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.
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