad. After the initial written contact, however, she communicated solely via cell phone.

Although she never carried a cell phone, she did keep two of them in her car, one of which she used exclusively for dating purposes. She never called anyone from her home telephone. All dating cell phone charges were billed to yet another P.O. Box. She also told me that she rented these boxes using fake ID and never left a forwarding address when terminating them.

Once she described how she set up her dates. When I get horny, I’ll leave my house and get in my car and speed dial my lovers, one after the other, until I find one that’s immediately available. Then I’ll keep on driving and be with him 30 minutes later.

"Of course