Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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One Year of My Life

This morning I reached into my back pocket, pulled out the wallet, flipped it open and slowly nudged a coin I’ve carried on me since I turned into a “man”. It read 1944, the year my father declared to neighbors and friends that I had turn into a “man”. Becoming a “man” in my country is a telling event for father and son. I had seen it bring together families as I had seen it pull others apart.

Throughout my childhood it was stressed that successfully passing the event on the first attempt granted rights to a brotherhood exclusive to males. The brotherhood was small, most of the members were very old men. There were also a few young members — around my age or so, but not many. The gap in age was created by the death of nearly a full generation of men from my village at the hands of the fascists. So, gaining rights to one was a great honor.

For the entire year, i was to follow my dad around, learning from him how to become a man; how to gain knowledge that would allow me to feed my future family as well as protect them. That year I gained more knowledge about my father than I had in the 15 previous years of my life. He taught me to defend myself, taught me how to court a woman, how to work with my hands, steal when necessary, drink moonshine and the key to all true men: play domino.Dominoes

The knowledge gained through the year, though, was not necessary for the “ritual”. It was all part of becoming a productive member of the village. I was a normal kid, played and got into trouble all my life; took a few good whippings by both my and dad. So when January 1st came about that year, I was ready to become a man.

Of the talents my father passed down during that exciting year, gosh, I was mostly interested in domino play. I followed him from tournament to tournament, tied to his hip watching him cheat, win and lose. The cheating during the games was the best, I never managed to understand how he didn’t get caught. He won prize after prize with his hidden signals. It was a source of pride to speak about him as a winner. That’s what I wanted to become, but to do so, I had to first pass this ritual I knew nothing about.

I got to visit the local pub after dark with my father, where members of the brotherhood would take bets on the outcome of my ritual. How exciting it was to laugh with them, with my dad, to feel like a grown up. I couldn’t wait to become part of the group. If hanging out late at night, talking to random women, drinking and playing dominoes was what men did after a long day’s wage, then I wanted part of it.

The last month, in December 1944, things became a little more detailed. My father, his leather flask filled with red wine, and I would stay up on the porch talking about women. Talking about what it was to be a man, specifically, what it was to be a man in bed with a woman. I hadn’t a clue why he’d chosen to reveal such intimate details about adult interaction, but for the first twenty days of December he went on to describe in great detail the women he had been with, the things he did to them, except for my mom, of course… supposedly she was some sort of saint, so he told me.

On the 21st day of December, the day of my birthday, the day of my ritual, I woke up later than usual. It was around 4PM when I woke up. Dinner was set on the table, and the entire family waited for me. The good china, and silverware were set. My plate had a different meal than the rest of the family. My meal was specifically prepared by my father. It consisted mostly of protein prepared with a few herbs said to rise vitality. My father and mother spoke about the need for me to pay careful attention to my father tonight, to follow his lead and make the family proud.

My mother had selected what I would wear to town that night: a new suit she had sewn for me. After dinner, my mother helped me dress while my father prepared a last drink for him and I. We left the house at 8PM, all the neighbors wishing me luck. While I was gone, the village was to celebrate at my house until my return.

The walk to town took some 45 minutes. Though I asked, my father didn’t mention anything about what to expect at the ritual. He spoke of growing up, of the heartaches he crossed courting my mother, how the war impacted the brotherhood… he spoke of everything except the ritual. I even forgot it was my birthday and where we were going. Were it not for the direction we took upon arriving in town, I wouldn’t have remembered the intentions of the night. We headed towards a part of town that I had always been warned about visiting. It was a part of town where it was said a few men became women and a children became men.

dark pathThere were a few scattered lights throughout the path pointing us in the proper direction. At the end of the path I could see many lights, hear a large crowd, even scuffles of wild animals. The code to enter the gated area was my birth date, and family name. My father stood as my representative, and signed papers that on December 21st, 1944 I visited to collect my right to become a man;I still own that piece of paper.

Inside the gates two large men instructed my father to inform me of the process. They brought us inside a large beautiful house — the fanciest I had ever seen — sat us down and brought us two glasses of cheap red wine.

My dad said,
      Son, through those doors is a large room. There will be many other young men in there.
      Not everyone will get to go on the first hand. Everyone will be dealt a card, the highest
      numbered card will get first selection. You have the right to consult with me about your
      choice. The twelve people with the highest cards go on the first round. There is a time
      limit of 30 minutes, and rounds will continue until everyone goes. Understood?

I was clear on the rules but, because i was scared, I didn’t ask any question. There were over 30 other participants in the large room. We all looked equally scared. Before we got a chance to get situated, an elderly woman walked out with a deck of cards, asked us to circle about her, then proceeded to shuffle the cards. She handed one card to everyone, told us to look at it, then Ace of Clubscalled out for everyone with an Ace, a three, or a king to step forward. I was among them. We were to be the first round of participants. She then drew suit based on the sequential order in which she pulled them from the deck of cards. Clubs, swords, golds, and cups were pulled out respectively. I had the Ace of clubs, so I got first pick. She called my father, who had been cheering me on, to stand beside me, and asked if I wanted him to go through another set of doors in case I needed advice selecting or negotiating.

Women LineupMy father didn’t wait for the remaining order of participants to be set. He pulled me towards the set of doors while giving me a pep talk. He was proud of me, even if nothing did happen that night. The fact that I was first made him proud. When we walked through the doors twelve women stood nude in line. He told me to bring the card to the one I liked the most, that we would “look her over” and decided if she was the one for me.

I had never seen a woman fully nude before. I didn’t know what to look for, what to say, nor what I was doing in there. My father took the lead, he walked me close to the girls and had them stand in various poses. He told me that he knew what he liked, but it wasn’t necessarily the same that I liked. So, he would pick three girls for me but, I had to make the final selection for myself. First was a young brunette, she was the prettiest of the three, with small breasts yet, a rear that slopped outwardly as if mountain range. I liked her from the beginning and thought she was going to be my final choice. The second was a young blond, she was also very attractive with large breast and small bottom, though her front where it matters at the bottom was the most protruding of the three. The third, and last woman was also a brunette, athletic body, very pretty smile with big dark eyes. She wasn’t big anywhere, but for some reason she called my attention the most at the end.

I picked her, the last. She took me to a room and asked me what I wanted to do. That her thoughts about my performance were to be used as measure to be granted access into the brotherhood. I was shocked. Women weren’t supposed to know about the brotherhood, nor the ritual. She asked me what I wanted to do. All the advice my dad gave me disappeared, I did not remember anything he had told me. Not one thing I remembered! I looked at her, swallowed hard and told her that I was a virgin. That I had no idea why my father had brought me here, and that I really didn’t want any part of it. That I wanted to be in love when something did happen.

She got up, tore the button and zipper of my pants, and shoved my virginity in her mouth. I pushed back and tried to fight her off. She then looked at me straight in the eyes, laid down on the bed, spread her legs and told me to come suck her. She was plentiful, plush, unshaven, I suddenly remembered my dad’s words to talk to her, to tell her what to do to me. That it would ease my nerves giving out commands rather than taking commands. So, I told her to get up and shoved me inside her mouth again.

There she stood for a long time, fear not letting me climax… all I did was hold her head and feel it move. She tired of it, and told me that we had to have intercourse in order to become a man. I bent her over the side of one of the sofas, as my dad had explained he had done his first time, got real close, and… I missed the right entrance. She pushed back and told me that to do that we needed lubricant. I had no idea what she was saying, my father had mentioned that it slipped right in for him; but, for me, it wasn’t working. She pulled out some type of lubricant, put it on me, put it on her, then leaned over the sofa again, and directed me with her hand until I was swallowed in. I could feel my scrotum hitting something moist, they, themselves moistening from the impacting against it.

After a few thrust into what I thought was the correct entrance, she stood up turned around, spread her legs, and told me to come feel the right entrance. It sure felt different, it was very slippery, warmer and best of all… I could see her big bright eyes. Though I tried and tried and tried, the 30 minutes weren’t enough for me to climax. At the 30 minute mark the elderly woman and my dad walked in on us to stop the action. I was still hard, breathing heavily, she was spread in bed. The elderly woman briefly spoke to the girl, then my father. After some minutes she asked my dad to take his right and have a turn at the girl. My father declined, and instead told the girl to perform falletio on me until I did climax. But this time, a second girl was there, she was face up on the floor performing conalingus on the young girl while she orally pleasured me. It took not 3 minutes for me to drip into her mouth, her chest, and the head of the girl sucking her at the bottom.

My dad laughed, patted me on the back and greeted me welcome to the brotherhood. He gave me that 1944 coin to pay the girl, but the elderly lady decline the payment. I went home still engorged, scared that it would detonate in my pants. My father chanting, drinking his wine. He’s boy had become a “man”. And that’s my story of the coin in my wallet that reminds me of the year 1944.

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Satisfying Meal

Gluttony, while it might be one of the seven deadly sins, the seventh and last in the latest revised version, should be disregarded as a one. I’m hopeful to persuade myself that the over indulgence that actually lead to the most satisfying meal I’ve ever enjoyed will be cleared in the eyes of God… relinquish me from eternal damnation. How can God, after all, deny a man such delight if it really wasn’t meant to overindulge?

I remember it as if it was happening right now. I can see the sun going down over the bay, turning the clouds orange in colour, giving the ocean a sense of calm in the presence of a few scattered seagulls flying close to the water. Their chant is unique, almost as if part of a complex pattern that screams out tranquility to human perception.

I must tell you about my companion if this anecdote is to make any sense. She and I remained the last two at her restaurant, see, she’s not only the Chef, but also the owner of Oceano: a small sea-shore restaurant in the Bay Area with floor to ceiling glass doors that when opened allow the sea-breeze to pierce one as if Cupid’s arrow through the heart. It brought with it the smell of the setting sun intertwined with oceanic aromas; not the stench of freshly caught fish and their intestines all over fishing boats, but one of nature where it was gratifyingly apparent that one was close to the sea.

She had prepared me a dish, said it was especially crafted for this occasion. She called it Oceano Unico. Were I well versed in intricacies of modern cuisine, I bet I could have been able to identify what was what and how it became to be called Oceano Unico.

I don’t know how I ended up with my face glued to the dish. While I might not know how it all happened, I can try my earnest to reveal the details of the dish that’s turned Gluttony to a miracle made in heaven.

I have this pet peeve against eating with my bare hands, a big one, too. I can swear upon a bible that I had never in my adult life, until meeting that dish, used my hands in such ways. They weren’t mere hands, but utensils crafting and molding the meal. It was hard to breathe from time to time because of my inability to come up for a moment of rest. I felt that if I removed my mouth from the meal it would disappear to never be had again. So, from deep within me I was given the strength, the stamina to consume that plate presented to me.

Upon touching my tongue, my mouth would water. I could literally taste the aroma traveling up my tongue, around my teeth, the roof of my mouth, and once I swallowed… God, savior of all, I felt that I had become part of what fanatics call paradise. My mouth was saturated in the sauce that seemingly increased in volume with each stroke of my fingers, of my mouth upon the meal.

Before walking into this restaurant I was a starved man, but now, now I have been consuming a dish as if a steak at stray dog party. She looked at me intently, from time to time letting me know the joy within her watching me behave as I did. My hands, oh my hands, how they were involved in the action. I might as well have been looking for priceless jewels the manner in which they behaved. I felt not a part of me could miss the meal. That if I was to die for Gluttony it would be all of me that was to be held responsible for it. The sauce, who in the right world has tasted such? I bet you not the greeks, egyptians, mayan, well maybe the Olympians… but I was there, carving into the perfection found before my face named, rightfully so, Oceano Unico.

The aroma of the ocean coming through the ceiling-to-floor doors coupled to the scent emerging from, what I can only describe as this “Immortata”, was mind numbing. Had any of you shared it, you too would claim that your dish, well, that your dish isn’t comparable to this dish. I thank Goodness that when the reason fails to understand actions, there are feelings to carry the ecstasy from the outer world deep into my emotional being.

It wasn’t just the taste, my dear friends, but also how the sauce looked dripping from the top layers down the sides onto the dish. The colours that it brought out of the meal, just as the sparkles it produced as it moved from the center of the meal, out to the sides and down… I would use my fingers just to trace the dripping liquid, bring it back to my mouth and suck it off as if a little kid. I even had to have her taste it off of my finger. I traced around the dish, looked at her, came up just for a moment to bring my finger to her lips, and… have her taste what she’d been missing up to that moment.

Upon resuming the delight, the table started shaking, and she grabbed me by the hair, shoved my face against the meal, and moaned to world’s end. She became part of the singing seagulls, part of the ocean breeze, part of the meal that I can guarantee was the most satisfying of them all.

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For the Neighbors

The texting was innocent at first. Limited mostly to the usual Q&A process when the worthiness of each correspondent is measured. She had passed my test long before I did hers. It took just a few messages for me to believe that we would agree on topics that make or break relationships.

We communicated through text for a few weeks before she suggested a date at one of the local museums. During our digital interactions it became evident that both of us enjoyed art, given that there was an exhibit of local talent at one of the museums, it made sense to meet there. We thought It’d be a fantastic idea where we could be chatty, while also be less so if our chemistry didn’t translate as well in person as it did texting.

The exhibit was being hosted mid point between our flats, so we agreed to meet there by the donation stand. We spoke candidly throughout the day about the event, and my last text at exactly 8PM before departing for our date read: “Lateness leads to punishing desires.” She didn’t reply to the text but, I attributed it to the idea that she was getting ready to meet me.

Nine O’Clock, the hour we had agreed to meet, came and went. I stayed outside waiting for about an hour when I decide to await her arrival by browsing the halls of the exhibit. For two hours I stared at modern style paintings, looking around for anyone wearing a long green dress and square glasses. I must have looked at guests more than I looked at paintings, just as the many attempts to contact her went unanswered. I decided to skip the “After Event Gathering” in favor of going home to dwell on the many possibilities which might have kept her from our date.

She seemed enthusiastic throughout our digital interactions… about the event… about us. I reread over and again looking for a sign that I might be up to being fooled; yet, didn’t find any. I was left with no answer but to blame that last daring text I sent speaking of late arrivals. I eventually fell asleep disheartened, still debating during the interrupted sleep if I should send a follow up text, or take it as a signal to not contact her again. After All, it could have been an urgent matter outside her control.

When I awoke in the morning, she had texted me. “Thank You for the wonderful night of Modern Paintings”.

It felt surreal, I didn’t know how to handle it. I quickly replied: “You stood me up!”.

The back and forth ensued for quite sometime. In all, she lied about wearing a green dress, and square glasses. She followed me throughout the event, even spoke to me briefly. I didn’t realize it was her. She looked nothing like the picture on her profile; not a bad thing as she looked more attractive in person as she did in pictures. I remember her because she was the one woman of the many who greeted me who tried to hit on me, and I, the fool I am, told her I was waiting for someone. She never revealed herself until the texts today.

After ironing out her crazy ploy, she tossed back my last message to her last night: “Lateness leads to punishing desires”, Followed by: “How will such act to be carried out being that I was, oh, so late.”

I like to think of myself as filled with naught, yet when texting I always fear spewing unreachable fantasies only to be unable to carry them through; maybe I’m really not as creative in action as I lead myself to believe. My mind raced in search for a clever response… I failed flat but, at least replied:

“You’ll have little to no say, except for your attire.”

Her answer was better crafted, and perhaps more thoroughly considered than mine.

68 Weedy Road,
Hunting Gardens

A picture of her house and:
“Back entrance, on the very side of the driveway. The picture is to clear all doubt of where you’ll find me to carry out THOSE punishing desires.”

I normally ride the metro, but this time I boarded my automobile and raced to 68 Weedy Road. I pulled into the driveway to find her sitting on the top step leading to the entrance of her apartment. She was still wearing a long white t-shirt which she had obviously worn overnight. Her legs were crossed preventing me from a better look.

She noticed the few attempts I made trying to get a glimpse of joy while approaching, but didn’t make an effort to welcome me as warmly as I had hoped. She pulled out her phone and texted me to come inside. She got up, raised her shirt to navel level displaying very tiny and tightly-shaping undergarments. They were the tiniest things possibly ever made, they covered only the very bottom of her whim. Even what’s socially referred to as a “landing strip” was uncovered by the ill-covering undergarment.

I reacted instantaneously, not in totality by her well groomed allure, but partially by the artwork that came down from her right oblique, wrapping forward finishing on the lower part of her abdomen. It was a japanese style rose vine, but in gray scale. It contained no colour, and here by, I attest that it needn’t any because the shape marked by that very little piece of clothing was colourful enough to inspire any artist.

Tattooed ShoulderShe turned around, walked in leaving the door opened, again texting me to bring her undergarment with me that it had fallen off of her body on the way inside. I texted in return: “Your choice of clothing was fulfilled, say no more.” I quickly rushed in, stood in front of her and undressed. Bare I stood, and not the only one standing, either. She looked at me, pulled her shirt over her head exposing herself to me. She had more artwork on her right shoulder covering down to mid bicep, and up towards the clavicle and upper chest.

I have a fault of being weakened by art, be it on a human canvas or else where. I leaned over, grabbed my mobile and texted her to get on her knees, draw her face close to me, and open her mouth. She obliged without hesitation, slowly, carefully and effortlessly igniting my desire to fulfill my whim.

Without much care or thought, I picked her up off her feet, forced her into sort of a fetal position where her butt landed against my chest, her knees bent over my upper arms, legs out hanging to each side, my grip holding her by the scapula. She was there for me to stare, to gawk, to receive the fresh aroma of a woman secreting desire. I walked out slowly, looking down at the colour of her skin in different areas, flawless lines that created the inner and outer labia… the thickness of her lips, the supple state in which she looked.

I reached the outside door, and walked out onto her balcony in plain sight of her neighbors; her eyes wide open but reluctant to speak. I shoved my pants to the side that had come tangled to my left leg, then I scooted her up just a bit to where my lips could encounter hers, then I began to run my tongue through every curvature there in I found. I followed lines from the outside, working my way slow enough to not only feel each perdition I discovered, but to also taste her. I have always liked the feel of moisture against my tongue, just when it sticks to the tongue creating a line of fluid “connecting” the tongue back to the skin.

I traced, kissed, sucked, and swallowed all that was presented to me. My mouth covered in bliss, my tongue massaging the warmest part of the female anatomy. I searched, played, kissed, even bit until I felt her breathing heavily. Though I knew it was time to find just that sensitive spot where she would relinquish herself to me, I ignored it; stood her on the floor and position her back on her knees just so that she could get a taste of me before I began to thrust my will into her.

No sooner than she’d taken in all of me in her mouth that I stood her back up, turning her around facing the neighbors house across the driveway. I leaned her torso over the banister, grabbed each of her legs by the knees and lifted her to balance on the banister. Upon lifting her feet, she threw her hands forward and grabbed onto a baluster with each hand. I pushed her legs in opposite directions, drew my pelvis forward meticulously sliding inside of her. I took my time in the initial thrust; the feeling, it is the feeling of warmth… first captivating the tip, then the body down to the shaft that I was searching for. To feel how she felt differently than other women who’ve given themselves to me.

And she felt lustful, tight, heated, slippery, and by God, rewarding. I pushed slowly for a very long time, taking whatever time I desired to watch myself push her anatomy to the sides. The girth caused an admirable spread in her, wrapped perfectly as I was meant to be inside of her. The look of her femininity as it contoured onto me, stretching out with each of my retreats, only to be slowly pushed back into place with subsequent insertions. The moisture was at first clear, clean, but with the passing of time it became whitish. Just as I desire to see me covered in. There is more to what the eye does for the mind in such cases than there is in the feeling of being inside of her.

So there I stayed, again waiting for her to breathe heavily, to complain of her inability to comfortably hold on the the balusters, as if I cared… Then, just then when I felt that I no longer cared to wait for her, I pushed in violently causing the impacting sound of skin against skin. Not only did the touch of our skins create noise, but so did her saturation further lubricating us. I released one of her knees just to use the free hand to spank her right cheek… I wanted to leave it with marks of my desires. So, I spanked her a few times, harder each time.

Woman Looking out the windowThis was the first time I had heard her moan… while spanking her, as if I had someone how released her inhibitions to the world. She moaned, she breathed heavily, she moaned, she grunted, she “Ahed, and Ohed”. But better of it all, was that her verbal cues had given rise to an audience. The couple next door, as well as two residents of her building were staring at her out the window, at us I might say. But really, were I looking I would have been watching her as well. Watching the reaction of her face as her glute was slapped, as the girth of my wants pushed inside of her ignoring caution.

Just as I was about to climax, foregoing that the gentlemanly thing to do was to allow her to climax as well, I pulled out, released her other leg, adjusted myself to where the tip was in contact with her tender being and released my intentions, some slipped in while others fell about her vulva, and exactly on the orifice between her butt chicks.

I looked down, looked at her again, and happen to see that my mobile was peeking at me from the pants on the floor. Screaming to include him in the vision, to be included in the event, on the piece of art that she was. I grabbed it, took a picture of the outcome, and texted it to her. I leaned over to the side, she looked back at me and I flashed a second picture just to remember her face with total disregard that her neighbors might not look at her the same again.

I pulled her off from the banister, and for the sheer excitement of the voyeurs traded falletio and conalingus for just a few minutes. I waved toward the neighbors, she laughed and shook her head.

The last text she sent was for me to leave, along with a picture of her torso irritated and bruised from the banister.

When I reached my house another text came in: “Now that you’ve painted your scene, allow me to carry out my say.”

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A Hand for Valentine

It’s been longer than I willing admit; I even began to believe that the spark was gone. That spark that once afforded us the trials and tribulations of budding couples. There was little care of when, where, and why. We summed it up with no more words than “just because”; there wasn’t a reason to because “it” was the reason. The overdoses wasn’t a thing of hospital visits for us, but one that built us. I now find myself questioning it all.

I stood in the background overcomed by jealousy, listening to friends tell stories of how intimate others consumed their ecstasy leaving no sign of the event, all in their mouths to be ingested as if a cup of warm tea. I, well, I hadn’t seen such sight in a horrid lengthy time.

That day, lo and behold, things were different. From the multi-coloured roses, to the reservations at the fancy little Bistro that had just opened up, to her attire and desire to bring the roses along with her to the restaurant. We rode to our destination in a taxicab, something not done since our move out of the city. The conversation was sort of peculiar. She continuously spoke of how free and careless we once were, how she wished we’d toss formality to the side to return to that liberty from the past.

I smiled, agreeing that we were indeed a bit less caring of proper behavior; more into the building of lasting memories, even if a few didn’t turn out as expected. She then became sort of edgy, riské, even. She raised her knee-length skirt up to end of her stockings and asked if she should show the driver her intimacy. I became excited at the idea that she would dare, not only ask that question, but be adventurous enough to carry it out. I was affirmative in reply, quick, too.

Maybe it was the normality of our recent behaviours, maybe the excitement of the moment, or simply realizing that she was still in there. She laughed loudly enough to startle the driver who was intently listening to foreign music. He looked through the rear-view-mirror sort of verifying that everything was ok with us. She smiled and waved her hand in his direction, asking if he thought that she looked seductive with a rose clenched between her teeth.

“Very Much, Miss”, he replied.

She grabs the rose from her mouth, out loud tells me to unbuckle, unzip and show her what’s hiding under those finely pressed slacks. She looks forward and tells the driver that I’m scared. That years back I hadn’t any sensitivity to others seeing us, but now, now I had grown complacent… I had become too prudent. To further insult, the driver tells me to respect the lady, and grant her wishes… as if I hadn’t been wanting for this moment for too long.

Again she laughs. Tells me to hurry because the driver wants to see how her lips map indecencies. The driver can’t shut up. I felt as if it were him the one she was asking to unzip. I wanted to ask him to be quiet, but she prevented me. She put her index finger over my lips, hushed me, and while looking at him through the rearview mirror, she approached me. I could see his eyes growing larger, his head elevating in an attempt to capture a position that would yield a better view.

I didn’t care at this point what he could or couldn’t see. I grabbed her long hair with one hand so that it wouldn’t be disturbed by my final reaction. I wanted just what the driver longed in face that he wasn’t the recipient of her lips: to have a clear view of her head as it elevated and lowered ingesting from little to all of me with each movement.

I could feel the wet of her mouth tightly wound around me, soaking every bit of my recent complaints about her. I almost melted away from the warmth of her mouth, from the manner in which she moved her head about seeking a better angle in which to engulf me. I didn’t know whether I rathered look at her lips around me, or listen as she slobbered on me. The many noises that attest to the finest of accomplishments.

The overly concerned driver swerved quickly causing me to pop out of her mouth, just as I was about to thank her with splashes of desire. The man nearly caused an accident trying to reach over the divider to have a better look at her work. She laughed again, as if it were all comedic. But this time she looked up at him, and asked him to look at her through the rear-view mirror. He did, just to see her finger cleaning the saliva from her lips. She was sure to trace all around her supple lips. He sighed just as I had been…

She resumed, but this time not with her mouth, rather her hands. I quickly thought of friends and their stories, and the desire to culminate my actions as they did theirs. Yet, something changed, perhaps due to the rear seat lights coming on, a move by the driver to have a view at the remaining event. She jerked me, not hard, but gently. Rubbing on the tip ever so slowly with her index and heart finger, even releasing saliva on the tip for further lubrication.

Her Hand, His CrotchAt that moment, when her saliva splashed half on the tip and half on her hand, I, just as slowly, released my lust. It was a slow flow. Not the type that shoots rushing away from the encounter, but the type that stays behind for a more appropriate encounter. She continued to stroke me, bringing her hand lower down to the base for a better squeeze against the urethra ensuring that all I had to give, did spill onto her hand.

I watched as the fluids escaping from me covered her fingers. Slowly moving from the urethra out to the head, onto her index, heart, ring and pinky fingers. I washed the thick fluid caress her hand in delight to have been freed. They then came to a stop. We had arrived at our destination, but she was still stroking, still gently. The driver now looked over the seat, intruding with questions of what she was about to do, not to leave any remains on his clean backseat.

She asked him to pay careful attention. She lifted her skirt, her white undergarment visible to all. She ran her hand just about every desirable part she found. Looked at him, and asked if that was clean enough, then turned in my direction and proceeded to lick her hand clean of any residue. She was audacious, even leaned over to ensure that I, too, was as clean now as when I entered the vehicle. She took a picture of her lips, salty, soaked, lipstick smudged all over, forwarded it to my mobile with a caption that read “Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey”. We exited the taxicab in sheer ecstasy. I knew that this night was just starting.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey”, I replied. “In the restaurant, I’ll present you with your gift.”

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Delta Gamma

Delta Gamma EmblemIt didn’t turn out how I had planned it but, oh well, I had to be quick in thinking. See, my parents showed up two days in advance, didn’t even take the time to get settled into their hotel room. In past years they had always arrived on the same calendar date but, this year an unexpected change of plans brought them to an unannounced visit to the sorority house. The time couldn’t have been this inopportune had they tried to be. I greeted them with delight, but my eyes revealed that I was not at all pleased.

When Ahvi arrived at the house he saw me dressed how he had expected –I still wearing what could be construed as pajamas: a body tight tank top coupled to a pair of too-short-for-my-parents-comfort set of shorts. The prior night we had had a sultry conversation which culminated with me telling him to come to the house, take little time or care for those around and seduce me, that the state in which my body craved his would last beyond a night’s sleep.

His intentions were apparent from that stare when he saw me. He meticulously stared me up and down as if looking for signs of what I wanted from him. The tank top hinted of my excitement. It covered me, but it too showed the shape of that what was about to feel his lips. The shorts, well, though they were somewhat lose, their size forced them to contour rather sharply onto my body. There is a clever name in pop America for the sort of shape drawn out from me by the shorts. And, wicked or not, I was happy that he got to see that which was expecting him.

Within seconds it all took a turn of displeasure. Initially he heard my father’s voice, then the figure of my mother walking in from the kitchen, closely followed by father. He did his best to hide his excitement from my parents by greeting them warmly; first my mother, then my father. Luckily, he was dressed appropriately for a body raging with uncontrollable hormones. He continually looked my way in disbelief.

While he spoke of the struggles between studies and social life, of the inabilities of faculty and administration to connect with the student body, I used all my time of college experience coupled to little privacy to solve our problem. I excused myself to the kitchen, then called Ahvi to help me fetch a few things.

He didn’t realize what awaited. Upon entering the kitchen, I grabbed his left hand and shoved it down my little shorts to feel the undeterred saturation. I turned around, put my hands against the refrigerator, and spread my legs. The fool was going to drop his pants, but I kept him from it. I told him to unzip, draw his whim, slide my shorts at the crotch area to the side and thrust with intention to leave behind the desires kept at distance from the prior night.

So he did. A hard shove between the cloth of my crotch area and my right inner thigh is all it took for him to be swallowed to a totality. He was all in, just where I needed him. I instructed him to hold on to my waist and not move a bit, to shove his pelvis forward and let me do the work. I thought that would be a clever way to keep the friction of lust from becoming audible throughout the kitchen. So he did, and I did as well. I moved my hips about as if a small ship caught in an oceanic storm. I drove fast, faster, and fastest. There was no slow here, there was just no time for it. I wanted to climax despite my parents being in the next room over. I held on with one hand against the fridge and the other squeezing my breast. I bit my lower lip passionately. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as if begging for something to also appease its need for pleasure.

Somehow I rejected the idea of climaxing, perhaps fearing the intrusion of my parents during such a fragile act. Instead I chose to pull him out to allow him to slide back and forth against my labia. I knew he had to be about to finish because he tried to pull my shorts off, but upwards instead of downwards… so, I closed my legs trapping him between them, and swayed back and forth nice and aggressively until I heard him struggle to keep his voice from announcing the conquest. There I keep it, further soaking me…

The bottom of my shorts, the area where privacy is said to reside, was saturated. I could feel his residue sliding around me, wetting all and everything it could. Oh how I liked it. I pushed him off, grabbed some snacks and brought it to my parents. I didn’t know whether to stand, or sit. I feared that sitting would leave evidence upon the sofa, but standing might reveal that I still throbbed from reckoning.

He came into the living-room minutes after me, looking confused, but at least carrying tea for my parents. He didn’t notice that not only were remnants of us all about my crotch and shorts, but stained his pants.

I still wonder if my parents did notice that something was, well, taken in the kitchen.