Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Club House

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I became the custodial “parent” of my best friends small fortune some three years ago. I, as a third party guardian served to the best interest of his children. So claimed the judge when I was asked to appear in court. I didn’t understand a word during the proceedings, but even the shock wasn’t lasting enough to obfuscate the last words my freedom heard. “You have the means to provide as no relative can, as are you here on these legal documents requested to do so were anything to occur to the parents. If so you agree.” I looked at the kids’ relatives, took a moment of silence for my friend’s passing, said my goodbyes to liberty, took a deep breath and my recollection from that moment is limited to walking out of court holding hands with the little people.

After gaining composure from the initial shock, I have been consumed with providing values to hopefully make my late friend proud of his children. It was a dramatic change in lifestyle, that of providing celibacy to myself, and everything of sound thought to the little ones. It was costly at every corner, not that I would prefer it any other way; I still believe this is where I was meant to be: a mate-less parent to my lovely children.

I automatically dissolved the nightly escapades that controlled my being. Done because I believe that a steady presence of a father figure, even when void of a mother, builds a solid foundation to create wonderful human beings. Lullabies replaced drinking nights. Even all of my transient relationships ceased to be memories. They became dark spaces occupying the once radiant neurons of my brain. My ego suffered, sometimes I even wonder if I gave up too much, but seeing the happy faces tells me my life couldn’t be more precious.

I hadn’t been apart from them not once in the last three years. They were all and everything to me. They came to represent my day, night and time in between company. It’s understandable that I would have difficulty dropping them off at daycare that first day. I still believe that it was more difficult for me than it was for them to say goodbye for a half a day. They cried in terror, looking back at me wondering why I was abandoning them at the hands of strangers. Not only did I leave in tears, but so stayed for the duration of the day. Each day for the next two weeks my teary eyes were quite the spectacle at daycare. However, being the emasculated fellow came with a great surprise; the mom’s at daycare found it rather charming. They believed I was a male in touch with my feelings… someone worthwhile.

The spectacles ceased after a while of sad morning drop offs. And with it came an invitation to a meal by one of the mothers. At the time I didn’t realize it was a date, after all, I hadn’t had any adult female interaction in the past three years that would afford me the ability to identify such interests. I wouldn’t even conceive a woman asking me on a date, I just couldn’t see beyond diapers and late night runs to the E.R. I began to believe that testosterone levels not only dropped for biological fathers, but also for surrogate fathers. I felt that I would never pick up on feminine cues ever again. I saw the invitation, not as a date, but as a chance to trade parenting ideas, to trade frustrations.

We came to an accord about time and location while walking to her car. I, naturally, reached to open the door to her vehicle. Not because of chivalry, but that I had become conditioned to opening the door for the little ones whose tiny bodies prevented them from many-a-things. That seemed to impress her… a gentleman who is in touch with his emotions. I didn’t think of myself as man any longer, but as a father with no other interest but ensure the children made it through the day in one piece. We briefly chatted before she departed. I told her some about me, specifically my re-entrance into the workforce, how much easier being at work had become after the daily routine with the children, and oddly, how I didn’t miss having a woman around. She told me about her ex, about her low paying gig, about being a recent single mother and the difficulties making it through each day.

We had agreed to meet on a Friday night at 7PM; incredibly close to bedtime for my comfort. I wondered if I would make it through dinner without falling asleep. At this point I still didn’t think of our encounter as a date. To me it was two adults trading parentings stories. I had already a story to share for the evening, something I knew she’d understand: for the very first time since gaining custody of the little ones, I hired a babysitter; one of the kid’s daycare takers. I left in horror; but, not before strategically placing a few cameras around the house to keep an eye in the action during my absence. My handy mobile device showed me anything I wanted to see by simply visiting a website. A win, win situation despite shedding tears from leaving them at home with someone else but me.

I arrived early to venue, some twenty minutes ahead of schedule. I sat at the bar, browsed the upper shelf filled with American spirits, and requested from the bartender a bourbon with a solid punch that is not found in many places. He grabbed the book of available spirits, pointed me to what he thought would be a good starting drink, then poured this gorgeous amber-in-colour-bourbon into a three finger tumbler. No ice, straight up. I chugged it remembering the days long gone where a 70% proof was just a warm up. This time that wasn’t the case, I coughed it up immediately. My throat burned reminding me that I wasn’t that single male of years back, rather the crying gentleman that drinks soy milk with the kids before bedtime.

Woman in Simple Black Dress fixing her shoeShe was certainly overdressed, so was everyone else at the venue. I don’t even recollect ever having attire to fit this night; I know I did have them at one point, but after so long, goodness knows where in my brain their memory might be. She wore not such a simple black dress. She was actually a delight to see. I waved the bartender over and asked him to fill me up. He looked me dead in the eye and said he didn’t really feel like cleaning up my dribble from the bar-top. I responded that the dribble this time around wasn’t going to be caused by bourbon, but by the female spirit I was about to have. He looked in the same direction I was looking, then turned to me to share raised eyebrows while watching her sitting on a bar-stool fixing her shoe. The bartender grabbed me one of them “hazmat” bottles of antique collection barrel-proof, hit me with a sniffer for it (only because the lady might find it more appealing) then filled the sniffer one third, and took a shoot for himself. We toasted to my success, then I proceeded to slowly drink that-one-third-filled sniffer at 74% proof all while looking at her.

It was as if her appearance summoned vintage me. I grabbed the bottle for keeps, asked the bartender for a “sophisticated” apple-tiny, and headed in her direction. She was delighted to see me. I greeted her with a double cheek kiss, then offered her the apple-tiny. She smiled, telling me that it had been a rather while since she’d had one of them. I concurred, as that bottle of spirit in my hand was the very first drink in too long for me as well. We stayed at the bar talking for some two hours. By now it was 9 O’Clock, a full hour beyond my bed time yet, I felt no signs of bedtime.

She thought it was rather masculine of me to be holding a bottle of bourbon in my hand while checking up on my kids. We both continuously checked our mobiles for video updates. I could have thought it a bit more irresponsible of me, but I went with her version. It reminded her of cowboy movies where the protagonist pulls the cork with his teeth, proceeds to drink from the bottle, then cleans his lips with the sleeve of the shirt. Had she met me three years ago, she would have seen that very scene. I was pompous enough to only drink from my very own bottle, even if I didn’t finish it. I wanted one to put my lips against and savor it knowing no one ever had, and would never after me. I thought I was macho, a show off, someone who took the world lightly. Maybe it was because of the liquor that all seemed more “appealing”; she had had two and a half apple-tinies, and I was working on about half a bottle.

Red & White Stripped Bikini BottomsShe stood from the bar-stool, asked me to get her a salad of my liking, and an appetizer for myself. I didn’t want a full meal. She was heading to the ladies’ room to freshen up, and wanted to get started eating before it became too late. When she returned she lifted the bottle of bourbon, placed a pair of American Flag bikini bottom on top of the bar-top, then placed the bottle down on it. She looked at and said: “I lost something in the restroom, care to help me find it?” Three years of drought had residual effect on me, I looked down at the bikini bottom grabbed it and told her I had found it. She was as tipsy as I because she laughed at my lack of compulsion, then asked for a shot of my spirit straight from the bottle. I handed over the bottle only to watch that cowgirl slowly sip my bourbon. Some of it spilled out of the side of her mouth, down the cheek, coming to a rest half way her neck.

I leaned over passed her to grab the apple-tiny. I flicked it with my hand, cracking the glass as it fell on the bar-top spilling the contents. “This girl doesn’t need to be pretentious”, I said. I surely hadn’t enough liquor, so I leaned over again and took small bites of the bourbon resting on her neck. Again she asked if I cared to find what she’d lost in the ladies’ room. This time, though, I caught on. I agreed to help her find the missing article she sought. The bartender watched as we walked towards the restroom, I waved at him, asking him to keep an eye on our liquor. He screamed back that he would also keep the pretty red and white stripe bikini bottom. She looked back, blew a kiss in his direction and said to be nice. I didn’t, I told him he was the new proprietor of that part of the business.

She pulled me into the restroom where two ladies, and the bathroom concierge spoke about spirits to taste. We greeted them and walked straight into one of the stalls. These weren’t the type of bathrooms as in any normal bar, not that it would have made any difference; these were bathrooms for the presumptuous crowd. Those who complain about water not being warm enough upon touch, complain about the temperature of the bathroom, complain about the colour of the tiles… She sat me on the stall, then sat on my lap to kiss me. She didn’t just kiss me, she attacked me. I had lipstick throughout my neck and face. I was covered in an off-red colour, and even a drop of blood dripping from my lower lip that was drawn out by one of her bites. I reached for my lip, touched it, looked down at my hand where the sight of the drop of blood transformed me into a starving man.

I lift her dress up to just below chest level to see her exposed navel. I have a weakness for them. The mere sight is a prelude to good times. The entire event unfolds just by looking at the navel. I can almost hear her voice asking for more, enticing me to thrust with reckless whim. In the elapse of no time at all I am presented with the events that I will soon carry out, proving that life can never be bound by time and space.

She kisses me while struggling to unbuckle my slacks, soon giving up and asking that I unbuckle myself. I obliged, then quickly felt the grasp of her hand on my engorged self. She strokes it violently, first with one hand, then with both. She stares down at me, still stroking and apologizing for her aggression. “I welcome it, be violent”, I told her. “I’ve missed the touch of a woman for too long, now that she’s here I want to be left tired and panting.”

The women in the bathroom haven’t left; they can still be heard talking about an appropriate response to having us in there consummating lust. One of them is enjoy it. She wants to stay through it all. The other two assert we should be stopped, that someone should knock on the stall door to interrupt the activities before anyone else walks in. They aren’t hush about it either; I believe in an attempt to lure a self stoppage. But, stopping is optional. An option that this far along, with her dress above the waist, and both her hands stroking me… stopping I will not.

By now my vision forged by her belly button is manifesting as expected. She edges forward, stands up over me without releasing me, and thumps down right onto me. Her hand directed me head first inside of her, giving me no time to adjust to the feeling of warmth. Had I been standing my knees would have buckled… I would not have remained standing. Instead of maneuvering her hips about me in a grinding motion, she bounced on me, almost fully releasing me with each upwards movement of her body. Had it not been for the grasp of her index and thumb fingers tightly around me down at the base, I would have slipped out of her to feel the cold air against my saturated penis.

The distinct sound of colliding flesh was muffled by my slacks. I hated it! I enjoy the melody created during adult encounters. Love it so dearly that I flexed my thighs sending me upright whilst still inside of her. I walked towards the closed stall door and put her back against it. I pushed hard with my pelvis, holding her by her buttocks, pulling them towards the sides to create an ever greater surface in which to slam against. My slacks succumbed to the pull of gravity and fell around my ankles. The women were now rowdier; louder than they had been. One of them released small screams each time I thrusted into my partner sending the colliding sound of wooden door against metal frame running through the bathroom.

My crotch was now saturated by her natural lubrication, giving me a sense of ecstasy. It felt as if some sort hallucinogenic topical cream that intensified the most insignificant of qualia. I could see her head resting against the door, he mouth opening, closing, biting her lower lip, gasping from the pleasure… her lips covered in running lipstick overly stimulating me. They weren’t to leaving this scene without being felt. I released her, pulled her dress over her breasts and engulfed her right nipple with my lips. I suckled, sucked, bit and touched them. The perkiest most evenly formed women figure I had encountered. I wished to be in a horizontal position to then sit over her, and watch as my penis drove between them, up towards her mouth.

I leaned back creating an open space between us, stared her up and down, then intently watched her index finger, the very same that not long ago held my girth in place, run through her mouth whilst looking down at me, again alluding to a continuation of our encounter. I placed both my hands on her shoulders and very slowly lowered her. She went down a squatted position, and though I can’t prove for certainty why one of the women left the restroom, I am willing to guess that it was because my partner’s rear was exposed below the stall door. It was apparent that my penis was being handled with little care inside her mouth.

I didn’t want her there for long, just long enough to feel how well I molded in her mouth. To see me disappear in her mouth while she looked up at me. She held me by my buttocks, squeezing them, driving her nails downwards to my hamstrings. She must have liked the feeling of flesh under her nails because as she drove her hands south bound I pushed forward with my pelvis all the way until feeling her nose and forehead against my stomach. That feeling of going beyond the mouth and into the throat caused me to withdraw, pull her up by her dress, turn her around, lean her over the corner of the door where one of her hands was against the right side of the stall, and the other against the door, perked her pelvis backwards, and pushed her feet apart with my right foot.

The two women remaining in the restroom knew all too well what was happening, one of them banged endlessly on the door… we continued undeterred. The sound of flesh being smacked against flesh, the feeling of saturation covering me, covering her just couldn’t be denied. I wanted to continue listening to the sound of colliding bodies, but I just couldn’t, I had to slow down, and maneuver my pelvis about as if looking for a way to reach deeper inside of her. The knocking on the door preventing nothing but their ability to hear my partner asking me to smack her cheeks.

I smacked the right side, smacked and smacked it again… pulled out, dropped to a knee, licked her secret trying to swallow anything and everything therein I found. My mouth watered from the sensation of her supple nature against my tongue. I wanted to be suffocated by her scent. Wanted it to remained imprinted on my lips to never ever forget her. I was desperate to be inside of her, to feel her muscles shape around me squeezing me, grasping me asking me to finish inside of her.

She looked back at me, swayed her hips, and by holy lord, when I looked at her in full bloom, moist, slightly opened from my actions… the three years in company of my children ran through my mind. All I could hear was “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, come inside, come inside. It’s Mickey’s Clubhouse, won’t you come inside.” At my most vulnerable moment, when it was about time to climax, all I heard was the effect of three years without adult interaction. I stood there admiring her for sometime, but instead of agreeing with the song, I stood close to her and self indulged until releasing my deepest desires over her backside. I Turned her around, placed her left leg over my shoulder until I felt her body tense, her mouth telling me she would spams if I continued. I stood up, we kissed. I pulled her dress down to her belly button, grabbed paper and cleansed me from her backside. Did it really to see her again, see how the separation between her butt-cheeks opened at the bottom to display her full persona… now reddish in colour, tender to the touch.

We walked out of the bathroom together, I still adjusting her dress as she walked. The two remaining women didn’t say anything. What could they have said that would have really changed much of anything? Our drinks still waiting for us, bartender clapping as if he’d had witnessed the encounter.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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