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,
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.
She 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.
This 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.”