I had an admirer reach out to me and wanted to take some of the contents in my BLOG’s and write an erotic story. Most is true with added fantasies to heighten the story. Either way, I hope you enjoy it as much as we did!

The Business Trip, Greg’s Desire Part 1

The air in the hotel bar pressed against her skin, thick with the hum of muted conversations, the sharp clink of glassware, and the faint pulse of jazz threading through the haze. Claire sat at a corner table, her fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass, the deep red Zinfandel swirling lazily as she stared into it. The amber glow of pendant lights reflected off the smoked glass wall beside her, casting fractured shadows across her navy blazer and pencil skirt remnants of a work trip she’d already half forgotten. Her laptop bag slumped against the chair leg, stuffed with client notes she hadn’t touched since checking in, a silent witness to the thoughts that consumed her now. They always drifted back to Greg, her husband of seven years, but lately, they snagged on something jagged: his foreskin and his relentless, gnawing desire to be rid of it.

It wasn’t just a whim with Greg. It was a scar, etched deep from a childhood spent as the odd one out. He’d grown up in a family of circumcised men his father, his older brothers, even his cousins all clipped at birth in a tradition he’d somehow escaped. He’d told her once, late at night with the sheets tangled around them, how it started: the locker room taunts, the sidelong glances from his brothers, the way his father’s silence felt like judgment. “The only uncut one,” he’d said, his voice tight, “like I was some kind of freak.” Claire had kissed his chest then, murmured that she loved him as he was, but the wound was older than her, festering beneath the surface.

Dating had made it worse. Greg wasn’t shy about the stories rejections that cut deeper than any knife. Women who’d wrinkled their noses, called it “weird” or “gross,” or flat out walked away when they saw him naked. One, he’d confessed after too much whiskey, had laughed actually laughed and that sound had burrowed into him, a splinter he couldn’t dig out. He’d tried to shrug it off, to own it, but the rejections piled up, each one a brick in the wall he’d built around his shame. By the time Claire met him, he’d hardened that wall into dark humor and a quiet resolve: he’d never let it define him again. Except it did every time he looked in the mirror, every time he felt her fingers tease that sensitive skin he both loved and loathed.

Greg had attended “erotic circumcision play.” meetings in the city long before they met. was a secret gatherings of cut and uncut men, some fetishizing the act, others the idea of it. With a mix of guilt and exhilaration, he would tell her about the group. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was obsession. “extended male to male” sessions where curious circumcised guys would prod and examine him, tugging at his foreskin like it was a specimen. He’d joined play groups too dimly lit rooms where men swapped fantasies about the snip, some wielding clamps and tools in mock procedures that left Greg trembling with a strange, electric thrill. He’d admitted it to her eventually, voice low: “It’s fucked up, I know, but it’s like… I can control it there. Play it out.” The scars weren’t just emotional they were a map of every touch, every stare, every moment he’d felt less than whole.

Now, he talked about getting circumcised for real. It started as a half joke “Maybe I’d fit in better” but it grew into late night monologues about hygiene, aesthetics, how it might erase the past. “I’d be normal,” he’d say, and Claire would hear the plea beneath it: *Make me someone else.* She hated it. She loved his foreskin the silky weight of it in her hand, the way it stretched and bunched when she tugged, the soft moans he’d let slip when she swirled her tongue inside it. It was theirs, a private ritual she’d perfected. But Greg’s scars ran deeper than her love could reach, and the thought of him slicing it away left her stomach knotted with loss, yes, but also with a flicker of something darker: freedom.

Claire harbored her own curiosity, a restless itch that had lingered since before Greg. She’d known cut men in her past boyfriends whose cocks were blunt and utilitarian, the skin taut and unyielding, like sandpaper against her tender flesh. She could still feel the drag of them inside her, the rough pull that left her raw and wincing, fumbling for a tube of lube in the bedside drawer. The memory clung to her, a faint ache of dissatisfaction until Greg. With him, she’d first discovered the uncut world: the silken glide of his foreskin, the way it sheathed a hidden sensitivity that quivered under her touch, the smooth, effortless rhythm of their sex. It was a revelation, a craving she’d nurtured over years, tracing the contours of his shaft with her fingers, marveling at how it bunched and stretched, a living thing that responded to her every whim. And yet, a sliver of her still wondered about the other side the stark, exposed feel of a circumcised cock, the fantasy of what she’d left behind. Greg sensed it, that flicker in her eyes, and he’d spun it into a game a ritual that blurred the lines between his scars and her curiosity.

It started with makeshift tools kitchen tongs, a clothespin once, anything they could improvise to mimic a circumcision tool to improvise in the play. But Claire grew tired of the clumsy fumbling, the awkward angles, so she’d scoured eBay late one night, wine glass in hand, until she found it: a Gomco clamp. When it arrived, she’d unwrapped it with a mix of trepidation and thrill, running her fingers over its cold, surgical steel. It was a relic of medical precision turned deviant toy curved jaws gleaming under the bedroom lamp, a tightening screw that clicked with menace, a bell shaped cap designed to encase a cock head. It felt heavy in her palm, clinical yet obscene, and when she showed it to Greg, his eyes had glinted with that strange brew of shame and hunger. “Let’s play,” he’d said, voice low and eager, and she’d indulged him, stepping into a dance they’d perfected over months.

The routine was meticulous, almost ceremonial, a ritual carved out of Greg’s scars and Claire’s curiosity. It always began with the exams an intimate dissection of his uncut cock, laid bare under the soft glow of their bedroom lamp. They’d sit cross-legged on the bed, the sheets rumpled beneath them, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of their shared arousal. Greg’s shaft rested heavy in her hands, warm and pliant, the foreskin draped over the glans like a silken veil. She’d start by peeling it back slowly, her fingers tracing its edges, exposing the moist, pink head beneath a glistening contrast to the tanned outer skin. This was their prelude, a quiet moment before the steel came out, where they’d map his anatomy and imagine its transformation.

“Show me again,” Claire would say, her voice low, a mix of command and wonder. Greg would lean back, propped on his elbows, his hazel eyes glinting as he watched her study him. She’d point with a fingertip, her nail grazing the shaft, narrating the cuts they’d dissected online and in hushed late night talks. “High and tight,” she’d begin, drawing an invisible line high up the shaft, near the base. “They’d take most of this” her fingers swept over the outer foreskin, its elastic give yielding under her touch “and the inner too, right up to here.” She’d slide the foreskin back fully, revealing the slick mucosa, its ridged band puckering near the corona. “No more silky inside, no more stretch. The scar’d sit way back, all this skin pulled tight, the head out all the time.”

Greg would nod, his breath catching as she pressed the ridged band, its nerve packed surface twitching. “And low and tight?” he’d ask, voice rough, already sinking into the fantasy.

She’d adjust her grip, sliding the foreskin forward again, then pointing closer to the glans. “Low’s different. The scar’d be here” her finger circled just below the corona “taking less shaft skin but still most of this.” She tugged the foreskin’s tip, the outer layer and inner mucosa bunching together. “Inner’s gone, ridged band to that little ring you love when I flick it.” She’d demonstrate, her thumb brushing the corrugated tissue, drawing a soft groan from him. “Tight either way, no slack, just a thin strip left if anything. Head’s still bare, no hiding.”

Then came the frenulum their focal point, a debate within the game. She’d tilt his cock gently, exposing the underside where the delicate web stretched from foreskin to glans, a taut triangle of tissue pulsing with life. “Frenulum intact or removed,” she’d muse, her finger tracing its contours. “Leave it, and it pulls the tip down a bit high or low, you’d feel it tugging, like now.” She’d stretch it slightly, watching the glans bow under the tension, Greg’s hips shifting as the nerves fired. “Cut it, and it’s gone no anchor, no pull, just smooth underneath. High and tight without it, the head’s free, sticks up straight. Low with it, it’d curve more, pinned tight by the scar.”

Greg’s eyes would darken, that mix of shame and thrill flaring. “What’d you pick?” he’d ask, testing her, knowing her love for his intact state warred with her cut curiosity.

She’d smirk, teasing the frenulum with a light flick. “I like this too much to lose it. But I’d play either way.” It was their signal the exam was over, the lesson etched into their skin. Now, the Gomco came out.

Claire would reach for the nightstand, her fingers closing around the cold, steel contraption a relic of medical precision turned erotic toy, its curved jaws and tightening screw gleaming in the lamplight. She’d toss it onto the bed with a soft clank, the weight of it denting the mattress beside Greg. “Your turn,” she’d say, playful but firm, and he’d grab it, hands trembling slightly as he handed it back to her, surrendering to the next stage.

She’d start by peeling his foreskin back again, the head popping free, slick and sensitive. The Gomco’s bell icy cold placed over the warm glans, and Greg would hiss, the chill biting into him as she draped the foreskin over its edge, the skin clinging like a second layer. The retaining ring came next, a snug circle she lowered with care, trapping the foreskin in place, its excess spilling out. Then the clamp jaws poised closed over the assembly, and she’d twist the knob, tightening it just enough to pinch. Greg’s breath would sharpen, his hips twitching as the steel mimicked the crush of their imagined cuts high or low, tight and unyielding.

“Look at it,” she’d murmur, pointing to the clamped cock. “High and tight’d be smoother, less left here” she’d tug the protruding foreskin“ low’d hug closer, right at the edge.” She’d stretch the excess skin, pulling it thin, playing with it as the pinch subsided, then tighten the knob again click, wince, repeat. The frenulum, if spared in their fantasy, strained beneath, pulling the head down as she worked, a living echo of their debate. Greg’s groans would deepen, the pressure building, until the clamp closed fully and he’d cum hot and sudden, spilling over the steel or onto her hands, or dripping onto the sheets the fantasy peaking in release.

After, she’d ease the Gomco off, the foreskin springing back, red and tender with a deepened crush mark present mid shaft. But the game wasn’t done. She’d grab the foreskin retainer a sleek rubber ring sliding it behind the corona and pulled back tight around the nut sack to retain tension, locking the skin back tight. The best part about using the retainer no one has to hold it back it frees the hands to use on other stuff. His cock stood transformed bare, smooth, the head exposed like a high and tight cut, frenulum pulling subtly if they’d “kept” it. She’d run her fingers over it, free hands exploring the taut shaft, the dry glans, living her cut craving while Greg basked in his scar driven dream.

Claire knelt between Greg’s thighs, His cock stood erect before her, thick and heavy, its foreskin pulled back tight and secured by a rubber retainer a thin, elastic ring she’d slipped on moments ago. The retainer hugged the shaft just behind the corona, locking the foreskin in place, transforming Greg’s uncut beauty into a sleek, exposed column that echoed a circumcised look. The glans gleamed deep purple red, slick with a sheen of precum, its surface smooth and taut without the foreskin’s hood. The outer skin stretched down the shaft, taut and immobile, while the inner mucosa peeked out in a thin, pinkish band above the retainer, a remnant of its natural state. She licked her lips, her pulse quickening at the sight this was her chance to savor the cut illusion on an uncut canvas, a bridge between her worlds.

She leaned in, her breath warm against the glans, watching it twitch as the air brushed its exposed sensitivity. The retainer held firm, no slip of foreskin to cover it, leaving the head vulnerable a stark contrast to its usual silken cradle. She started slow, pressing her lips to the tip, soft and tentative, feeling the heat of him against her mouth. The glans was firmer than when hooded, its texture less yielding, the surface slick but not as moist as she’d known it moments ago. She parted her lips, letting the head slide past them, her tongue darting out to taste him salt and musk, a faint tang of his arousal mingling with the rubbery scent of the retainer clinging to his skin.

Her tongue flattened against the underside, tracing the corona’s ridge where the foreskin once bunched. Now, with the retainer pinning it back, the ridge stood sharp and defined, a pronounced edge she could flick and tease. She swirled around it, feeling the glans pulse, its sensitivity heightened by constant exposure. The frenulum stretched taut beneath, still intact, pulling the head slightly downward a subtle bow she’d noted in Greg’s play. She focused there, sucking lightly, her lips puckering around the tender web as her tongue flicked its nerve rich center. Greg groaned, his hips shifting, and she felt the tension in the retainer, the rubber flexing but holding fast, keeping the foreskin locked away.

She took him deeper, her mouth enveloping the glans fully, the head sliding against her palate. Without the foreskin’s glide, it felt stiffer, more rigid like her cut exes but the retainer’s presence added a twist: the shaft skin stayed smooth and stretched, no bunching or rolling, just a taut sleeve she could grip with her lips. She bobbed slowly, her tongue working the slit at the tip, coaxing more precum that pooled and spread, slicking her mouth. The rubber ring pressed against her lower lip as she descended, a firm, elastic barrier that marked the boundary of retraction. She grazed it with her teeth gentle, testing feeling its give, the way it hugged Greg’s shaft like a second skin.

Pulling back, she let the glans pop free, glistening with her saliva, and focused on the details. The retainer a matte black band, snug and slightly tacky clamped the foreskin just below the corona, exposing the inner mucosa’s edge. She kissed it, her lips brushing the thin pink strip, tasting its faint sweetness softer than the glans, a whisper of what lay beneath. She sucked there, drawing the mucosa into her mouth, rolling it against her tongue, savoring the contrast to the bare head above. Greg’s breath hitched, his hand tangling in her blonde hair, urging her on.

She returned to the glans, wrapping her lips tight around it, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked harder. The retainer freed her hands one gripped his shaft, stroking the stretched skin, feeling its firmness under the rubber’s hold; the other cupped his balls, rolling them gently, their weight shifting in her palm. She hummed, the vibration rippling through him, and tilted her head to take him at an angle, the glans brushing the back of her throat. The lack of foreskin movement made it direct, unbuffered each suck drew a raw, sharp moan from Greg, his sensitivity unshielded, every nerve laid bare.

She varied her rhythm slow, languid pulls, then quick, shallow bobs her tongue swirling in tight circles around the head, dipping into the slit, tracing the frenulum’s taut line. Saliva pooled, dripping past the retainer, slicking the shaft, and she used it, her hand sliding up to meet her mouth, a seamless glide over the restrained skin. The rubber held steady, no give, no slip, keeping the foreskin retracted as she worked him, her lips smacking softly with each retreat. She nibbled the glans’ edge, teeth grazing just enough to tease, then sucked hard, pulling him deep until her nose brushed his pubic hair, the musky scent filling her senses. She stopped there wanting him to finish inside her.

Claire straddled Greg on their bed, the familiar creak of the mattress beneath her knees a quiet soundtrack to the heat building between them. The room glowed faintly, the bedside lamp casting a warm amber haze over his naked form broad chest rising and falling, hazel eyes locked on hers, dark with that mix of shame and desire she’d come to know so well. His cock stood rigid between her thighs, thick and pulsing, its foreskin pulled back tight and secured by the rubber retainer she’d slipped on minutes ago. The black elastic ring hugged the shaft just behind the corona, pinning the foreskin down, transforming his uncut length into a sleek, exposed mimicry of circumcision. The glans gleamed deep red, slick with a bead of precum, its surface taut and bare, no silky hood to cradle it. The shaft skin stretched smooth below, the inner mucosa a thin, pinkish whisper above the retainer, taut and immobile. She ran her fingers over it, feeling the firmness, the artificial cut illusion she’d crafted, and her pulse quickened this was Greg as he dreamed, yet still hers to reclaim.

She shifted, positioning herself above him, her shaved pussy hovering inches from his cock. The air between them was thick, charged with the musk of their arousal and the faint rubbery tang of the retainer. She gripped his shaft, her thumb brushing the exposed glans, feeling its heat, its slight give firmer than when hooded, less cushioned, a texture she’d known from cut lovers but now shaped by her hands. “Ready?” she murmured, her voice low and teasing, and Greg nodded, his breath hitching as she lowered herself.

The tip pressed against her entrance, slick with her own wetness, and she sank down slowly, savoring the stretch. Without the foreskin’s glide, the glans felt blunt, direct pushing into her with a raw, unbuffered thrust that made her gasp. The retainer held firm, no roll of skin to ease the friction, just the bare head parting her, filling her inch by inch. She felt every contour the corona’s sharp ridge scraping her walls, the frenulum’s taut pull bowing the tip slightly downward, grazing her insides at an angle that sent a jolt through her core. It was different from his uncut state less silky, more rigid, a cut man’s thrust in an uncut body and she loved the contrast, the way it bridged her cravings.

She rocked her hips, setting a steady rhythm, her hands braced on his chest, nails digging into his skin. Greg groaned, his hips bucking up to meet her, the retainer keeping his cock exposed, every thrust a stark, unshielded plunge. The shaft skin stayed taut, no bunching or sliding, just a smooth column she rode, her pussy gripping it tight. The glans dryer than usual, its natural moisture locked away rubbed against her with a faint friction, a delicious edge that built heat fast. She tilted forward, angling him deeper, the bowed tip hitting that spot inside her, and her breath caught, a moan slipping free.

“Fuck, Claire,” Greg rasped, his hands clamping onto her hips, guiding her pace. The retainer flexed slightly under the strain, its elastic grip unwavering, holding the foreskin back as she fucked him harder. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, brushing his chest, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, strands sticking to her sweat-damp skin. The bed creaked louder, the headboard tapping the wall, a frantic rhythm matching their gasps. She felt him swell inside her, the glans pulsing, its sensitivity heightened by exposure, and she clenched around him, chasing her own edge.

It hit her first a sharp, shuddering climax that ripped through her, her pussy spasming around his cock, soaking him with her release. She cried out, head thrown back, nails raking his chest as waves crashed over her. Greg followed seconds later, his groan guttural, hips jerking as he came. She felt it hot, thick stronger spurts flooding her, the bare glans unloading deep inside, no foreskin to trap it. The retainer kept his cock rigid, the cum spilling freely, mixing with her wetness, slicking their union as they rode it out together. Her thighs trembled, his grip tightened, and they slowed, breaths ragged, bodies locked in the aftershock.

Claire lingered there, still impaled on him, feeling his cock soften slightly, the glans retreating from its peak hardness. She leaned down, kissing his lips salty with sweat then slid off, his cum dripping from her onto the sheets. His cock rested against his thigh, still held by the retainer, the glans now slick with their mingled fluids, a sheen of white clinging to the corona. She reached for it, her fingers brushing the rubber ring, feeling its tacky warmth from their heat. “Time to let it go,” she said, smirking, and Greg nodded, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth.

She pinched the retainer between her thumb and forefinger, its elasticity resisting as she tugged. It stretched, then slipped free with a soft snap, rolling off his shaft and landing on the bed with a faint bounce. The foreskin sprang forward, loose and tender, sliding over the glans like a curtain falling back into place. It bunched at the tip, wrinkled and red from the strain, the inner mucosa glistening with traces of cum and her juices. The glans peeked out beneath, softer now, retreating into its natural hood, the frenulum relaxing its pull. She ran her fingers over it, feeling the silkiness return, the skin pliable and warm, a stark shift from the taut, exposed state moments ago.

Greg sighed, a mix of relief and satisfaction, as she massaged the foreskin gently, coaxing it back to rest. “Better?” she asked, her tone playful, and he chuckled, pulling her down beside him.

“Always,” he murmured, his arm wrapping around her, their bodies sticky and spent. Claire nestled into him, her hand lingering on his cock, tracing the restored foreskin, savoring its return. The retainer lay discarded beside them a tool of their game, a bridge to his fantasy but this, the uncut reality, was what she loved most, even as she indulged his scars.