Some nights there's nothing I'd rather feel than a sea of hard heat; several men shoved up against me, several hands wrapped around my breasts, several cocks in varying states of erection and fullness teasing my hidden, wet folds while my thin, elegant fingers sneak their way to their darkest places.
Some nights there's nothing I'd rather feel than a sea of slippery soft heat; several women shoved up against me, my hands wrapped around several breasts of varying sizes and in varying states of erection and fullness, teasing hidden wet folds while thin, elegant fingers sneak their way into my darkest places.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
My stalker tendencies. I keep reminding myself that it's all fodder for my writing, I love exploring other lives on the sidelines, visiting only as a mirage. Peeking in the windows of the odd, the ugly, the so-beautiful-they're-alien-like...Imagining what her lips look like wrapped around his cock or how his cock looks when it throbs at the sight of her. Then just her. Then just him. But never really me. I prefer my own quiet beautiful life, thank you. They're just a novel I'm reading. With one hand.
Friday, March 19, 2010
And another thing...
Good girls don't typically trip the light fantastic, fantasising about men and women other than their spouse when the spouse leaves for a few days. She used to lament, and now she still laments, but she also does what she PROMISES herself she will never do again: troll around, looking for some hint that she is similarly adored, as she similarly adores. Her partner (the real one) is beautiful and as dark as she. They both have demons, and those demons aren't only on a first name basis with one another, but pleasure each other in the seediest and darkest ways they know how.
It's just that she was 19 when they met, and had only skimmed the surface. He was the first one to really admire her for who she was. Who loved her giddy tangents highs and used to coax her out of her deep, throaty lows.
It's just that she was 19 when they met, and had only skimmed the surface. He was the first one to really admire her for who she was. Who loved her giddy tangents highs and used to coax her out of her deep, throaty lows.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
One Handed Rejected Read
***Has this been here before? I know it has in one form or another. I submitted it to Bust's One Handed Read - but got no response...so here it is...***
Why is forbidden fruit the sweetest? Why are we so hard-wired for rebellion and sin? Throughout my early sexual experiences it’s those that stand out when I’m rifling through my mental archives; those secret, hidden, hush-hush events that rival the romps of Dionysus. All newly formed morals are shaken-off, shoved into the corner along with bras and boxer shorts. Any remorse felt lasts no longer than a hangover, and unpleasant details are left out in the cataloguing.
Such as it was with Andrew, he wasn’t mine and never would be. I preferred that no one be mine, and didn’t feel like attaching myself to any boy’s arm. At eighteen I was skin, bone, and sexual appetite, with no room left for commitment. Andrew LOVED commitment, he had been with the same girl for two years, practically a golden anniversary in high school. He also LOVED variety, which led him to me.
We were partnered up for a psychology class project, and our assignment was to test the merits of telekinesis, or mind over matter. His excitement was apparent when our teacher assigned us to research this particular phenomenon; he leaned over conspiratorially and said, “I know exactly what we can do. Come over to my house tonight. We have this nailed.” His breath smelled like butterscotch candy and Marlboros, and I knew exactly what I wanted to have nailed the moment he leaned over and I saw how tight his forearms were.
I didn’t really know that much about Andrew until we were thrown together. I knew he had a lovely girlfriend (not me), and that she was so lovely the gears cranked and turned in my imagination whenever I laid eyes on her in the halls in between class. One peek at her pert ass and cantaloupe tits and I loped over to Fantasyland. Smutty images tripped across my brain the rest of the day as I thought about our after school study session: his cock thrusting into me, his girlfriend showing up and shoving him aside, him leaving the room, me riding her like a slip-and-slide. My tongue, hard as any erection, snaking up to her g-spot and making her quiver with want.
Walking to his house after shoveling down a quick dinner at home, I pouted a bit, thinking what a shame it was that his heart and cock was already taken. But I was a clever little seductress even then, funny and flattering, and I knew that if he had any leanings to illicit teenage extracurricular activity, I could pull it out of him. As I knocked on his door, I started second guessing myself. Why would he want an extra cast member in his life? He probably was getting everything he wanted from his little buttercream girlfriend. If I had her all to myself I wouldn’t let her out of the house, we’d never make it off of the couch, the floor, the bed, the walls…
After I knocked a second time he answered the door, dressed only in a pair of black boxers. He noticed my deep blush and said, “Oh! It’s part of my idea. I do martial arts…and do this whole thing with breaking boards? It’s totally mind over matter…come downstairs and see.”
“Are your parents here?”
He turned his impossibly dimpled face over his shoulder, “Out to dinner. We’ve got a few hours to ourselves. Follow me.” He stomped down his dark basement stairs and I floated behind him, suddenly just grateful to be in his presence.
Once in the cave-like basement, I walked and stood right next to him, smiling a bit as he began to explain how “mind over matter” helped martial artists break multiple wooden boards with only their mind and their elbows. “It’s not about strength, it’s about visualization. Watch.” And he proceeded to do just that: break about five boards with his elbow. “I’ll teach you how to do it, and we’ll show the class. It’ll be an easy “A”, right?” His chest was heaving a bit after showing off for me, and I couldn’t help it. Really. My hand just moved to his stomach of its own accord. I had no control whatsoever. The sprinkling of hair across his hard stomach was light brown, soft, and I wanted to bury my face in it. I resisted the urge, though; scared he might turn me out of his basement and call me a slut. I usually loved being called a slut, but still.
So when he grabbed my hand and looked straight into my eyes, I wasn’t sure if he’d brush me away or let me continue. I was filled with relief and excitement when he moved my hand down the front of his boxers, led me to his rock hard cock that was laced with veins, tipped by a velvet smooth head. After that had been established, he wasn't hesitant to tip my chin up and run this thumb across my lower lip. Did you know that lips swell and fill out during the onset of arousal? Mine felt Angelina Jolie plump, and I felt the curious sensation of my tiny little button stand at attention. It was SO excited to be invited to the party, it couldn’t sit still…
A sudden flutter of activity, a tense mix of warm honey, the sudden need for hard, quick heat; devoid of anything tender, slow, or sweet: His tongue ran over the roof of my mouth, something I did myself while reading, writing, watching TV. My breath was coming in short staccato breaths, until I gave up all pretense and moaned in his mouth. Pillow lips still wrapped around tongue, I moaned again (the image of my tongue wrapped around something lower on his body elicited that particular sigh).
I pressed my hips against his, hesitant to the urge to wrap my leg around his waist, the urge to reach my hand into my skirt. I was so ready to be deliberately and un-gently fucked. So hard that my teeth would chatter, but I wanted to show a tiny bit of restraint. After a pulse (a thrum, a cadence, a flutter of eyelash) his hands were up my purple skirt pushing on damp cotton, finding a tight little orchid (his hand now soaked). I was hesitant because I both feared and hoped that by some chance his girlfriend would stop over unexpectedly and find us here, wrapped around each other.
These thoughts made their way down my brain and to my pussy, which was growing damper by the second. His strong fingers finally made contact to that demanding, heightened little button that no longer could stand being ignored. I was so slippery, though; his fingers kept slipping out of place. I shoved his hand out of the way, lay down on the cold basement floor and proceeded to place at least four of my “I’m Not Really a Waitress” polished fingers up, up, and further up, immediately finding that tough little ridge of flesh that demanded relief. Reaching up with my other hand, I pulled his neck down, and placed his mouth around my erect nipple.
“Bite me. Hard as you can.” He of course complied, and I was shocked at how snakelike my voice sounded. As I fucked myself I allowed my brain to think more about that pretty little girlfriend of his, now wishing she would show up and catch us. She’d be indignant at first, but once she saw how beautiful I was, how beautiful I thought she was, maybe her knees would give as she sank her pelvis onto my face. Her tightness would shock me, had he not penetrated her yet? Should I break her seal? Maybe it would piss him off that a woman would go where no man had gone before. Maybe he could be coerced to leave the room after we’d agreed to share his cock until he exploded all over our faces.
As I came, I decided I shouldn’t be selfish and lost in thought. I practically meowed, “I’m so hungry.”
He looked down at me, eyes glazed over with need, “Hungry for what?”
“Your cock, feed it to me.” And immediately it was in my mouth. I said a quick word of thanks that I didn’t have a gag reflex, because this guy was HUGE. He pushed my limits, and my tongue reacted as if it had never tasted anything so sweet. It ate and sucked so hungrily that he shot molten come down my throat in less than one minute. I swallowed; tasting the butterscotch candies he sucked on, wiped my mouth, and looked up at him.
“Can you call your girlfriend? I think she might be hungry, too.”
Why is forbidden fruit the sweetest? Why are we so hard-wired for rebellion and sin? Throughout my early sexual experiences it’s those that stand out when I’m rifling through my mental archives; those secret, hidden, hush-hush events that rival the romps of Dionysus. All newly formed morals are shaken-off, shoved into the corner along with bras and boxer shorts. Any remorse felt lasts no longer than a hangover, and unpleasant details are left out in the cataloguing.
Such as it was with Andrew, he wasn’t mine and never would be. I preferred that no one be mine, and didn’t feel like attaching myself to any boy’s arm. At eighteen I was skin, bone, and sexual appetite, with no room left for commitment. Andrew LOVED commitment, he had been with the same girl for two years, practically a golden anniversary in high school. He also LOVED variety, which led him to me.
We were partnered up for a psychology class project, and our assignment was to test the merits of telekinesis, or mind over matter. His excitement was apparent when our teacher assigned us to research this particular phenomenon; he leaned over conspiratorially and said, “I know exactly what we can do. Come over to my house tonight. We have this nailed.” His breath smelled like butterscotch candy and Marlboros, and I knew exactly what I wanted to have nailed the moment he leaned over and I saw how tight his forearms were.
I didn’t really know that much about Andrew until we were thrown together. I knew he had a lovely girlfriend (not me), and that she was so lovely the gears cranked and turned in my imagination whenever I laid eyes on her in the halls in between class. One peek at her pert ass and cantaloupe tits and I loped over to Fantasyland. Smutty images tripped across my brain the rest of the day as I thought about our after school study session: his cock thrusting into me, his girlfriend showing up and shoving him aside, him leaving the room, me riding her like a slip-and-slide. My tongue, hard as any erection, snaking up to her g-spot and making her quiver with want.
Walking to his house after shoveling down a quick dinner at home, I pouted a bit, thinking what a shame it was that his heart and cock was already taken. But I was a clever little seductress even then, funny and flattering, and I knew that if he had any leanings to illicit teenage extracurricular activity, I could pull it out of him. As I knocked on his door, I started second guessing myself. Why would he want an extra cast member in his life? He probably was getting everything he wanted from his little buttercream girlfriend. If I had her all to myself I wouldn’t let her out of the house, we’d never make it off of the couch, the floor, the bed, the walls…
After I knocked a second time he answered the door, dressed only in a pair of black boxers. He noticed my deep blush and said, “Oh! It’s part of my idea. I do martial arts…and do this whole thing with breaking boards? It’s totally mind over matter…come downstairs and see.”
“Are your parents here?”
He turned his impossibly dimpled face over his shoulder, “Out to dinner. We’ve got a few hours to ourselves. Follow me.” He stomped down his dark basement stairs and I floated behind him, suddenly just grateful to be in his presence.
Once in the cave-like basement, I walked and stood right next to him, smiling a bit as he began to explain how “mind over matter” helped martial artists break multiple wooden boards with only their mind and their elbows. “It’s not about strength, it’s about visualization. Watch.” And he proceeded to do just that: break about five boards with his elbow. “I’ll teach you how to do it, and we’ll show the class. It’ll be an easy “A”, right?” His chest was heaving a bit after showing off for me, and I couldn’t help it. Really. My hand just moved to his stomach of its own accord. I had no control whatsoever. The sprinkling of hair across his hard stomach was light brown, soft, and I wanted to bury my face in it. I resisted the urge, though; scared he might turn me out of his basement and call me a slut. I usually loved being called a slut, but still.
So when he grabbed my hand and looked straight into my eyes, I wasn’t sure if he’d brush me away or let me continue. I was filled with relief and excitement when he moved my hand down the front of his boxers, led me to his rock hard cock that was laced with veins, tipped by a velvet smooth head. After that had been established, he wasn't hesitant to tip my chin up and run this thumb across my lower lip. Did you know that lips swell and fill out during the onset of arousal? Mine felt Angelina Jolie plump, and I felt the curious sensation of my tiny little button stand at attention. It was SO excited to be invited to the party, it couldn’t sit still…
A sudden flutter of activity, a tense mix of warm honey, the sudden need for hard, quick heat; devoid of anything tender, slow, or sweet: His tongue ran over the roof of my mouth, something I did myself while reading, writing, watching TV. My breath was coming in short staccato breaths, until I gave up all pretense and moaned in his mouth. Pillow lips still wrapped around tongue, I moaned again (the image of my tongue wrapped around something lower on his body elicited that particular sigh).
I pressed my hips against his, hesitant to the urge to wrap my leg around his waist, the urge to reach my hand into my skirt. I was so ready to be deliberately and un-gently fucked. So hard that my teeth would chatter, but I wanted to show a tiny bit of restraint. After a pulse (a thrum, a cadence, a flutter of eyelash) his hands were up my purple skirt pushing on damp cotton, finding a tight little orchid (his hand now soaked). I was hesitant because I both feared and hoped that by some chance his girlfriend would stop over unexpectedly and find us here, wrapped around each other.
These thoughts made their way down my brain and to my pussy, which was growing damper by the second. His strong fingers finally made contact to that demanding, heightened little button that no longer could stand being ignored. I was so slippery, though; his fingers kept slipping out of place. I shoved his hand out of the way, lay down on the cold basement floor and proceeded to place at least four of my “I’m Not Really a Waitress” polished fingers up, up, and further up, immediately finding that tough little ridge of flesh that demanded relief. Reaching up with my other hand, I pulled his neck down, and placed his mouth around my erect nipple.
“Bite me. Hard as you can.” He of course complied, and I was shocked at how snakelike my voice sounded. As I fucked myself I allowed my brain to think more about that pretty little girlfriend of his, now wishing she would show up and catch us. She’d be indignant at first, but once she saw how beautiful I was, how beautiful I thought she was, maybe her knees would give as she sank her pelvis onto my face. Her tightness would shock me, had he not penetrated her yet? Should I break her seal? Maybe it would piss him off that a woman would go where no man had gone before. Maybe he could be coerced to leave the room after we’d agreed to share his cock until he exploded all over our faces.
As I came, I decided I shouldn’t be selfish and lost in thought. I practically meowed, “I’m so hungry.”
He looked down at me, eyes glazed over with need, “Hungry for what?”
“Your cock, feed it to me.” And immediately it was in my mouth. I said a quick word of thanks that I didn’t have a gag reflex, because this guy was HUGE. He pushed my limits, and my tongue reacted as if it had never tasted anything so sweet. It ate and sucked so hungrily that he shot molten come down my throat in less than one minute. I swallowed; tasting the butterscotch candies he sucked on, wiped my mouth, and looked up at him.
“Can you call your girlfriend? I think she might be hungry, too.”
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Shush Mary Pt. 1
The first (probably nearly incoherent) rambling something that has been pouring out of me in chronological form the past week:
She'd thought about it, of course. Because she always thought about it. She imagined everyone was as sex-obsessed as she, and was even continually convinced that people were masturbating under their winter coats - an excuse to the restroom during a meeting was a ruse to reach a quick, furious pull and release. Back, bright and shiny, ready to begin. Most of the time it turned her further on, most of the time she had to keep her legs crossed or pull over her truck (that rumbled and vibrated in a very masculine manner as she drove) to a wooded area and take care of the ever-growing ache that was near constant now. Sweet as a sugar cookie with pink frosting, savory as steak and potatoes her hunger was. Not just for sex, but for everything and everyone she found beautiful. This often got her into trouble but not this time. This time was confection.
She was a work of art, both home-grown organic and self-upgraded. Since her girlhood she had not only admired and acknowledged the beauty in other females, but (sometimes) ashamedly coveted, and craved that beauty. Craved it for herself and craved the soft down that lies below. She craved men and boys, too, but she didn't see one want as something that would zero out the other want. It was as different as the two sexes are different.
If she stopped herself from obsessing over the very instant laws of attraction long enough the fear/shame reflex kicked in. Then then the ghost voices of both her mildly conservative upbringing clashed with the gay men and women friends she cherished and she was left somewhere in between. She simply saw and felt beauty everywhere, and it manifested itself everywhere in her body (and of course in the non-corporeal parts of her too - i.e. her soul). When she painted something pretty and birdy or saw a painting so pretty and birdy at a museum (but more about that later) her heart wasn't the only body part that soared in response. Looking at a magpie flitting from one branch to another against a heather grey sky sent her lips to plumping, her blood to flowing, her already full breasts to swelling, and that tiny, sweet, knotted place to throbbing. She hadn't read Whitman deeply enough to understand that this was a fairly common occurrence so she never spoke of it to even her amorous husband.
She'd thought about it, of course. Because she always thought about it. She imagined everyone was as sex-obsessed as she, and was even continually convinced that people were masturbating under their winter coats - an excuse to the restroom during a meeting was a ruse to reach a quick, furious pull and release. Back, bright and shiny, ready to begin. Most of the time it turned her further on, most of the time she had to keep her legs crossed or pull over her truck (that rumbled and vibrated in a very masculine manner as she drove) to a wooded area and take care of the ever-growing ache that was near constant now. Sweet as a sugar cookie with pink frosting, savory as steak and potatoes her hunger was. Not just for sex, but for everything and everyone she found beautiful. This often got her into trouble but not this time. This time was confection.
She was a work of art, both home-grown organic and self-upgraded. Since her girlhood she had not only admired and acknowledged the beauty in other females, but (sometimes) ashamedly coveted, and craved that beauty. Craved it for herself and craved the soft down that lies below. She craved men and boys, too, but she didn't see one want as something that would zero out the other want. It was as different as the two sexes are different.
If she stopped herself from obsessing over the very instant laws of attraction long enough the fear/shame reflex kicked in. Then then the ghost voices of both her mildly conservative upbringing clashed with the gay men and women friends she cherished and she was left somewhere in between. She simply saw and felt beauty everywhere, and it manifested itself everywhere in her body (and of course in the non-corporeal parts of her too - i.e. her soul). When she painted something pretty and birdy or saw a painting so pretty and birdy at a museum (but more about that later) her heart wasn't the only body part that soared in response. Looking at a magpie flitting from one branch to another against a heather grey sky sent her lips to plumping, her blood to flowing, her already full breasts to swelling, and that tiny, sweet, knotted place to throbbing. She hadn't read Whitman deeply enough to understand that this was a fairly common occurrence so she never spoke of it to even her amorous husband.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
I wrote a bit today in the oddest of places, about something that flashed through my mind not-so-late last night. About how men and women taste. When I think of men I think of cucumbers and yogurt, some sort of refreshing, life-giving recipe that should be eaten with naan.
When I think of women I think of sharp-tasting fruit; like black cherries and newly ripened blueberries. But I have only tasted myself, so I don't know if this is a universal thing.
All of my naughty energy is being taken up by something new and tight. So far it's a short story, that might work itself into a frenzied novella, and finally climax into a novel - who knows? I'll check in here from time to time, usually late at night, when you're drifting to sleep...I'll be there to bite your shoulder and flick my tongue on your salt-laced skin.
When I think of women I think of sharp-tasting fruit; like black cherries and newly ripened blueberries. But I have only tasted myself, so I don't know if this is a universal thing.
All of my naughty energy is being taken up by something new and tight. So far it's a short story, that might work itself into a frenzied novella, and finally climax into a novel - who knows? I'll check in here from time to time, usually late at night, when you're drifting to sleep...I'll be there to bite your shoulder and flick my tongue on your salt-laced skin.
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