Her dark attire was broken by a shocking fluorescent pink at the sash and otherwise moderate neckline. She followed his gaze as it traversed her geography. "That must be your third strike," she deliberated. "You're 'caught lookin.'" His thin lips twisted into a smile. His uniform of ball-cap, jeans, and a tee shirt was color coordinated but otherwise unremarkable. She observed the Mascot and followed up with "You rootin' for the Twins?"
"Oh yeah," was his noncommittal reply. He was aware that sparks had flown, but he was unsure if the advantage was his, or if she was merely feeding castles in the air. He went for broke. "You'll hate yourself in the morning," he quoted the old movie line.
The grocery checker was old enough to tumble that flirting was afoot, but not sufficiently involved to follow. The dark one contemplated how she could in any way avoid predictable regret. She had been "being good," and she was prepared to make a naughty exception. He appeared to be an excellent specimen, so he probably knew whereof he spoke. He literally had ham and eggs in his basket. She rearranged her largesse while he paid. "Where are you staying?" she asked. D.C. had a thousand tourist attractions and he might not even be local.
He regarded her steadily, and responded, "Holiday Inn. Here's my cell. Dial your number, then (when it rings,) hit talk three times on your own phone. It calls mine back, and we've exchanged numbers." She could see that if he was this knacky that he might be more fun than she had credited him for. "Hope he's not a 'Holiday Inn expert,'" she thought. His next remark was apropos of his proposal. "Did you know that Apple Corporation once had to make a rule that members of the opposite sex had to take separate rooms? Either spouses got wind of a lot of illicit commingling, or sexual harassment got out of control!"
"Probably both. I'll call around six?" She handed him his ringing phone.
"O.K." and as quick as that they were "on" for a tryst.
.
.
.
Room 242 was cool and dim when she entered. She satisfied a pedestrian curiosity. "I see ham, white bread, provolone and dijon. What were the six eggs for?"
"Call me Dusty," he demurred, handing her a Peach Bacardi. Then, in answer to her question, "Two are for a hangover cure, two are to wash my mane, and two are to egg my competitor's car if he plays false with me."
She grinned conspiratorially, and proceeded to disrobe without preamble. "Call me Fee," she smiled. "Shared showers teach teamwork," she invited. Curves bust enhancers joined a .380 from an ankle holster in a growing pile on the floor.
He contemplated this without comment, and soon asked "Do you have nail polish?"
She was sure she didn't have her favorite, but she DEFINITELY had _something_ in her purse. She silently produced the nail polish and a diaphragm together. He responded by running a bubble bath in the spa. Since this was unexpected, the sweet anticipation grew, a palpable sexual tension which they both enjoyed. She stroked his bare back, and played with his hair in her left hand. His left hand was making bubbles, but his right hand traveled up her calf and thigh in return. He did not make her wait for carnivorous attention. His wet left hand joined his right on her buttocks as he kissed her deeply. His lips delivered as advertised. "Have patience," he said when he spoke again.
The bubbles in the bath would keep it warm, and he swept her off her feet into the tub. Instead of joining her, he sudsed up a wash cloth and proceeded to wash her attentively. He didn't linger unnecessarily, but her breasts changed shape more than once under his thorough attentions. When he had done enough, he proceeded to wash her hair. Dry, it cascaded to her shoulders like an auburn waterfall, but wet it was a skill to merely keep it untangled. She assisted him as needed... teamwork was teamwork.
When he rinsed her hair, she stood up, (pink and glowing,) and he made the temperature correct before he started the shower for her. As she rinsed the soapy residue away he regarded her with frank appreciation. "Love that contrast with pale, pale skin," he intoned. "Your tan lines are cuter than God intended."
She blushed at this peculiar enticement. "Why do you bring Church up at a time like this?" she asked.
"Thankin' him for what he's done," was the scandalous reply. He then directed her to "do" her cuticles while he made himself equally desirable.
When he joined her in bed he painted her toe-nails, delicately, blowing them dry.
When her lengthwise pleats finally received him into their warm and wet folds, she was "falling of the bone," ready. He had good girth, and it was a "big mouthful." The hotel had good noise dampening, and she cheered the quarterback mercilessly and his thrusts were as desperate as her cries before she released him from his servitude.
In parting he explained, "It's the dust in a sunset that makes it so beautiful. When you see a beautiful sunset, think of me and whisper 'Dusty'" he instructed.
"I will," she promised. She departed with an unmistakably satisfied gait. Her friends were going to D-I-E!
Thursday, May 28, 2009
What happens in Vegas...
She commanded the respect of ancient Amazons, standing bronzed, erect and tall in a relaxed vermilion Business Suit. He flirted mindlessly as the elevator doors closed. "You're having your effect on me," he ventured.
She turned a cool gaze upon him as if this was the first impact he had accomplished on her consciousness. "Are you married?"
His eyes regarded the tell-tale ring on his left hand with unamused chagrin. "Yes," he admitted.
Her eyes glittered piercingly: "I don't mind." Then in answer to his comment, "You should see me in a bikini. I tend to favor pastels, with a preference for two-tones, like the one Bar Rafaeli wore in this year's Swimsuit Issue."
He had seen the Sports Illustrated in question, and her forwardness was rewarded, as his respect became available for visible review. She stooped and unlatched her sling-backs. It was an irresistible move and he felt the mature and motivated cousin to young lust that she had intended. "You have the advantage of me. I'm Orville," he finally rejoined.
She was quick and it paid off. "Just call me Ms. Wright," she volleyed. "Care to join me for Martinis?"
He finally evidenced his right to a Captain Morgan's with a riposte. "Just as soon as we inspect Room 1274 for vermin. It is Ms Wright, now isn't it?" He continued. "Then we test the nickle slots, for hours!"
She caught her breath, and affected to be impressed. "For... hours?" she replied, meeting his gaze coyly.
He rose gamely to the occasion. "Uh-huh, but just so we agree, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?'"
She gave a throaty laugh. "It's going to be a guh-reat weekend," she twinkled.
She turned a cool gaze upon him as if this was the first impact he had accomplished on her consciousness. "Are you married?"
His eyes regarded the tell-tale ring on his left hand with unamused chagrin. "Yes," he admitted.
Her eyes glittered piercingly: "I don't mind." Then in answer to his comment, "You should see me in a bikini. I tend to favor pastels, with a preference for two-tones, like the one Bar Rafaeli wore in this year's Swimsuit Issue."
He had seen the Sports Illustrated in question, and her forwardness was rewarded, as his respect became available for visible review. She stooped and unlatched her sling-backs. It was an irresistible move and he felt the mature and motivated cousin to young lust that she had intended. "You have the advantage of me. I'm Orville," he finally rejoined.
She was quick and it paid off. "Just call me Ms. Wright," she volleyed. "Care to join me for Martinis?"
He finally evidenced his right to a Captain Morgan's with a riposte. "Just as soon as we inspect Room 1274 for vermin. It is Ms Wright, now isn't it?" He continued. "Then we test the nickle slots, for hours!"
She caught her breath, and affected to be impressed. "For... hours?" she replied, meeting his gaze coyly.
He rose gamely to the occasion. "Uh-huh, but just so we agree, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?'"
She gave a throaty laugh. "It's going to be a guh-reat weekend," she twinkled.
A Beastly Roll in the Hay
The new pool boy was an energizer bunny in the sack, and she rewarded him with assignments that threw him in with her step daughter. Her secret bestiality fetish was running rampant on a binge when she caught herself by surprise.
First she had been a lamb, caught in a shepherd's crook. Then a tigress, then a poodle, mounted and had for a bitch. Now a mare kneeling at the edge of the bed as a stallion covered his mare. She had reveled in the gap between the longhorn cows horns as her legs rode up to his shoulders, straight as she could hold them. A ferret had sent his long supple body down the bunny hole, only to be attacked, fur flying until he lay panting and breathless, seeking only to escape. The boulders guarding the exit provided excellent cover for the fleeing cony.
A bobcat, sans tail, had long since fatally stalked him, and just the other day she had gone 12 rounds with a registered boxer.
Before that, a mink stole a march on his girlfriend, preceded by the fantasy of a Lynx making silver dollar footprints in virgin snow.
But now, as she trapped an erect, hooded, spectacled cobra in the fork of a stick, revulsion took her. She did not stop, but allowed momentum to keep grinding at the gearbox of a standard. The cold blooded reptile slithered and slipped, weaving a hypnotic dance.
Like the extended collision of a racing car with the wall she came, humiliating waves of orgasm washing over her.
No more fantasizing about the fauna. Step-thing would have to be Dik-Dik, Roe, Hind and Doe all by herself in future.
First she had been a lamb, caught in a shepherd's crook. Then a tigress, then a poodle, mounted and had for a bitch. Now a mare kneeling at the edge of the bed as a stallion covered his mare. She had reveled in the gap between the longhorn cows horns as her legs rode up to his shoulders, straight as she could hold them. A ferret had sent his long supple body down the bunny hole, only to be attacked, fur flying until he lay panting and breathless, seeking only to escape. The boulders guarding the exit provided excellent cover for the fleeing cony.
A bobcat, sans tail, had long since fatally stalked him, and just the other day she had gone 12 rounds with a registered boxer.
Before that, a mink stole a march on his girlfriend, preceded by the fantasy of a Lynx making silver dollar footprints in virgin snow.
But now, as she trapped an erect, hooded, spectacled cobra in the fork of a stick, revulsion took her. She did not stop, but allowed momentum to keep grinding at the gearbox of a standard. The cold blooded reptile slithered and slipped, weaving a hypnotic dance.
Like the extended collision of a racing car with the wall she came, humiliating waves of orgasm washing over her.
No more fantasizing about the fauna. Step-thing would have to be Dik-Dik, Roe, Hind and Doe all by herself in future.
Six Flags over Somewhere
She was a stunningly mature filly, not bred yet, but lithe and lanky, inviting attention. He turned his attention to a nearby matron and spoke to be overheard. "Did you know that in France, it's considered good luck to answer the phone during coitus?" he inquired shamelessly.
The matron's eyes did not bug out, but her icy, "Whatever gave you THAT idea?" was somewhat predictable.
"Well, it leads your enemies to believe that you are moral, and your friends to believe that your husband is a tender lover," he replied, grinning provocatively. The matron moved away, shepherding ducklings before her, leaving the field clear for his intentions. He affected to notice "Philly," for the first time. "Hi, I'm Steed Filmore. Are you from Philadelphia?" he inquired nonchalantly.
She regarded his precocious 25 years with some suspicion. "No!" she replied truthfully.
"Hmmm... you look just like my star soccer forward from back then. We used to call her 'Philly!' Best #44 forward I ever had!"
Talk of sports encouraged her to share her own exploits in the softball arena, and soon they were ratcheting up the roller coaster together, side by side, like long lost high school classmates. "This always makes me think of how a girl must feel during pregnancy," he related. "Know what I mean Philly?"
She had given up correcting him and responded glibly that this was "insightful," and "deep." He took her hand, and returned he clutching grip as they screamed through highs and lows.
"I really enjoyed it Steed, but I've gotta go... I meeting back at the Free Fall at 8:30 PM. Take care..." she was almost gone. However, attraction and honesty are a heady liqueur, and she had imbibed more than she had bargained for. She turned and blurted out, "I wouldn't fuck you, but I WOULD give you a blow-job!"
"I know a VERY private place. It's on the way, and I'll NEVER tell anyone." He knew a nook. Trailer park humor can be crass, but it illustrates that one can make up in enthusiasm what one lacks in skill. If you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose, this one was a Titleist.
The matron's eyes did not bug out, but her icy, "Whatever gave you THAT idea?" was somewhat predictable.
"Well, it leads your enemies to believe that you are moral, and your friends to believe that your husband is a tender lover," he replied, grinning provocatively. The matron moved away, shepherding ducklings before her, leaving the field clear for his intentions. He affected to notice "Philly," for the first time. "Hi, I'm Steed Filmore. Are you from Philadelphia?" he inquired nonchalantly.
She regarded his precocious 25 years with some suspicion. "No!" she replied truthfully.
"Hmmm... you look just like my star soccer forward from back then. We used to call her 'Philly!' Best #44 forward I ever had!"
Talk of sports encouraged her to share her own exploits in the softball arena, and soon they were ratcheting up the roller coaster together, side by side, like long lost high school classmates. "This always makes me think of how a girl must feel during pregnancy," he related. "Know what I mean Philly?"
She had given up correcting him and responded glibly that this was "insightful," and "deep." He took her hand, and returned he clutching grip as they screamed through highs and lows.
"I really enjoyed it Steed, but I've gotta go... I meeting back at the Free Fall at 8:30 PM. Take care..." she was almost gone. However, attraction and honesty are a heady liqueur, and she had imbibed more than she had bargained for. She turned and blurted out, "I wouldn't fuck you, but I WOULD give you a blow-job!"
"I know a VERY private place. It's on the way, and I'll NEVER tell anyone." He knew a nook. Trailer park humor can be crass, but it illustrates that one can make up in enthusiasm what one lacks in skill. If you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose, this one was a Titleist.
Dance Hall Casting Call
Her last casting call had gone like too many predictably do. He had made his move, she had (with feigned enthusiasm,) "let him," and then she had not gotten the part, despite her co-operation.
Coral Kent was looking for "Amanda Hugankiss." As she stood in the dark line for Circus Disco, vainly working a lucky penny over a scratch-off, two large hands unexpectedly grasped her midriff. Surprised, she cooperated as they assisted her in stepping a little to the left, as a large VIP eased ahead in the line. They came a smidgen to far forward, a fraction too far down, and lingered a split second too long before completing the operation by releasing her.
She turned to see who might have "turned her on," prepared to slap his face. The rakish figure that filled her eye stole her intent away and she adjusted her under wire as nature took its course. For revenge, she turned her right foot 40 degrees outward like a ballerina, bent her knee, and rotated it 2 or 3 inches further from the other. She lowered "dark," glasses for dramatic effect, and peered at him over the tops of the lenses. They were the yellow kind, that merely improve contrast (her daddy called them "shooting glasses,") and she was little impeded to glance downward through them (as nature took it's course on him in his turn,) and his right hand went into his pocket as _he_ adjusted.
He had on a Stetson Cowboy Hat, and Justin Boots, and his dark eyes betrayed little as she searched for pupil dilation. The stubble, his stance, and a barely noticeable set of "love handles," marked him not as a "boy," but as a "man."
"That's an intricate design on the pocket of your jeans," he introduced himself. "It draws... " He raised his eyes to meet hers, "...the eye," he finished.
Still flushed with her initial reaction, she spoke with ambitions of telling him off. Alas, it was not a snappy come-back. "Do you think my Ropers complement them well?" she inquired meekly, but with some art.
He reset his hat with his right hand as he used this excuse to look her up and down. He obviously had an appetite, and she had a feeling that she wouldn't mind being dinner. "Love 'em to death," was his chosen rejoinder.
The line chose that moment to shrink to nothing. Still flushed, she flashed a perfect set of pearly whites at the bouncer and said with some bravado, "He's with me."
It had happened before, but not reliably, and she was a little surprised when he waved them both through. Her forward "John Wayne," was not a hick, and Lincoln made brief appearance by way of thanks. They approached the bar together. She was in a generous mood, and drew her own Lincoln unobtrusively from her poche. She put him to the test. "Would you DIE for your country?" she asked, her $20 bill still hidden from his view.
His eyes wavered neither right nor left. "I would," he replied, appealing to brevity for emphasis.
"Pour the man a Blood Mary," she announced loudly to anyone who could hear. "...and for me a Martini, teeny but _bone_ dry!" If he played his cards right, he'd soon draw to fill an inside straight.
Coral Kent was looking for "Amanda Hugankiss." As she stood in the dark line for Circus Disco, vainly working a lucky penny over a scratch-off, two large hands unexpectedly grasped her midriff. Surprised, she cooperated as they assisted her in stepping a little to the left, as a large VIP eased ahead in the line. They came a smidgen to far forward, a fraction too far down, and lingered a split second too long before completing the operation by releasing her.
She turned to see who might have "turned her on," prepared to slap his face. The rakish figure that filled her eye stole her intent away and she adjusted her under wire as nature took its course. For revenge, she turned her right foot 40 degrees outward like a ballerina, bent her knee, and rotated it 2 or 3 inches further from the other. She lowered "dark," glasses for dramatic effect, and peered at him over the tops of the lenses. They were the yellow kind, that merely improve contrast (her daddy called them "shooting glasses,") and she was little impeded to glance downward through them (as nature took it's course on him in his turn,) and his right hand went into his pocket as _he_ adjusted.
He had on a Stetson Cowboy Hat, and Justin Boots, and his dark eyes betrayed little as she searched for pupil dilation. The stubble, his stance, and a barely noticeable set of "love handles," marked him not as a "boy," but as a "man."
"That's an intricate design on the pocket of your jeans," he introduced himself. "It draws... " He raised his eyes to meet hers, "...the eye," he finished.
Still flushed with her initial reaction, she spoke with ambitions of telling him off. Alas, it was not a snappy come-back. "Do you think my Ropers complement them well?" she inquired meekly, but with some art.
He reset his hat with his right hand as he used this excuse to look her up and down. He obviously had an appetite, and she had a feeling that she wouldn't mind being dinner. "Love 'em to death," was his chosen rejoinder.
The line chose that moment to shrink to nothing. Still flushed, she flashed a perfect set of pearly whites at the bouncer and said with some bravado, "He's with me."
It had happened before, but not reliably, and she was a little surprised when he waved them both through. Her forward "John Wayne," was not a hick, and Lincoln made brief appearance by way of thanks. They approached the bar together. She was in a generous mood, and drew her own Lincoln unobtrusively from her poche. She put him to the test. "Would you DIE for your country?" she asked, her $20 bill still hidden from his view.
His eyes wavered neither right nor left. "I would," he replied, appealing to brevity for emphasis.
"Pour the man a Blood Mary," she announced loudly to anyone who could hear. "...and for me a Martini, teeny but _bone_ dry!" If he played his cards right, he'd soon draw to fill an inside straight.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The face that launched a thousand ships;
It was labor day weekend, and Steve and Michelle had been planning with anticipation for weeks. She was an Au Pair girl, and doubled as a literal French Maid. His time at West Point was paying off in spades (the universal trump.) For her, he was a trophy, and for him, she was an excellent diversion.
The family turned in, around eleven, with Michelle putting the baby down before nine. He had enjoyed her uniform, and she had enjoyed his voyeurism like all good exhibitionists. She kept the lock and hinges lubricated with silicone. It was a better lubricant than WD40 was a drying agent, but just as good for the second purpose. The door gave no betrayal of his arrival. The night light cast a dim glow about the room, and she stood up to greet him in a soft chemise.
Their dance was familiar and practiced. She met his eye in the darkness, and asked him if he wanted "...to go hunting for truffles?" He cared nothing for truffles, but this was their code, and he affirmed his interest. He unwrapped the gift, and soon they were well positioned at the edge of the bed. "Cherche," she instructed him in a whisper.
He went down. It was a rule with him, not to send the pigskin into any war-zone where his mouth could not safely traverse, but she was the stereo-typical fast and clean machine. He felt her cum, and intoned "J'ai trouve," with quiet satisfaction. He liked that she was neither jaded nor inhibited. He followed hard on by identifying the eighteen hour callous, where her bra under-wire rode, and massaging it thoroughly. She had taught him that, with a bitter-sweet admission that his father had taught it to her.
Their efforts over the next 45 minutes left them happy and spent. She called it "la petite mort." From what he was learning at West Point, there was nothing "petite," about it. Senators and Congressmen deliberately avoided the consummation, lest they be taken advantage of, mercilessly, by their peers. He made a mental note to NEVER let it go that long.
She kissed him, and murmured "Au revoir!" "Je t'aime," he replied, and was gone. A cold shower was a stoic conclusion, but he was Spartan by choice. Luxury was for the damned.
The family turned in, around eleven, with Michelle putting the baby down before nine. He had enjoyed her uniform, and she had enjoyed his voyeurism like all good exhibitionists. She kept the lock and hinges lubricated with silicone. It was a better lubricant than WD40 was a drying agent, but just as good for the second purpose. The door gave no betrayal of his arrival. The night light cast a dim glow about the room, and she stood up to greet him in a soft chemise.
Their dance was familiar and practiced. She met his eye in the darkness, and asked him if he wanted "...to go hunting for truffles?" He cared nothing for truffles, but this was their code, and he affirmed his interest. He unwrapped the gift, and soon they were well positioned at the edge of the bed. "Cherche," she instructed him in a whisper.
He went down. It was a rule with him, not to send the pigskin into any war-zone where his mouth could not safely traverse, but she was the stereo-typical fast and clean machine. He felt her cum, and intoned "J'ai trouve," with quiet satisfaction. He liked that she was neither jaded nor inhibited. He followed hard on by identifying the eighteen hour callous, where her bra under-wire rode, and massaging it thoroughly. She had taught him that, with a bitter-sweet admission that his father had taught it to her.
Their efforts over the next 45 minutes left them happy and spent. She called it "la petite mort." From what he was learning at West Point, there was nothing "petite," about it. Senators and Congressmen deliberately avoided the consummation, lest they be taken advantage of, mercilessly, by their peers. He made a mental note to NEVER let it go that long.
She kissed him, and murmured "Au revoir!" "Je t'aime," he replied, and was gone. A cold shower was a stoic conclusion, but he was Spartan by choice. Luxury was for the damned.
A matinee;
He was fresh out of Basic Training, enjoying a little R&R in a darkened theater screening "Quantum of Solace." Her eyes adjusted to the gloom as she stood near the entrance, looking for prey. A long weekend at her friend's condominium was NOT an opportunity to be wasted.
The casement Diana identified an opposite number, and moved quietly, like a lioness. While the King of the Jungle is known for his terrific roar, the lioness makes the kill. Prides hunt by design, like Orcas, and the Lion's job is to scare the meal into the path of the ambushing lioness. He became aware of her just as she slid into the seat just next to his. It was a half-empty theater, and her forwardness was unavoidably evident.
She recovered from even this small exertion easily, by deepening the draw of her breath. He knew, from recent experience in clandestine ops, that this translated into excellent stealth on her part. When fleeing, the noise of your labored breathing is as telling as any indication a fugitive can hide.
Her Baby-Doll Tee was short, and her skirt was shorter. She felt that the ball was in his court, and did not go further with introductions. 007 undertook yet another 130 minute epic of history, and he was well underway before their shared armrest became the pleasure of his audience.
She was, (by design,) seated to his left, and his first right move was to move his drink to his right armrest. He contemplated the old "stretch and put the arm around her" maneuver, but decided he didn't want to explain a juvenile failure to his bud's back at the base, much LESS his XO. Besides, Movieplexes frowned upon that kind of thing nowadays... At least, this was not THAT kind of Movieplex, and she gave no evidence of being that kind of vixen.
His relaxation went away as she maneuvered her right arm until about a square inch of her bare skin touched his arm. She added a cook's portion of time, changing position just often enough to keep his attentions divided. By the time Gemmma Arterton's "Agent Fields," made an entrance, he was ready to surrender, adolescent or not. And she was... adolescent. Nubile, but not excessively so, he strongly suspected that jail-bait was on the line, but he could not avoid the evidence. There was BAIT on that hook.
She leaned over and whispered, "Did you know that 'Quantum,' (as used in the title,) isn't 'two-states at once,' but rather 'the smallest distinguishable unit?'" she asked. Agent Fields herself was quite delectable, and the comparison inebriated the senses. "You should get a trench coat like that yourself," he suggested frankly. "No, I didn't know. I thought it was 'solace,' and 'not solace,' at the same time. Shhh!"
She had his attention and desisted from harassment, satisfied that her Marlin needed to burn some energy, or the line would snap. The constant touch at the arm was becoming intimate, and had progressed to more than was in any wise necessary. The play developed to crescendo, and abated, like the tide coming in and going out. This was her third angling expedition, and she monitored the plot in the pedestrian manner of minors who watch a favorite Disney episode repeatedly.
For his part, he anticipated that her bare midriff and exposed thigh were fair game after her advances, but he was not only ethical, he had not yet surrendered all his morals. The closing credits rolled, and the lights came up.
She struck while the glowing metal was still malleable. "Could you help a girl out by sharing a taxi?" she inquired. A combination of respect for women and a desire to be a White Knight coerced agreement out of him, and soon they stood side by side at the edge of the curb. Her right hand took his arm just above the elbow, and he was her escort before he knew what had happened.
"How old are you?" he soon demanded. It was impolite to ask a woman her age, but this waif at his side was certainly his junior. "I turned 18 three months ago," she replied, then added quickly, "...but I'm NOT innocent!" Hmmm... he thought, can't argue with you there. He spoke gently, "I just don't want to take advantage of you," he explained.
As soon as they were seated in the cab and had given instructions as to their destinations, her eyes caught his intently. He had no other warning of her next salvo. "Want to get involved in a 'Love Triangle,'" she asked, with a playful grin. His mind had come to no organized conclusion before his blood chemistry assaulted any remaining clarity that he may have enjoyed. Instinct and long established decorum asserted themselves. "Of course not," he managed weakly. She maintained eye contact, as her right hand guided _his_ right hand north of her southern border. The beaver pelt he found illustrated her point, as the vessel of his physical constitution discovered it was underway. Ships were safe in harbor, but that was NOT what ships were for. He kissed her gently, and they directed the cabbie to her condo. Women preferred their OWN beds.
The casement Diana identified an opposite number, and moved quietly, like a lioness. While the King of the Jungle is known for his terrific roar, the lioness makes the kill. Prides hunt by design, like Orcas, and the Lion's job is to scare the meal into the path of the ambushing lioness. He became aware of her just as she slid into the seat just next to his. It was a half-empty theater, and her forwardness was unavoidably evident.
She recovered from even this small exertion easily, by deepening the draw of her breath. He knew, from recent experience in clandestine ops, that this translated into excellent stealth on her part. When fleeing, the noise of your labored breathing is as telling as any indication a fugitive can hide.
Her Baby-Doll Tee was short, and her skirt was shorter. She felt that the ball was in his court, and did not go further with introductions. 007 undertook yet another 130 minute epic of history, and he was well underway before their shared armrest became the pleasure of his audience.
She was, (by design,) seated to his left, and his first right move was to move his drink to his right armrest. He contemplated the old "stretch and put the arm around her" maneuver, but decided he didn't want to explain a juvenile failure to his bud's back at the base, much LESS his XO. Besides, Movieplexes frowned upon that kind of thing nowadays... At least, this was not THAT kind of Movieplex, and she gave no evidence of being that kind of vixen.
His relaxation went away as she maneuvered her right arm until about a square inch of her bare skin touched his arm. She added a cook's portion of time, changing position just often enough to keep his attentions divided. By the time Gemmma Arterton's "Agent Fields," made an entrance, he was ready to surrender, adolescent or not. And she was... adolescent. Nubile, but not excessively so, he strongly suspected that jail-bait was on the line, but he could not avoid the evidence. There was BAIT on that hook.
She leaned over and whispered, "Did you know that 'Quantum,' (as used in the title,) isn't 'two-states at once,' but rather 'the smallest distinguishable unit?'" she asked. Agent Fields herself was quite delectable, and the comparison inebriated the senses. "You should get a trench coat like that yourself," he suggested frankly. "No, I didn't know. I thought it was 'solace,' and 'not solace,' at the same time. Shhh!"
She had his attention and desisted from harassment, satisfied that her Marlin needed to burn some energy, or the line would snap. The constant touch at the arm was becoming intimate, and had progressed to more than was in any wise necessary. The play developed to crescendo, and abated, like the tide coming in and going out. This was her third angling expedition, and she monitored the plot in the pedestrian manner of minors who watch a favorite Disney episode repeatedly.
For his part, he anticipated that her bare midriff and exposed thigh were fair game after her advances, but he was not only ethical, he had not yet surrendered all his morals. The closing credits rolled, and the lights came up.
She struck while the glowing metal was still malleable. "Could you help a girl out by sharing a taxi?" she inquired. A combination of respect for women and a desire to be a White Knight coerced agreement out of him, and soon they stood side by side at the edge of the curb. Her right hand took his arm just above the elbow, and he was her escort before he knew what had happened.
"How old are you?" he soon demanded. It was impolite to ask a woman her age, but this waif at his side was certainly his junior. "I turned 18 three months ago," she replied, then added quickly, "...but I'm NOT innocent!" Hmmm... he thought, can't argue with you there. He spoke gently, "I just don't want to take advantage of you," he explained.
As soon as they were seated in the cab and had given instructions as to their destinations, her eyes caught his intently. He had no other warning of her next salvo. "Want to get involved in a 'Love Triangle,'" she asked, with a playful grin. His mind had come to no organized conclusion before his blood chemistry assaulted any remaining clarity that he may have enjoyed. Instinct and long established decorum asserted themselves. "Of course not," he managed weakly. She maintained eye contact, as her right hand guided _his_ right hand north of her southern border. The beaver pelt he found illustrated her point, as the vessel of his physical constitution discovered it was underway. Ships were safe in harbor, but that was NOT what ships were for. He kissed her gently, and they directed the cabbie to her condo. Women preferred their OWN beds.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Leeward Islands;
She was loping down the beach, jogging at an even pace, running without any evidence of tiring. He was an athlete himself, and considered it great good fortune to stumble upon a fellow running enthusiast in the course of his normal exercise schedule.
He lengthened his stride, and in 250 yards, they were advancing side by side. The beach was both wide and long, as such things go, but no beach is infinite, and he was accustomed to five laps. They covered the length twice wordlessly. At the end of the third length, she was prepared to take him seriously. "Where do you go to shower up and hydrate?" she asked between laps. "I know a lifeguard, and I use the county facilities," he replied. "They don't extend the privilege to tourists." She grinned infectiously. "We have tourists at Hidden Hollow area too," she agreed. "Is there a 'Y' I can patronize later?" He wasn't shy. "I'll take you back to my place if you like... it's 35 minutes away, so you might want to plan to stay a while." She assessed him discretely with her eye, and agreed to think about it for four more lengths.
45 minutes later they ended their exertions, and turned back to society. Her efforts had been greater proportionally than his, and she was compensated with a runner's high that he did not achieve on this occasion. For him this was more of a solitary endeavor, and he felt well compensated by her company. They rinsed off at the public showers, and she donned a warm-up suit in favor of running shorts. His casual attire was lighter, but identifiably athletic. They set off for his domicile looking like a pair of matched Morgans. He fed her rotisserie chicken, and she was appreciative of his solicitous care. His duplex was a town house, and they arrived at dusk.
The obligatory tour was easily accomplished, and his room mate made her welcome by inviting her to use his spacious bath, while he himself attended to the toiletry necessary to the courtship dance. They had a rule. A fully charged laptop and library privileges (with a mad money kitty,) complemented camping equipment for just such an occasion. His room mate left for the movies soon after the local news ended. The note he left for them both read, "Old friend pulling an all-nighter... don't wait up."
He checked his answering machine, and took a note or two. Her shower had been extended and, one could only assume, luxurious. When she made her entrance in a pastel halter top, low-riders and clean sneakers, he found her striking. She was toweling out a short mane of blond hair, and her piercing blue eyes met his gaze with frank invitation: she had been a "daddy's girl." Her lip-stick was a color of skin that made a visual cue for intimacy, and her darkened eyebrows made a contrasting frame for the shaded window of her gaze.
He had been fortunate not to over dress. His khakis and Nike Polo were earth tones, and his Green Bay Packers ball cap tamed his unruly hair unobtrusively. He felt a chemical thrill run though his loins, and racked his brains for a suggestive double entendre. It came out cheesy... "You look like a fallen angel. Can I help you adjust your halo?" She was undeterred. "If you have a Nintendo, I'll kick your ass at HALO III... I love _anything_ with a joy-stick."
Inspiration finally struck, and he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. "Call me 'August.' I'm a role playing fanatic. Have you ever made conquest of a man named August?"
She had been taken off guard, but the playfulness of it kept it from being weird. "I'll be 'Mary.'" she played along. "I'm from Europe, touring the States on 14 dollars a day. My priest is against birth control, and I _LOVE_ hot August nights!" The vision of her in a knotted white Catholic School top, with an abbreviated pleated plaid skirt competed for his subliminal appreciation that, where male gonads would have been, she had an unobstructed availability.
"My Minister will be back in early morning, Mary. He'll marry anyone that asks him, so we needn't trouble ourselves to withhold our appetites. He's Hassidic... his name's 'Rabbi.'" His eyes twinkled.
Her eyes glistened in return. "During my times with the Peace Corps in Africa I learned to milk snakes of their venom. I know how to use emergency first-aid for life saving measures even after they bite you!" She knew that for all pursuits on earth, experience is an excellent pre-requisite, and began moving rhythmically with the music playing softly in the background.
Her hair was orderly despite her casual treatment, and her halter top hardly disturbed it at all as she removed it. He responded by removing any impedance for her to the object of her remarks... the shirt would go later. She made no secret of getting eye drops from her kit, and applying them not to her pupils, but her strawberry invitations. It was obviously an excellent vaso-constrictor, because her physique took on the character of welts, and his gaze danced between them until she walked up to him and took his head in her arms, drawing him to her with blatant affection. Her fingers wandered through his hair as Finger Eleven came over the speakers, announcing to all the world that the flirtation of her eyes had challenged her body to deliver physical Utopia.
Her hands spent little time stroking, before their strength became evident. They kneaded and searched his torso, kindling coals of desire that were never far from the surface. She matched his ready erection with nakedness surprisingly quickly. She covered him and began to bump and grind. "Watch my boobs bounce," she teased. She liked a canter, and he was well compensated as her steed. She reached around behind, and stroked the pouch of his family jewels as this treatment afforded opportunity. "What are you doing?" he inquired hesitantly. This was not SOP. "I care about the twins," was her reply.
She had the belly of a Greyhound, and used his athletic tolerance to the limits. He was marveling at both her endurance and his own when he finally climaxed. Her mons veneris was what you'd call "clean." "Was it Nair or waxing?" he wondered.
She was a demanding jockey, and he was testing the texture of the canvas at her instruction before James Blunt was finished crooning out "Annie," in its entirety. She assisted his efforts with her hands at her breasts, proclaiming the nipples "wonderful," as the blood coursed the constricted capillaries. "Ahhh... that feels good." She kept a steady banter of encouragement going, until he finally balked like a Show Jumping Horse at a Jockey's poorly timed approach to the bar. He took time away from his otherwise persistent attentions to say, "You know that a true Jockey uses the crop sparingly."
She was not impervious, and deflated. It was no time to argue semantics of who was whispering encouragement and who was using the whip. "I'm only human," she pleaded. "I am but a man," he capitulated. He became a gymnast and she became his equipment.
Their next moment of clarity found them locked in full embrace, with his hands on her shoulders, like a chin-up bar. Her wiry frame yielded little, like the tuned suspension of a responsive sports car. "I want to be sore in the morning," she whispered in his ear. He was no amateur, and did his best to render her noodle kneed. Her cries of pleasure waxed and waned, culminating in tears. "I didn't want to admit it, but it's been FOREVER!" she admitted in a moment of weakness. "I haven't taken a lover since my Dad died two and a half years ago." He softened to her confidence, and turned discussion to his small stock of Global Politics when a lull in the action supported a change of subject.
"I'll probably never forget you," he assured her before turning up the lights and patronizing pay-per-view. She was (as Hollywood puts it,) free, and she capped hours of mutual enjoyment with an extended and applied French Maid demonstration. The apartment was spotless when she again donned her daytime attire.
She was gone in a rush when the time came. Rather than retire, she told him to "Take me to the bus station." She was gone 30 minutes later, like an emotional hurricane from the tropics. "Be my Madonna forever," he entreated. "I will," she agreed. "I feel like we really bonded!"
The bus pulled away, and he lingered; she waved and her "take care" echoed through the canyons of his mind.
"D-E-V-A-S-T-A-T-I-N-G," he thought.
He lengthened his stride, and in 250 yards, they were advancing side by side. The beach was both wide and long, as such things go, but no beach is infinite, and he was accustomed to five laps. They covered the length twice wordlessly. At the end of the third length, she was prepared to take him seriously. "Where do you go to shower up and hydrate?" she asked between laps. "I know a lifeguard, and I use the county facilities," he replied. "They don't extend the privilege to tourists." She grinned infectiously. "We have tourists at Hidden Hollow area too," she agreed. "Is there a 'Y' I can patronize later?" He wasn't shy. "I'll take you back to my place if you like... it's 35 minutes away, so you might want to plan to stay a while." She assessed him discretely with her eye, and agreed to think about it for four more lengths.
45 minutes later they ended their exertions, and turned back to society. Her efforts had been greater proportionally than his, and she was compensated with a runner's high that he did not achieve on this occasion. For him this was more of a solitary endeavor, and he felt well compensated by her company. They rinsed off at the public showers, and she donned a warm-up suit in favor of running shorts. His casual attire was lighter, but identifiably athletic. They set off for his domicile looking like a pair of matched Morgans. He fed her rotisserie chicken, and she was appreciative of his solicitous care. His duplex was a town house, and they arrived at dusk.
The obligatory tour was easily accomplished, and his room mate made her welcome by inviting her to use his spacious bath, while he himself attended to the toiletry necessary to the courtship dance. They had a rule. A fully charged laptop and library privileges (with a mad money kitty,) complemented camping equipment for just such an occasion. His room mate left for the movies soon after the local news ended. The note he left for them both read, "Old friend pulling an all-nighter... don't wait up."
He checked his answering machine, and took a note or two. Her shower had been extended and, one could only assume, luxurious. When she made her entrance in a pastel halter top, low-riders and clean sneakers, he found her striking. She was toweling out a short mane of blond hair, and her piercing blue eyes met his gaze with frank invitation: she had been a "daddy's girl." Her lip-stick was a color of skin that made a visual cue for intimacy, and her darkened eyebrows made a contrasting frame for the shaded window of her gaze.
He had been fortunate not to over dress. His khakis and Nike Polo were earth tones, and his Green Bay Packers ball cap tamed his unruly hair unobtrusively. He felt a chemical thrill run though his loins, and racked his brains for a suggestive double entendre. It came out cheesy... "You look like a fallen angel. Can I help you adjust your halo?" She was undeterred. "If you have a Nintendo, I'll kick your ass at HALO III... I love _anything_ with a joy-stick."
Inspiration finally struck, and he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. "Call me 'August.' I'm a role playing fanatic. Have you ever made conquest of a man named August?"
She had been taken off guard, but the playfulness of it kept it from being weird. "I'll be 'Mary.'" she played along. "I'm from Europe, touring the States on 14 dollars a day. My priest is against birth control, and I _LOVE_ hot August nights!" The vision of her in a knotted white Catholic School top, with an abbreviated pleated plaid skirt competed for his subliminal appreciation that, where male gonads would have been, she had an unobstructed availability.
"My Minister will be back in early morning, Mary. He'll marry anyone that asks him, so we needn't trouble ourselves to withhold our appetites. He's Hassidic... his name's 'Rabbi.'" His eyes twinkled.
Her eyes glistened in return. "During my times with the Peace Corps in Africa I learned to milk snakes of their venom. I know how to use emergency first-aid for life saving measures even after they bite you!" She knew that for all pursuits on earth, experience is an excellent pre-requisite, and began moving rhythmically with the music playing softly in the background.
Her hair was orderly despite her casual treatment, and her halter top hardly disturbed it at all as she removed it. He responded by removing any impedance for her to the object of her remarks... the shirt would go later. She made no secret of getting eye drops from her kit, and applying them not to her pupils, but her strawberry invitations. It was obviously an excellent vaso-constrictor, because her physique took on the character of welts, and his gaze danced between them until she walked up to him and took his head in her arms, drawing him to her with blatant affection. Her fingers wandered through his hair as Finger Eleven came over the speakers, announcing to all the world that the flirtation of her eyes had challenged her body to deliver physical Utopia.
Her hands spent little time stroking, before their strength became evident. They kneaded and searched his torso, kindling coals of desire that were never far from the surface. She matched his ready erection with nakedness surprisingly quickly. She covered him and began to bump and grind. "Watch my boobs bounce," she teased. She liked a canter, and he was well compensated as her steed. She reached around behind, and stroked the pouch of his family jewels as this treatment afforded opportunity. "What are you doing?" he inquired hesitantly. This was not SOP. "I care about the twins," was her reply.
She had the belly of a Greyhound, and used his athletic tolerance to the limits. He was marveling at both her endurance and his own when he finally climaxed. Her mons veneris was what you'd call "clean." "Was it Nair or waxing?" he wondered.
She was a demanding jockey, and he was testing the texture of the canvas at her instruction before James Blunt was finished crooning out "Annie," in its entirety. She assisted his efforts with her hands at her breasts, proclaiming the nipples "wonderful," as the blood coursed the constricted capillaries. "Ahhh... that feels good." She kept a steady banter of encouragement going, until he finally balked like a Show Jumping Horse at a Jockey's poorly timed approach to the bar. He took time away from his otherwise persistent attentions to say, "You know that a true Jockey uses the crop sparingly."
She was not impervious, and deflated. It was no time to argue semantics of who was whispering encouragement and who was using the whip. "I'm only human," she pleaded. "I am but a man," he capitulated. He became a gymnast and she became his equipment.
Their next moment of clarity found them locked in full embrace, with his hands on her shoulders, like a chin-up bar. Her wiry frame yielded little, like the tuned suspension of a responsive sports car. "I want to be sore in the morning," she whispered in his ear. He was no amateur, and did his best to render her noodle kneed. Her cries of pleasure waxed and waned, culminating in tears. "I didn't want to admit it, but it's been FOREVER!" she admitted in a moment of weakness. "I haven't taken a lover since my Dad died two and a half years ago." He softened to her confidence, and turned discussion to his small stock of Global Politics when a lull in the action supported a change of subject.
"I'll probably never forget you," he assured her before turning up the lights and patronizing pay-per-view. She was (as Hollywood puts it,) free, and she capped hours of mutual enjoyment with an extended and applied French Maid demonstration. The apartment was spotless when she again donned her daytime attire.
She was gone in a rush when the time came. Rather than retire, she told him to "Take me to the bus station." She was gone 30 minutes later, like an emotional hurricane from the tropics. "Be my Madonna forever," he entreated. "I will," she agreed. "I feel like we really bonded!"
The bus pulled away, and he lingered; she waved and her "take care" echoed through the canyons of his mind.
"D-E-V-A-S-T-A-T-I-N-G," he thought.
Candor in the dark;
He walked into the bedroom, and she was waiting for him. There were no rose petals or other extraneous things that would make cleaning up a chore, but she was dressed in a bathing suit that was revealing and, if possible, sexier than her nakedness. Her chestnut hair flowed over her back like a dark waterfall, glistening in the artificial gloom. There was a candle glowing in the corner, but other than that the only illumination was from a track light trained on a hologram of a Civil War era cannon.
"Hello stranger," she said quietly. He smiled and kissed her, not absently but not in any exaggerated passion. He was lukewarm to her current affections, and needed the encouragement. "How's Samson?" he asked. She made a face, and remembered the reason he had such a low libido. He had caught her in an affair three months ago. The trust had been damaged, but there was a depth of love to his attentions that went beyond her indiscretion. He had responded by buying her a puppy, and naming it after the biblical hero known for his dalliance with a woman of expensive virtue. He had not neglected to share with her that he had not named him Hosea (who married one,) or David (because he felt it was an inappropriate name for a dog,) but felt that the name of her lover would have been too specific in serving it for breakfast.
"I fed him," she replied, "but I thought of YOU when I did it." He could see that she was nettled, and regretted it. Dwelling on bitterness was not the way to have an enjoyable evening. "Do we still have that bottle of Burgundy left over from New Years?" he asked as an olive branch. She replied in the affirmative moving to open it in anticipation of his wishes.
He knew that alcohol impaired performance, but a little eased inhibitions... he struck a careful balance. For her part, inebriation was much more a part of a pleasurable evening, and she regretted the low alcohol content. He selected one of her longer play-lists on her iPod, and set it playing through the stereo. He had her trust, and the inequities of consumption did not cause any doubts.
Her excuse was Swedish massage. As she rubbed his shoulders and worked him over, he became aware that, what her body did for him by simple observation, she needed contact to obtain. She was rubbing him down like a horse, but she derived more pleasure from it than he did. He soon reciprocated, and the swim suit was an early casualty of war. The weather outside was quite crisp, and the gas fireplace made a pleasant flicker, without observably detracting from the enjoyment of the evening.
Their mutual attentions had started languidly, but he did not defer to get to the point. Arousal might be like a buffet, but there was no point waiting for a prayer to get started on an act of congress. They had already had their first encounter when he spoke. "Your boobs are small, like my high school sweetheart's... did you know that I have never had a more intense desire, and urgent longing, for a grown woman than my unrequited desires for her affections?"
Her grasp became fierce for a few moments, and she admitted something she rarely articulated in words. "I always wanted bigger ones." He was not ignorant of the virtues of a good rack, but he knew how to allay her worst concerns. "The smaller ones have less fatty tissue to obstruct the avenue of sensation," he responded. She believed him, but honesty governed her interactions with him in conversation, as well as description of physical appreciation.
"Come now. You know how Magicians misdirect the audience while they do another part of the trick unobtrusively elsewhere? Girls can do this to guys without even trying. I've had some success with it myself. A guy walks up, and you know everything about how he dresses, looks, where he came from and where he's going, before his eyes rise above your chin." He smiled, more inwardly than he manifested, but she was able to discern it effortlessly. "Oh yeah... they don't JUST look at our BOOBS!" she said, underscoring her earlier point. He came back better than she anticipated. "Well, sex sells right? Women with insensitive boobs have bigger advertisements! If sex can sell utensils and cookware, why can't it sell sex? That's biologically what they were intended for, right?" She giggled. "Not strictly speaking, but pregnancy might be more challenging without them I'll admit." She paused and then added, "...but if you linger too long over MY sex, in _public_, I'll be creative and motivated about embarrassing you back!"
He responded by turning his oral attentions on the optical stimuli under discussion. His hands were firm and hard, from manipulating tools, and her flesh was yielding to his touch. When he mounted her for pleasure, she cooed, and told him that she wanted him to make it last; her initial urgency now demanded a more enduring performance. While he did not love a challenge in the bedroom like a challenge on the sports pitch, he knew that if she didn't inform his efforts with information as to her desires, they would be badly targeted in application, as well as timing and intensity.
They compromised in a new way. He was seated at the head of the bed, as she accomplished full intro-mission. She spoke in a low guttural. "Give me a hickey right here," she said, indicating her left aureole. His accommodation took the form of attentions to her nipple, and she corrected him soon thereafter. When he got the right idea, she rewarded him with a wiggle and a message from her kegels. Her mons pubis found his pubic process, and it was surprising how much mileage you could get out of a very small reciprocation. His mouth didn't lose its place in the book. She raised his other hand to her other breast. He rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, but, hearkening to the lesson of the opposing user interface, his hand was soon manipulating the whole bosom. He used the nipple as a handle, and, without giving her a titty twister, he moved the breast is slow circles. Her hand at the back of his head controlled the timing of her request that he should attempt to engulf her whole breast with his mouth. "I'm going to see how long I can keep you hard inside me," she explained.
He returned his attentions to darkening the characteristic colored circle at the zenith of her femininity, and she allowed her mind to wander back to one of the more visceral blow-jobs she had ever given. It had not really been pleasant, (he had used his hand to choke her repeatedly, waiting until she needed to breathe, and choosing that moment to interfere with her withdrawal from deep-throat activities,) but the experience had been acid etched on the holographic photo-plate of her mind, and it served to overwhelm the senses. He started to cum, and showed every evidence of losing control. She could have allowed an orderly withdrawal, but this was not the humor of the hour: Her legs coiled around him like a constrictor, and she began to do double duty with her kegels. His dutiful efforts at her breast were the first to go. She responded by wrapping her arms around his head and clinging to him like a limpet mine. His voice rose in... something, she was not quite sure what, but pleasure was the topic of discussion. When he was TOTALLY limp, she timed her own retreat by gripping the base of his dick with the sphincter of her cervix, and "sucking" the cum into her as she released his trapped property. "GOD!" he whimpered.
"You're better than you think," she replied by way of encouragement. "I think that's what _I_ feel like, when you use your thumb on my clit while you make two fingers the differences between the earth and sky and won't let _ME_ go with your other hand!" "Yeah? Well... I'm not sure how often I'll DO it again, if _that's_ what happens!"
The biological trust of oxytocin flowed in her bloodstream. Mixed with her earlier consumption of alcohol, she let her guard down. Pillow talk is famously unguarded, and not even reliably about sex, but sex was the context, and sex was what her blurted confession was about. "I was a virgin until the 9th grade," she began. "I was an ugly duckling, and ALL the other girls in my class had lost it. Even my neighbor had put out. It's not like I didn't WANT to... adolescence was no less a crucible of desire for _me_ than anyone else; the Mayor's son was in my class, and I ratted him out for cheating on a test in the 6th grade. Puberty came and went, with nubile protrusions inadequate to my purposes as he reliably destroyed my nascent hopes from classmate to classmate. My 9th grade Chem teacher was the only person to have mercy on me. He was married, and he knew. I couldn't tear my eyes away, and he got the right reaction when he explained that '...when Blue litmus turns to Red, it's Acidic.' I had long since insulted the hymen manually, and our tutoring developed into a tryst at a no-tell motel. He didn't _need_ the Vaseline he brought, but it made the cherry less like the squeak of a bathtub. You can't believe how many things I remember from that day."
She paused in her telling, but her beau made no such mistake as opening his mouth. He had recovered enough to supply her with a towel for the anticipated wet-spot, and she continued. "I remember how _happy_ I was to feel him put it all the way in, for the first time. Then the surprise at the pleasure available from a bump and grind. Then my little sphincter squeezed, with inexperienced kegels, and a memory for a lifetime of a new avenue to please and gratify myself (and incidentally another,) was born in my mind. I'd given myself orgasms, but, when I had an orgasm generated by another person, my articulation failed to encapsulate my gratitude. Desire mixed with ambition, and I decided to be the giver more than the receiver. He laughed when I suckled at his breast, but he didn't fail to learn. He divined that I was telegraphing my own desires to him, and did it in return. Soon after, I got a diaphragm fitted, and he taught another subject... we were never caught. He said I made him the King of the world, and his wife learned from ME. Do you think that was possible?"
He felt like he had been progressing well with the painting of a garage floor, only to look up and see no avenue toward the exit. His eyes sought hers. "If I did that now, would you learn from the object of MY new desires?" he queried. Her answer betrayed deep trust, but was totally against his expected idea of her conclusion.
"If it improved your appetite? No telling WHAT I'd say." He saw a way to reward her confidence memorably. His tumescence was erect, and he instructed her to mount him reverse-cow-girl. She was amused, and relaxed as he drew her to him. His hand sought her out where her own was more commonly found. His left hand exercised her left nipple, breast and all, and his words directed her left and right hands to abdomen and right breast respectively. When they were positioned, his hand used pressure to announce the commencement of ceremonies. "You tell my dick how it feels with your kegels," he requested, "and I'll tell your clit how it feels with my hand." She couldn't kiss him, and she was powerless to direct his efforts with her hips... her kegels were her sole means of communication. On balance, he was skilled, diligent and thorough.
"This defines feedback," he explained by way of appreciation. Before long she had demonstrated the efficacy of his accomplishments by emulating the reaction of a good receiver with gain turned up too high... and not all of it was fake.
"American innovation triumphs even over the Kama Sutra," she whispered in admiration, when he was finished. Their eyes locked, and he answered an unspoken prayer. "I love you."
"Hello stranger," she said quietly. He smiled and kissed her, not absently but not in any exaggerated passion. He was lukewarm to her current affections, and needed the encouragement. "How's Samson?" he asked. She made a face, and remembered the reason he had such a low libido. He had caught her in an affair three months ago. The trust had been damaged, but there was a depth of love to his attentions that went beyond her indiscretion. He had responded by buying her a puppy, and naming it after the biblical hero known for his dalliance with a woman of expensive virtue. He had not neglected to share with her that he had not named him Hosea (who married one,) or David (because he felt it was an inappropriate name for a dog,) but felt that the name of her lover would have been too specific in serving it for breakfast.
"I fed him," she replied, "but I thought of YOU when I did it." He could see that she was nettled, and regretted it. Dwelling on bitterness was not the way to have an enjoyable evening. "Do we still have that bottle of Burgundy left over from New Years?" he asked as an olive branch. She replied in the affirmative moving to open it in anticipation of his wishes.
He knew that alcohol impaired performance, but a little eased inhibitions... he struck a careful balance. For her part, inebriation was much more a part of a pleasurable evening, and she regretted the low alcohol content. He selected one of her longer play-lists on her iPod, and set it playing through the stereo. He had her trust, and the inequities of consumption did not cause any doubts.
Her excuse was Swedish massage. As she rubbed his shoulders and worked him over, he became aware that, what her body did for him by simple observation, she needed contact to obtain. She was rubbing him down like a horse, but she derived more pleasure from it than he did. He soon reciprocated, and the swim suit was an early casualty of war. The weather outside was quite crisp, and the gas fireplace made a pleasant flicker, without observably detracting from the enjoyment of the evening.
Their mutual attentions had started languidly, but he did not defer to get to the point. Arousal might be like a buffet, but there was no point waiting for a prayer to get started on an act of congress. They had already had their first encounter when he spoke. "Your boobs are small, like my high school sweetheart's... did you know that I have never had a more intense desire, and urgent longing, for a grown woman than my unrequited desires for her affections?"
Her grasp became fierce for a few moments, and she admitted something she rarely articulated in words. "I always wanted bigger ones." He was not ignorant of the virtues of a good rack, but he knew how to allay her worst concerns. "The smaller ones have less fatty tissue to obstruct the avenue of sensation," he responded. She believed him, but honesty governed her interactions with him in conversation, as well as description of physical appreciation.
"Come now. You know how Magicians misdirect the audience while they do another part of the trick unobtrusively elsewhere? Girls can do this to guys without even trying. I've had some success with it myself. A guy walks up, and you know everything about how he dresses, looks, where he came from and where he's going, before his eyes rise above your chin." He smiled, more inwardly than he manifested, but she was able to discern it effortlessly. "Oh yeah... they don't JUST look at our BOOBS!" she said, underscoring her earlier point. He came back better than she anticipated. "Well, sex sells right? Women with insensitive boobs have bigger advertisements! If sex can sell utensils and cookware, why can't it sell sex? That's biologically what they were intended for, right?" She giggled. "Not strictly speaking, but pregnancy might be more challenging without them I'll admit." She paused and then added, "...but if you linger too long over MY sex, in _public_, I'll be creative and motivated about embarrassing you back!"
He responded by turning his oral attentions on the optical stimuli under discussion. His hands were firm and hard, from manipulating tools, and her flesh was yielding to his touch. When he mounted her for pleasure, she cooed, and told him that she wanted him to make it last; her initial urgency now demanded a more enduring performance. While he did not love a challenge in the bedroom like a challenge on the sports pitch, he knew that if she didn't inform his efforts with information as to her desires, they would be badly targeted in application, as well as timing and intensity.
They compromised in a new way. He was seated at the head of the bed, as she accomplished full intro-mission. She spoke in a low guttural. "Give me a hickey right here," she said, indicating her left aureole. His accommodation took the form of attentions to her nipple, and she corrected him soon thereafter. When he got the right idea, she rewarded him with a wiggle and a message from her kegels. Her mons pubis found his pubic process, and it was surprising how much mileage you could get out of a very small reciprocation. His mouth didn't lose its place in the book. She raised his other hand to her other breast. He rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, but, hearkening to the lesson of the opposing user interface, his hand was soon manipulating the whole bosom. He used the nipple as a handle, and, without giving her a titty twister, he moved the breast is slow circles. Her hand at the back of his head controlled the timing of her request that he should attempt to engulf her whole breast with his mouth. "I'm going to see how long I can keep you hard inside me," she explained.
He returned his attentions to darkening the characteristic colored circle at the zenith of her femininity, and she allowed her mind to wander back to one of the more visceral blow-jobs she had ever given. It had not really been pleasant, (he had used his hand to choke her repeatedly, waiting until she needed to breathe, and choosing that moment to interfere with her withdrawal from deep-throat activities,) but the experience had been acid etched on the holographic photo-plate of her mind, and it served to overwhelm the senses. He started to cum, and showed every evidence of losing control. She could have allowed an orderly withdrawal, but this was not the humor of the hour: Her legs coiled around him like a constrictor, and she began to do double duty with her kegels. His dutiful efforts at her breast were the first to go. She responded by wrapping her arms around his head and clinging to him like a limpet mine. His voice rose in... something, she was not quite sure what, but pleasure was the topic of discussion. When he was TOTALLY limp, she timed her own retreat by gripping the base of his dick with the sphincter of her cervix, and "sucking" the cum into her as she released his trapped property. "GOD!" he whimpered.
"You're better than you think," she replied by way of encouragement. "I think that's what _I_ feel like, when you use your thumb on my clit while you make two fingers the differences between the earth and sky and won't let _ME_ go with your other hand!" "Yeah? Well... I'm not sure how often I'll DO it again, if _that's_ what happens!"
The biological trust of oxytocin flowed in her bloodstream. Mixed with her earlier consumption of alcohol, she let her guard down. Pillow talk is famously unguarded, and not even reliably about sex, but sex was the context, and sex was what her blurted confession was about. "I was a virgin until the 9th grade," she began. "I was an ugly duckling, and ALL the other girls in my class had lost it. Even my neighbor had put out. It's not like I didn't WANT to... adolescence was no less a crucible of desire for _me_ than anyone else; the Mayor's son was in my class, and I ratted him out for cheating on a test in the 6th grade. Puberty came and went, with nubile protrusions inadequate to my purposes as he reliably destroyed my nascent hopes from classmate to classmate. My 9th grade Chem teacher was the only person to have mercy on me. He was married, and he knew. I couldn't tear my eyes away, and he got the right reaction when he explained that '...when Blue litmus turns to Red, it's Acidic.' I had long since insulted the hymen manually, and our tutoring developed into a tryst at a no-tell motel. He didn't _need_ the Vaseline he brought, but it made the cherry less like the squeak of a bathtub. You can't believe how many things I remember from that day."
She paused in her telling, but her beau made no such mistake as opening his mouth. He had recovered enough to supply her with a towel for the anticipated wet-spot, and she continued. "I remember how _happy_ I was to feel him put it all the way in, for the first time. Then the surprise at the pleasure available from a bump and grind. Then my little sphincter squeezed, with inexperienced kegels, and a memory for a lifetime of a new avenue to please and gratify myself (and incidentally another,) was born in my mind. I'd given myself orgasms, but, when I had an orgasm generated by another person, my articulation failed to encapsulate my gratitude. Desire mixed with ambition, and I decided to be the giver more than the receiver. He laughed when I suckled at his breast, but he didn't fail to learn. He divined that I was telegraphing my own desires to him, and did it in return. Soon after, I got a diaphragm fitted, and he taught another subject... we were never caught. He said I made him the King of the world, and his wife learned from ME. Do you think that was possible?"
He felt like he had been progressing well with the painting of a garage floor, only to look up and see no avenue toward the exit. His eyes sought hers. "If I did that now, would you learn from the object of MY new desires?" he queried. Her answer betrayed deep trust, but was totally against his expected idea of her conclusion.
"If it improved your appetite? No telling WHAT I'd say." He saw a way to reward her confidence memorably. His tumescence was erect, and he instructed her to mount him reverse-cow-girl. She was amused, and relaxed as he drew her to him. His hand sought her out where her own was more commonly found. His left hand exercised her left nipple, breast and all, and his words directed her left and right hands to abdomen and right breast respectively. When they were positioned, his hand used pressure to announce the commencement of ceremonies. "You tell my dick how it feels with your kegels," he requested, "and I'll tell your clit how it feels with my hand." She couldn't kiss him, and she was powerless to direct his efforts with her hips... her kegels were her sole means of communication. On balance, he was skilled, diligent and thorough.
"This defines feedback," he explained by way of appreciation. Before long she had demonstrated the efficacy of his accomplishments by emulating the reaction of a good receiver with gain turned up too high... and not all of it was fake.
"American innovation triumphs even over the Kama Sutra," she whispered in admiration, when he was finished. Their eyes locked, and he answered an unspoken prayer. "I love you."
Frankfurt in May;
He met her at Frankfurt airport. She spoke British English, and explained that a thirteen year old daughter limited her exploits. Her Ex was away on business, and she responded to the airline pilot's invitation to a shared a cup of coffee with an invitation to her residence, replete with guided tour. She put water on for coffee as he idly flipped channels on TV. She soon returned alone.
"Where is your daughter?" he asked, a little puzzled. "I put her to bed," was the coy reply. She was a short brunette, and she sank into an armchair, folding her left foot up under her, to show a limber constitution.
He regarded her steadily over the rim of his coffee mug as he sipped the bitter fluid. She twirled her hair around her finger, and met his gaze silently. The silence began to take on a life of its own, and it became a game between them to see if they how much they could say with just their eyes. Her limp wrist traced the neckline of her blouse. He broke. "My neck is stiff," he said. She smiled and didn't move. "Could you help me rub it out?" he implored. His neck was NOT what was getting stiff, but he didn't know any other way to break the ice. She took his hand wordlessly, and led him into the bedroom. He took off his tartan shirt and lay down on the bed, face down. She straddled him, and began to work his muscles with nimble fingers. Baby lotion came to hand, and he luxuriated in skillful tactile stimulation. The coffee didn't let him sleep, and she kept him interested by reaching farther around his torso until he wanted to massage her in return, and reach around HER torso from behind.
He was relaxing into sleepfulness when she showed the experience of marriage. She rolled him over, and began to undress in front of him. She shrugged out of her blouse, undid her bra, and soon revealed her triangle of desire. She straddled him again, and felt him rise beneath her without his hips moving. She shook her hair out and responded with a thrusting of her own that DID include the hips. He cradled her breasts in his hand and his thumb and forefinger twirled her sensitive nipples between them, without pinching. They hardened in response, and she told him what it felt like. "It's sensitive when they're soft," she said, "but when they harden it deadens slightly. Keep doing it until they feel it again." He followed her instructions and she kissed him. He rolled over on top of her in the missionary position, and quickly unzipped. They coupled for the first time uneventfully. She was soft and wet and warm, luxuriating in his pleasure. She urged him to more industrious efforts, by telling him, "Some bruising is normal, not only below the waist, but the breasts too." His missionary rhythm strengthened, and she made small sounds of encouragement when he pleased her. As his stroke lengthened, she followed him, moving back and forward to control the urgency of their collisions until she wriggled in the uncontrolled motion of orgasm. He finished soon thereafter, and she thanked him for lasting. "You know the difference between a husband and a boyfriend?" she asked playfully. "15 minutes!" He laughed, and made a mental note to improve his efforts at home.
His next assault on the castle walls of boredom was equally successful. "I love the contrast afforded the eyes from the dark shadow of your pubes against the pale refuge from the sun of your amazon valley," he ventured.
"The tiny wisp of hair below your navel gives ME fits," she reciprocated.
They didn't know each other, but they both were experienced lovers, and they didn't lose integrity of coupling easily. He governed his intensity like a baseball player, staying within himself on a swing, and she swung for the fences only when she was sure of a home run. The house was on a peer and beam foundation, and before they were done, rhythmic squeaking answered their efforts from the other room.
The smell of satisfaction entered his senses, and he instinctively capitalized in a way to be salient in her memory. "The olfactory memory is the most graphically unforgettable of human experience," he offered. "Your smell is like cheese to the wine of my desire."
She kissed him deeply, and spoke unintelligibly for a moment. He made out "sixty-nine," and soon they were sharing the olfactory vector of the experience of taste. Her self-cleaning organ was a little sticky, but she was not a complete mess, and he cleaned up without reservation. When he felt there was no more, he gently disengaged... her sex was far more cunning than her mouth. He kissed her for himself, and her mouth added a new element to the melody of their communal pleasure. They cuddled for a time.
She dealt him in, on a secret of female existence, as they enjoyed union. "When YOU cuddle from behind, your hands get more reaction than your dick can keep up with. You need to let _her_ cuddle from behind. Then when HER hands get the right reaction, biology and physics are in agreement, and you can arrive on time and under budget." He rewarded her by placing his hand right on her inner thigh, reaching his chosen location from the rear, and cupping the cheek of her ass, as his eyes frankly drank their fill.
He broke the mood reluctantly. "Flyin' fuck's over... I gotta go."
"Go safely... I'll fuck a maintenance guy later for effect."
He had no idea of her sincerity, and laughed. He had never expected this, from a florist.
"Where is your daughter?" he asked, a little puzzled. "I put her to bed," was the coy reply. She was a short brunette, and she sank into an armchair, folding her left foot up under her, to show a limber constitution.
He regarded her steadily over the rim of his coffee mug as he sipped the bitter fluid. She twirled her hair around her finger, and met his gaze silently. The silence began to take on a life of its own, and it became a game between them to see if they how much they could say with just their eyes. Her limp wrist traced the neckline of her blouse. He broke. "My neck is stiff," he said. She smiled and didn't move. "Could you help me rub it out?" he implored. His neck was NOT what was getting stiff, but he didn't know any other way to break the ice. She took his hand wordlessly, and led him into the bedroom. He took off his tartan shirt and lay down on the bed, face down. She straddled him, and began to work his muscles with nimble fingers. Baby lotion came to hand, and he luxuriated in skillful tactile stimulation. The coffee didn't let him sleep, and she kept him interested by reaching farther around his torso until he wanted to massage her in return, and reach around HER torso from behind.
He was relaxing into sleepfulness when she showed the experience of marriage. She rolled him over, and began to undress in front of him. She shrugged out of her blouse, undid her bra, and soon revealed her triangle of desire. She straddled him again, and felt him rise beneath her without his hips moving. She shook her hair out and responded with a thrusting of her own that DID include the hips. He cradled her breasts in his hand and his thumb and forefinger twirled her sensitive nipples between them, without pinching. They hardened in response, and she told him what it felt like. "It's sensitive when they're soft," she said, "but when they harden it deadens slightly. Keep doing it until they feel it again." He followed her instructions and she kissed him. He rolled over on top of her in the missionary position, and quickly unzipped. They coupled for the first time uneventfully. She was soft and wet and warm, luxuriating in his pleasure. She urged him to more industrious efforts, by telling him, "Some bruising is normal, not only below the waist, but the breasts too." His missionary rhythm strengthened, and she made small sounds of encouragement when he pleased her. As his stroke lengthened, she followed him, moving back and forward to control the urgency of their collisions until she wriggled in the uncontrolled motion of orgasm. He finished soon thereafter, and she thanked him for lasting. "You know the difference between a husband and a boyfriend?" she asked playfully. "15 minutes!" He laughed, and made a mental note to improve his efforts at home.
His next assault on the castle walls of boredom was equally successful. "I love the contrast afforded the eyes from the dark shadow of your pubes against the pale refuge from the sun of your amazon valley," he ventured.
"The tiny wisp of hair below your navel gives ME fits," she reciprocated.
They didn't know each other, but they both were experienced lovers, and they didn't lose integrity of coupling easily. He governed his intensity like a baseball player, staying within himself on a swing, and she swung for the fences only when she was sure of a home run. The house was on a peer and beam foundation, and before they were done, rhythmic squeaking answered their efforts from the other room.
The smell of satisfaction entered his senses, and he instinctively capitalized in a way to be salient in her memory. "The olfactory memory is the most graphically unforgettable of human experience," he offered. "Your smell is like cheese to the wine of my desire."
She kissed him deeply, and spoke unintelligibly for a moment. He made out "sixty-nine," and soon they were sharing the olfactory vector of the experience of taste. Her self-cleaning organ was a little sticky, but she was not a complete mess, and he cleaned up without reservation. When he felt there was no more, he gently disengaged... her sex was far more cunning than her mouth. He kissed her for himself, and her mouth added a new element to the melody of their communal pleasure. They cuddled for a time.
She dealt him in, on a secret of female existence, as they enjoyed union. "When YOU cuddle from behind, your hands get more reaction than your dick can keep up with. You need to let _her_ cuddle from behind. Then when HER hands get the right reaction, biology and physics are in agreement, and you can arrive on time and under budget." He rewarded her by placing his hand right on her inner thigh, reaching his chosen location from the rear, and cupping the cheek of her ass, as his eyes frankly drank their fill.
He broke the mood reluctantly. "Flyin' fuck's over... I gotta go."
"Go safely... I'll fuck a maintenance guy later for effect."
He had no idea of her sincerity, and laughed. He had never expected this, from a florist.
Without preamble;
She walked into the room. He was lying on the bed, the room dimly lit from the bathroom light. She stood silhouetted in the doorway for a moment, and he rose to meet her. He was taller than she was, and wearing only his tank top and a pair of micro fiber work pants as she approached him. He did not swallow her in a bear hug, but rather placed his hands each on her waist, and leaned in half way to her upturned face. She did not turn away, so he kissed her on the cheek, and whispered in her ear, "This is going to take a while. Take a minute and empty your bladder."
She laughed a quiet laugh and stepped back. As she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, she watched his expression with each successive button. His face betrayed little, but his breathing gave him away. She dropped her blouse, and undid the button on her jeans quickly. The fly was unzipped in a single movement, and she stepped on her left pants leg with her right foot and stepped back. In another moment her jeans lay on the floor, and his gaze followed her legs up, lingering at their confluence, then taking in the bare midriff between the top of her panties and her belly button. His eyes soon roamed upward, taking in the twin mounds of her unabashedly aroused breasts, finally meeting her gaze. She held his focus for a moment, and turned toward the bathroom. He watched the crease where her thighs met her cheeks, each step of the way. "I love your ass," he said in unvarnished arousal.
At the door of the bathroom, she looked over her shoulder, and shook out her hair. Her arms made a contortion that guys rarely get to see, and she undid the hook from her bra. His eyes did not follow the garment to the floor, but rather remained trained on her shoulder expectantly. She did not reward him that way. Instead she placed her hands on each side of her panties, and bent over, making sure her pudendum showed clearly thru her back turned legs, for a long second, before she stepped out of them and vanished around the doorway. She made him wait while she took a short shower, but did not linger. She did not want him start without her… guys never lasted long enough anyway, right?
Upon her return, he was standing naked, tearing open a box of condoms with his teeth. In her turn, she looked him up and down, her eyes devouring his pliant manhood. "Do you like it in the dark, or can I enjoy your pleasures unveiled by the night?" he asked, expectantly.
"It's a full moon tonight. That should do," she replied playfully. She had not turned out the light in the bathroom, and made no move to do so. "I use the Nuva-ring," she rewarded him. "The condoms won't be necessary." She was aroused. His eyes had watched her, every step she had taken from the bathroom door, and she vaguely wondered if his gaze was any clue to how much he wanted her. "You're a natural blond," he said. She blushed a little, and enjoyed the little thrill as it ran thru her.
He could wait no longer, and swept her into his arms, with a fierce kiss. His breath was sweet, slightly minty, but not from a last minute lozenge. His lower lip traversed between her lips as he finished, giving her a feeling she had been touched somewhere else. He had maneuvered her to stand with her back to the bed, and he pushed her over onto the bed as though he had planned it. She relaxed, her feet dangling above the carpet, as he lowered himself down beside her. He kissed her again, this time more deeply, as his tongue searched more gently for delight. She became aware that his right hand was stroking up her right leg from the knee upward. His kisses began to travel down her neck, and his breath cooled her newly showered skin. He didn't go around the world, but rather began to gratify her left nipple very quickly. His skill was soon evident, his teeth quickly raising it taut with satisfaction. His hand had found her vulva, and he stroked her pubic hair twice before he skillfully separated her moistened external labia. He did not force the issue, but rather stroked her inner labia, applying a gentle pressure to her clitoris as it filled with blood. His mouth left her left nipple and moved to her right, his left hand taking its place, rubbing and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. There is no other way to say it: she was wet. She stroked the back of his left hand, and whispered his name. As his right hand began to masturbate her, she brought her ankles together and spread her thighs, her lower body beginning to assist his efforts.
She began to moan softly, not out of any unbearable need, but to instruct him when he did well. He responded to her encouragements with pressure at the EXACT right place, and her breathing lost its rhythm as her first orgasm of the evening surprised her. His began to speak to her. "Your pleasure excites me," he said. "My whole body responds to you. You have no idea how you affect me." He had not stopped stimulating her, and her eyes rolled back with pleasure.
From some deep instinct she had an idea, and her right hand sought his groin. He was telling the truth. He had been erect, and his cock was returning to its flaccid state. Reciprocation was in order, and she rose up on her elbows and murmured "My turn." She opened her eyes reluctantly, but such generosity had to be rewarded. His fingers went to his mouth, and he turned over on his back, wondering what her skills would be. Her hand was already working, reinvigorating his erection. He kept his wits about him, as he asked, "Do you swallow?" "You'll find out," she said, with no intention of soiling the sheets. Her mouth enveloped him, and his first remark was "Your mouth is cool." She sucked him and showed that deep-throating was something she could do without a problem. She made mental note to tell him that she usually put a condom on with her mouth. That would let him know that he was special, but right now her mouth was full.
When his hard was covered with wetness, she moved her mouth back, and used her hand to stimulate the nerve on the back of his penis that sends men into transports of delight. She had positioned herself on his right, and the corner of her mouth was on his sweet spot as her hand ran the loose skin of his penis back and forth. "Did you know that men and women masturbate with the same rhythm?" he asked. "Mm mm," she responded her mouth otherwise engaged. Her left hand wandered through his chest hair, and his hand went to the back of her head. "That feels good," he said in an undertone. His cock tasted dry, and she enjoyed her acquired taste for tube steak. His breathing became ragged and he choked out "…gonna cum…"
He came in a rush, and she relished the surprise he was about to get. He pushed her down, and shivered, with a groan of "God." She was ready for him, and collected his cum in her mouth. It came in two or three rushes, and she did not break her rhythm until he relaxed. With her hand she tightened a ring at the base of his erection, and ran it up the length of his penis, collecting all his cum in her mouth. Then she KISSED him.
She had the curve of her left elbow behind his neck, and he struggled and wrestled to get away. "If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for you," she thought, as he un-enthusiastically accepted his fate. "Goddamn girl, you could've told me," was his first remark. "How did it taste?" she coquettishly demanded. "I don't know. It's not fucking mayonnaise."
"Did you notice how the live sperm make the soft palette at the back of your throat tingle?"
He was pissed, but he knew that now was not the time to get in a fight about it, or he would get no pussy.
"Do you know how many times a guy has asked me how it tastes?" she queried him. She knew he wouldn't be hard again for a minute, and she had nothing to lose.
"No, but I damned well know why you wouldn't tell me if you swallow or spit now." His sense of humor overcame his disgust. "God," he said again, but with a different inflection."
"Eat me," she said aware of the double entendre.
She lay back again, lengthwise in the bed, and he looked over her. With her arms behind her head her breasts took a different shape. He enjoyed the view for a second, letting himself appreciate the shape of her aureole and the size of her erect nipples. He bent across her body, breathing on her left flank, and following the curve of her leanness down to her pussy. He nuzzled her there, and stroked her left thigh this time. After a moment, he took his place between her legs, and began to search her fur pie for the delicate flower that was her clitoris. "Tell me when you are about to cum," he said, and went down.
His tongue had its own lubrication, so he started with a thrust into the crevice of her cervix. He followed her labia up to the clitoris, and began to flick it side to side. She marveled at his dexterity, and he began to stroke it erect from between the labia rising to the top, over and over again. He moaned experimentally, and she answered him unbidden. She found his interactions infectious, and began to play with her own nipples.
It was useless to thrust with her hips, and so she lay there, making noises and wishing she hadn't been so mean. She felt his teeth gently toy with her tender flesh, and then he went back to work with his tongue. She didn't know why he wanted warning of her orgasm, but when it came, she verbalized as best she could that the event was imminent. To her surprise, his right hand came up to her vagina, penetrating her admittedly well prepared entryway. His left hand was across her belly, between her belly button and her hairline, and all at once, she felt pleasure in an area that was not her clitoris at all. Remarkably his hand seemed to know what he had found, and in two seconds she was writhing in pleasure, trapped between his left hand on the outside, and a cunning thrust from the two fingers within. It was her turn to say "God." Not just once either. She felt like he had her by the soul, and was sending wave after wave of pleasure over her until she no longer thrust and struggled, but relaxed. Then like any orgasm, it was gone, leaving her panting and winded. "How did you DO that?" she asked.
He laughed deep in his throat like he was embarrassed, and mounted her. She thought she was spent, but when the hair at the base of his cock found her clitoris, she found that it was ready like a forgotten treat, set aside for a special occasion. "When was the last time you were used for a woman?" he asked, expecting no answer. He merely wanted to compete in her dreams with her last lover. He was skillful and did not tire easily, but he came before she did, and she was left wanting more.
It is a fact that the French have high regard for the mutual orgasm. That being said, it must be inferred that most of the time one partner or the other is left hanging between orgasms. Since the man responds to orgasm with loss of erection, it may be concluded that the woman is the partner most often left in the lurch. She reflected on this philosophically as he lay beside her quietly. Before long, he was whispering in her ear, "Want to ride a cock horse?"
She giggled and rolled him over. She showed that she was experienced in her turn, by arranging for his erection with her hand. When he was ready, she sank down onto him, enfolding an enthusiastic cock, ready, willing and able. "This time is for your pleasure," he quietly intoned. "Do you like it fast, or slow?" She responded physically, and as she looked down at his face, she found he was admiring her boobs. She took his hands in hers, and placed them on the objects of his desire. He did not pinch, and she enjoyed his dual attentions. "Did you know that a man's orgasm in a vagina is four times as strong as his orgasm from masturbation?" he asked. She laughed and began to talk dirty. She managed to get off before he came, and was pleasantly surprised. Her arms went up to fix her hair… it was sticking to her sweaty back. He was really getting all the mileage he could out of her boobs, watching the way they moved as she raised her arms, and the direction her nipples pointed, as she prepared to dismount. She made a mental note, you've gotta respect a guy who love's boobs this much for ever meeting your eye.
He kissed her again as she lay down. This time it was a lingering, sensitive invitation to flirt. He whispered in her ear, "Sex is not an Olympic sport, but if it was I'd pity the Frenchman who sees you coming." His double entendre made her smile weakly. She was comfortable enough with him that she could admit she was tired. He was getting his second wind. "What about doggy style?" he asked. "I'll make it worth your while." For the first time, she moved to kiss him, instead of waiting for his aggressive attentions. She took her position by the edge of the bed.
She couldn't watch him ready himself, but he soon applied a little KY from the coffee table, and made his presence felt. "This time is for my pleasure," he said, and began to establish the rhythm that he liked best. "Do me a favor," he whispered. "Use your left hand to stroke my balls as we do it. It makes me last longer." He placed his hands on her waist to co-ordinate their efforts, and she felt affection for him that she could not put into words. She began to mew. She knew by now that he got off on her pleasure, and beside, it let him know when it felt good. "The most sensitive part of my dick is rubbing directly against the most sensitive part of your vagina," he told her. It reminded her of the inner orgasm he had given her with his hand, and she started to get into it herself. His strokes became longer, and he said "I'm starting to come. Use your other hand to find your clit."
She obediently began to pleasure herself, and her kittenish cries were no longer feigned. And then she simply came. He gave her two more strokes and then plunged himself deep within her and quivered. His hands reached around in front of her, and he fondled her breasts. He was already limp when he withdrew.
He asked if she would cuddle, and she agreed without reservation. "I'm spent," was his next remark. Go to sleep now, or we will be up all night. Want to be at the mercy of my hand till dawn?"
It was tempting.
She laughed a quiet laugh and stepped back. As she slowly unbuttoned her blouse, she watched his expression with each successive button. His face betrayed little, but his breathing gave him away. She dropped her blouse, and undid the button on her jeans quickly. The fly was unzipped in a single movement, and she stepped on her left pants leg with her right foot and stepped back. In another moment her jeans lay on the floor, and his gaze followed her legs up, lingering at their confluence, then taking in the bare midriff between the top of her panties and her belly button. His eyes soon roamed upward, taking in the twin mounds of her unabashedly aroused breasts, finally meeting her gaze. She held his focus for a moment, and turned toward the bathroom. He watched the crease where her thighs met her cheeks, each step of the way. "I love your ass," he said in unvarnished arousal.
At the door of the bathroom, she looked over her shoulder, and shook out her hair. Her arms made a contortion that guys rarely get to see, and she undid the hook from her bra. His eyes did not follow the garment to the floor, but rather remained trained on her shoulder expectantly. She did not reward him that way. Instead she placed her hands on each side of her panties, and bent over, making sure her pudendum showed clearly thru her back turned legs, for a long second, before she stepped out of them and vanished around the doorway. She made him wait while she took a short shower, but did not linger. She did not want him start without her… guys never lasted long enough anyway, right?
Upon her return, he was standing naked, tearing open a box of condoms with his teeth. In her turn, she looked him up and down, her eyes devouring his pliant manhood. "Do you like it in the dark, or can I enjoy your pleasures unveiled by the night?" he asked, expectantly.
"It's a full moon tonight. That should do," she replied playfully. She had not turned out the light in the bathroom, and made no move to do so. "I use the Nuva-ring," she rewarded him. "The condoms won't be necessary." She was aroused. His eyes had watched her, every step she had taken from the bathroom door, and she vaguely wondered if his gaze was any clue to how much he wanted her. "You're a natural blond," he said. She blushed a little, and enjoyed the little thrill as it ran thru her.
He could wait no longer, and swept her into his arms, with a fierce kiss. His breath was sweet, slightly minty, but not from a last minute lozenge. His lower lip traversed between her lips as he finished, giving her a feeling she had been touched somewhere else. He had maneuvered her to stand with her back to the bed, and he pushed her over onto the bed as though he had planned it. She relaxed, her feet dangling above the carpet, as he lowered himself down beside her. He kissed her again, this time more deeply, as his tongue searched more gently for delight. She became aware that his right hand was stroking up her right leg from the knee upward. His kisses began to travel down her neck, and his breath cooled her newly showered skin. He didn't go around the world, but rather began to gratify her left nipple very quickly. His skill was soon evident, his teeth quickly raising it taut with satisfaction. His hand had found her vulva, and he stroked her pubic hair twice before he skillfully separated her moistened external labia. He did not force the issue, but rather stroked her inner labia, applying a gentle pressure to her clitoris as it filled with blood. His mouth left her left nipple and moved to her right, his left hand taking its place, rubbing and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. There is no other way to say it: she was wet. She stroked the back of his left hand, and whispered his name. As his right hand began to masturbate her, she brought her ankles together and spread her thighs, her lower body beginning to assist his efforts.
She began to moan softly, not out of any unbearable need, but to instruct him when he did well. He responded to her encouragements with pressure at the EXACT right place, and her breathing lost its rhythm as her first orgasm of the evening surprised her. His began to speak to her. "Your pleasure excites me," he said. "My whole body responds to you. You have no idea how you affect me." He had not stopped stimulating her, and her eyes rolled back with pleasure.
From some deep instinct she had an idea, and her right hand sought his groin. He was telling the truth. He had been erect, and his cock was returning to its flaccid state. Reciprocation was in order, and she rose up on her elbows and murmured "My turn." She opened her eyes reluctantly, but such generosity had to be rewarded. His fingers went to his mouth, and he turned over on his back, wondering what her skills would be. Her hand was already working, reinvigorating his erection. He kept his wits about him, as he asked, "Do you swallow?" "You'll find out," she said, with no intention of soiling the sheets. Her mouth enveloped him, and his first remark was "Your mouth is cool." She sucked him and showed that deep-throating was something she could do without a problem. She made mental note to tell him that she usually put a condom on with her mouth. That would let him know that he was special, but right now her mouth was full.
When his hard was covered with wetness, she moved her mouth back, and used her hand to stimulate the nerve on the back of his penis that sends men into transports of delight. She had positioned herself on his right, and the corner of her mouth was on his sweet spot as her hand ran the loose skin of his penis back and forth. "Did you know that men and women masturbate with the same rhythm?" he asked. "Mm mm," she responded her mouth otherwise engaged. Her left hand wandered through his chest hair, and his hand went to the back of her head. "That feels good," he said in an undertone. His cock tasted dry, and she enjoyed her acquired taste for tube steak. His breathing became ragged and he choked out "…gonna cum…"
He came in a rush, and she relished the surprise he was about to get. He pushed her down, and shivered, with a groan of "God." She was ready for him, and collected his cum in her mouth. It came in two or three rushes, and she did not break her rhythm until he relaxed. With her hand she tightened a ring at the base of his erection, and ran it up the length of his penis, collecting all his cum in her mouth. Then she KISSED him.
She had the curve of her left elbow behind his neck, and he struggled and wrestled to get away. "If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for you," she thought, as he un-enthusiastically accepted his fate. "Goddamn girl, you could've told me," was his first remark. "How did it taste?" she coquettishly demanded. "I don't know. It's not fucking mayonnaise."
"Did you notice how the live sperm make the soft palette at the back of your throat tingle?"
He was pissed, but he knew that now was not the time to get in a fight about it, or he would get no pussy.
"Do you know how many times a guy has asked me how it tastes?" she queried him. She knew he wouldn't be hard again for a minute, and she had nothing to lose.
"No, but I damned well know why you wouldn't tell me if you swallow or spit now." His sense of humor overcame his disgust. "God," he said again, but with a different inflection."
"Eat me," she said aware of the double entendre.
She lay back again, lengthwise in the bed, and he looked over her. With her arms behind her head her breasts took a different shape. He enjoyed the view for a second, letting himself appreciate the shape of her aureole and the size of her erect nipples. He bent across her body, breathing on her left flank, and following the curve of her leanness down to her pussy. He nuzzled her there, and stroked her left thigh this time. After a moment, he took his place between her legs, and began to search her fur pie for the delicate flower that was her clitoris. "Tell me when you are about to cum," he said, and went down.
His tongue had its own lubrication, so he started with a thrust into the crevice of her cervix. He followed her labia up to the clitoris, and began to flick it side to side. She marveled at his dexterity, and he began to stroke it erect from between the labia rising to the top, over and over again. He moaned experimentally, and she answered him unbidden. She found his interactions infectious, and began to play with her own nipples.
It was useless to thrust with her hips, and so she lay there, making noises and wishing she hadn't been so mean. She felt his teeth gently toy with her tender flesh, and then he went back to work with his tongue. She didn't know why he wanted warning of her orgasm, but when it came, she verbalized as best she could that the event was imminent. To her surprise, his right hand came up to her vagina, penetrating her admittedly well prepared entryway. His left hand was across her belly, between her belly button and her hairline, and all at once, she felt pleasure in an area that was not her clitoris at all. Remarkably his hand seemed to know what he had found, and in two seconds she was writhing in pleasure, trapped between his left hand on the outside, and a cunning thrust from the two fingers within. It was her turn to say "God." Not just once either. She felt like he had her by the soul, and was sending wave after wave of pleasure over her until she no longer thrust and struggled, but relaxed. Then like any orgasm, it was gone, leaving her panting and winded. "How did you DO that?" she asked.
He laughed deep in his throat like he was embarrassed, and mounted her. She thought she was spent, but when the hair at the base of his cock found her clitoris, she found that it was ready like a forgotten treat, set aside for a special occasion. "When was the last time you were used for a woman?" he asked, expecting no answer. He merely wanted to compete in her dreams with her last lover. He was skillful and did not tire easily, but he came before she did, and she was left wanting more.
It is a fact that the French have high regard for the mutual orgasm. That being said, it must be inferred that most of the time one partner or the other is left hanging between orgasms. Since the man responds to orgasm with loss of erection, it may be concluded that the woman is the partner most often left in the lurch. She reflected on this philosophically as he lay beside her quietly. Before long, he was whispering in her ear, "Want to ride a cock horse?"
She giggled and rolled him over. She showed that she was experienced in her turn, by arranging for his erection with her hand. When he was ready, she sank down onto him, enfolding an enthusiastic cock, ready, willing and able. "This time is for your pleasure," he quietly intoned. "Do you like it fast, or slow?" She responded physically, and as she looked down at his face, she found he was admiring her boobs. She took his hands in hers, and placed them on the objects of his desire. He did not pinch, and she enjoyed his dual attentions. "Did you know that a man's orgasm in a vagina is four times as strong as his orgasm from masturbation?" he asked. She laughed and began to talk dirty. She managed to get off before he came, and was pleasantly surprised. Her arms went up to fix her hair… it was sticking to her sweaty back. He was really getting all the mileage he could out of her boobs, watching the way they moved as she raised her arms, and the direction her nipples pointed, as she prepared to dismount. She made a mental note, you've gotta respect a guy who love's boobs this much for ever meeting your eye.
He kissed her again as she lay down. This time it was a lingering, sensitive invitation to flirt. He whispered in her ear, "Sex is not an Olympic sport, but if it was I'd pity the Frenchman who sees you coming." His double entendre made her smile weakly. She was comfortable enough with him that she could admit she was tired. He was getting his second wind. "What about doggy style?" he asked. "I'll make it worth your while." For the first time, she moved to kiss him, instead of waiting for his aggressive attentions. She took her position by the edge of the bed.
She couldn't watch him ready himself, but he soon applied a little KY from the coffee table, and made his presence felt. "This time is for my pleasure," he said, and began to establish the rhythm that he liked best. "Do me a favor," he whispered. "Use your left hand to stroke my balls as we do it. It makes me last longer." He placed his hands on her waist to co-ordinate their efforts, and she felt affection for him that she could not put into words. She began to mew. She knew by now that he got off on her pleasure, and beside, it let him know when it felt good. "The most sensitive part of my dick is rubbing directly against the most sensitive part of your vagina," he told her. It reminded her of the inner orgasm he had given her with his hand, and she started to get into it herself. His strokes became longer, and he said "I'm starting to come. Use your other hand to find your clit."
She obediently began to pleasure herself, and her kittenish cries were no longer feigned. And then she simply came. He gave her two more strokes and then plunged himself deep within her and quivered. His hands reached around in front of her, and he fondled her breasts. He was already limp when he withdrew.
He asked if she would cuddle, and she agreed without reservation. "I'm spent," was his next remark. Go to sleep now, or we will be up all night. Want to be at the mercy of my hand till dawn?"
It was tempting.
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