Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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From Childs Play to Yellow Pants

Handsome father with set of twins sleepingIt’s peculiar, the life of a single father that is. I learned long ago that it is not what I want that I get, but those things that no one believes one can get. To the point, sexual intercourse as a single parent to two sets of twins. I was put in a situation that no one parent should live. My wife, of just four years, took her belongings shortly after our last set of twins were born and left us. The note read, “I never wanted this. I did it for you.” I suppose that’s love; giving just because it makes the partner happy. She gave me a family, then left us sort of… strung.

I understood her, didn’t really; still I expected a fulfillment to her vows, but after three years of absence, I sort of gave up the hope. Here is where things get interesting. Her departure directly affected “me” time, there isn’t any. What once was a two hour slot on Saturday mornings of “me” time, was filled up by the little ones’ desires. To somewhat regain that departed time slot, the girls came up with, what I fear, a losing arrangement for me. Yes, I said girls. Four of them, and twins. Gosh, I began to lose my hair so it had to be cut, all of it, all of is gone; I’m bald not because I want to, either. So, what do the two more talkative set of twins choose as an arrangement? Playground time, they want to spend more time at the playground. According to them, I can sit at a bench and “watch” them play thereby, gaining alone time. As if it really worked that way.

Now, tracking one child at the playground is most difficult, multiply that by four and that equals to about thirty or forty kids. The relationship is not linear, believe me when I tell you; four kids is like being in charge of the world population. Back to the agreement; such task requires some sort of military style strategic approach. I mapped out the playground, identified problem areas, exits, and proper viewing areas… then, I was ready to take them to our very first playground date as a family for the summer of 2013.

Aw, the dawn of summer. We are graced with one of them late spring, early summer northeastern United States type of days where its perfectly hot, just as it is perfectly cool. Couldn’t have been more the 77 degrees in direct sunlight, and no less than 72 in the shade. The climate meant that I had to be more vigilant than anticipated as there would be more traffic running around the park, there would be irreversibly more parents interrupting my “stake-out”.

For a parent of four “velo-ciferous” girls, weather is essential. I can’t be a sweaty mess just two seconds into the day. There is still an entire day ahead of us for that. So, the day was heavenly. We are out of the house by ten AM. The plan is to arrive at the park at 10:30, play for a couple of hours, find a nice spot for a picnic, let them loose on the park again and hope that they are so tired that after a shower, they can be asleep by 7PM. Consequently I gain “me” time to look at inappropriate websites, massage my anatomy a whole lot — the most action I’ve gotten in… oh, I’d rather not say.

Spiral Stair at playgroundWe are at the park, the youngest set of twins play by the toddler area, while the elder set head toward the “big” kids area. I keep my head in a swivel trying not to lose sight of my kids. It’s a tiring job, more so than a marathon run. As my head is in the swivel, please understand, it was an unintentional observation, I get to see how many of these moms walk around with their splendor hugging their leggings brutally tight, telling single parents like me who haven’t had fulfillment in many-a-month, come look at me, fantasize about me, I’m here for you, just dare come get it. At “normal-height” adult crotch level, where kids the age of mine are in height, nothing else could have come about.

The beloved sight is that some of these mothers, more so those wearing jeans, appear so well crafted, so nicely created that when they tug upwards at the waist of the jeans to prevent them from falling off, I get slapped on the face with works of art. It’s as if they needed to choke themselves hard enough to engage the imaginary lock down the middle of the crotch to maintain equilibrium. After a while I began to think that it was just made for me. There were no other men there, I was the only parent surrounded by mothers; easy and egotistical… perfectly normal reasoning, I think.

A few of them caught my attention. Nearly all of them did, honestly. Why wouldn’t it be so. There was so much delight to want to order that I spent more than half my time debating as to which would most perfectly mold to my lips. I must have not been as inconspicuous as I wanted to be. After about an hour of being at the playground, this delightful young mother sat next to me. She wore yellow leggings, a body-tight tank-top reaching down to her belly button. She strikes a conversation with me. The norm for parents is to first introduce their children as they run by. This woman had two. Two kids and she looked like a teenage girl with her flat stomach and perky bosom.

I introduced my four, told her some about me. As did she. As luck had it, she’s recently married, her second marriage in fact. The kids are from her first. Her hubby is some well-off entrepreneur, whose success leaves her with desirable amounts of time to craft her physique. I haven’t worked out on my body in a few years. I might watch what I eat, but I’m not exactly the physique to lust these days of washboard abs and shapely quads everywhere.

After the formalities she says that she’s been watching me since I got there; that being the only male has the mothers in revolt. Gossiping as to why I am there with four kids without speaking to anyone. Well, during her interchange of “nosy-ness” with the other mothers, she happens to notice that I did not really elevate my eyes from about three feet off the floor. Then, she figured out why. I looked at her trying to be smooth until she asked that I look down at her crotch. I looked around, chuckled, said “You noticed that!”, and went on to explain my situation.

“No need to apologize. I can imagine how you feel.” If you need to look around, please be my guest. There are more than a few mothers here who’d like you to see more than just the outline of their will. “Is that so”, I replied. As she’s telling me this, she scoots forward on the bench while leaning her back against the backrest.

Woman sitting showing her tight crotch“You can look around or concentrate on something closer.” She nods my attention towards her crotch. I look down and the yellow tights are pressed tightly against it. I imagine the leggings have pulled forward by the pressure of her weight against the bench-seat forcing the front to display the force by which the the fabric was being pulled back. For the size of that woman, she had more than mothers twice her stature. It was an uplifting experience, seeing her so vulnerably voluptuous. I would have not gotten aroused had this pair of tights not been the type that when stretched, they become sheer showing what is right underneath. She wore… absolutely nothing. She didn’t need any undergarment, there was nothing undesirable to cover down there; and, I was the recipient of an up close and almost personal view. I could see she was nicely groomed. She looked fresh out of the bathtub if I had my say.

Buttocks in very tight yellow leggingsWhen she stood up from the bench, there was no time to adjust anything. She left the tights stuck down her crotch and up her bottom. The view from the rear was as stimulating as the front. I can already see her standing in the nude with her legs slightly separated giving plenty of obstacle-free view of her package. I wondered if she were one of these women that when cold, the hair follicles stand erect. Oh, I lust for a view of that, yes, I thought it to myself, ass.

She walked over to her friends, turned around, and readjusted her pants, sending me the wickedest smile this side of malice. I could read her lips: “this kitty wants to play”.

Now, I was never smooth with the opposite gender. So after such a long time without a woman, I can’t possibly have improved any. So, I sat there lost for a course of action. I didn’t even noticed that one my girls had fallen off the slide and was bleeding at the knee. I rushed over, cleaned her up, and decided it’s time for the picnic. If I can’t get to eat that mom in the yellow shorts, I might as well savor some fruits and sandwich. We had quite the good lunch. My girls made me forget about yellow pants, and meaty endeavors. I welcomed the change, had I remained thinking on her, I would have most certainly released unwanted results right then and there in my pants.

For the remainder of my time at the park, she flirted from a distance. Stroke arousing poses just to call my attention, positioned mothers just so that I could peek at their secrets. It was a great day of play time for me. I spent it aroused. When it was time to leave, I collected my young-lings, grabbed our things and headed towards the vehicle. Before I got to the exit, she calls me, walks over and hands me a piece of paper with a screen name on it. She tells me that I dropped it back there. That it seems to be a clue, that all that’s required of me is to be on-line at around 8PM; oh, and that the messenger client must also be found. If I do find it, then there will be no yellow on the other side.

She left it at that. “It’s up to you. Eight O’Clock, remember.” My girls asked what she was talking about, and what she handed me. I memorized her screen name, and discarded the piece of paper. I told the girls that it was nothing, a piece of paper I didn’t need. On the ride home, we stopped to have diner. Burgers and shakes for the little angels that don’t care to eat much of anything these days. We reached the house at 5PM. Enough time to bathe them, watch their favorite movie, read Harry Potter, and out by 8 O’clock; I hoped.

That they did. My four ones were down by 7:45 PM leaving me enough time to search around the world wide web for her screen name. By 8:05 PM I had found the correct messenger client to use; very same one I use. I’m a little slow at times. I add her to my list of contacts, and bang, her availability light is green. I ping her: “Hello from the playground.” It takes her some few minutes to respond. I’m thinking that my tardiness has been costly. I decide to get up and get into my PJs: tight briefs, and because I might encounter her, a shirt; otherwise, it would have been just the briefs. Amidst changing I hear the “incoming ping” audio notification. I double up to my laptop and see it’s her requesting a video chat; of course I accept!

Woman laying in bed with laptopShe’s laying face down on a bed. Waves hello and asks what I thought about the playground. I replied that I didn’t really get a chance to think much about it, that it was all consumed by bodily reactions.

“Are those reactions presently the same? Stand up, show me.”

I’m far too shy, but knowing that distance separates us and we are just a click away from canceling the conference, I stand up, wrap the briefs around my aroused emotion and show her the reaction of what she’s done to me.

“You are a big boy, mister, aren’t you. I want to see more where that came from.”

Now, I’m no dummy. I didn’t get through grade school for nothing. This is my chance to reach some sort of agreement. We go back and forth debating a fair trade. I say that because she’s got quite a few more parts that engage consciousness than I do, that she should have the final say. The woman, for God’s sake, wants to see my buttocks, and thighs. So, I’m obliged. I turn sideways, draw my shorts down to my knees while using my right hand to cover what I can of little me, and show her my thighs and buttocks.

“Yippee, you’re a cyclist, aren’t you?” She asks.
“That deserves, hm, let me think. That you see, well, I’ll show you my chest, maybe even down to my navel”, She says.

She’s a “C” cup, in my infinite wisdom of women’s size, I gather she’s a 32-C. Perfection trapped in a chest. She’s full, perky, and by good, I release my hand covering me, and I pop out in full display. She disappears for a second to turn the lights in the room on and better situate her laptop. She stands in front of the camera and, God shows no mercy! She doesn’t have a six pack, but if a flawless figure was ever created, that woman had it.

“Where is hubby?”, I nervously blurted out.

“He just had his tongue right down here”, touching herself and putting it in her mouth. “But, he’s gone to work now. Why do you ask about him? He’s gone and I want to play.”

I leaned back and did what any decent man would have. I put both my feet up on the desk and began to stroke.

“Ooh, and here I thought I had to give you more of an incentive to let me see that much. But, it would be better if that hand was my hand. I could even use my lips and you could”, pointing the camera to a tattoo off of her left hip, “suck me a little.”

She adjusted the camera to where I could see her crotch. She had enough cushioning there to withstand the thrust of numerous ravaging men. Whatever the yellow tights showed, was exactly what was present: a meaty feast as a treat.

I apologized to her for the short “date”. I had to close the video call and run. One of the girls awakened crying and needed comforting. I slapped my shorts on, ran into the bathroom, washed my hands, and called on my fatherly duties. It took some twenty minutes, but when I returned to my room there was another video-chat notification awaiting response. I opened it, and it was her. She was nude again asking me to see me climax, that she enjoys the view of a man spewing about.

I think to myself that this is the most action I’m going to get in the near future. So I again pull out of my shorts. But instead of removing the shorts, I pull it out the bottom. I’m look up at the screen, she’s position her buttocks towards me, legs spread out, while looking through a mirror back at me stroking gently. She shakes her buttocks, and massages herself. I can see details I haven’t seen for quite some time. And the size of her persona sticking out between her legs isn’t leaving room for imagination. She’s chunky and imagine plush to the touch, that had I my way with her, my mouth would wrap around her to suck and lick until, even my nose, became covered in her secretions.

I finished all over my shorts. Moaning and grunting, telling her that I wanted to come to the park, take her in a private area and leave what I’ve left on my shorts, stuck between her legs. She turns around, tells me to wait, and sends me a picture of her face down on the bed, leg flat, spread to the side and she is covered in semen, some of it on the bed, some of it on her thighs.

“Was that what you had in mind?”, she asked.

We chatted for a while longer, the entire time I stroked as if looking to climax again. She agreed to be naughty if I dare find a babysitter to come smell her scent and eat from her dish. The date was set, now all I needed was a sitter, because the will I had. I had an arousal expecting to wage a battle that it willingly wanted to lose.

And here it is said that the playground is kids play. Nonsense, nonsense…

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Laundry Matters

For the past twelve years, each Monday and Friday, I leave work precisely at 3:45 PM; a full hour and forty five minutes ahead of schedule. It is the start of my arduous journey home. One that I willingly undertake, not because I enjoy the means to the result, but because I’m entirely consumed by the end result. The trip is two part: a one hour metro ride followed by a forty minute bus trip. The hope is to reach my destination at precisely 6:15 PM. If, and only if undetained, a feast culminates the journey. I have arrived late enough times to know that the week, nor weekend will be the same if I don’t reach the destination promptly.

It’s laundry time at my residence, and while one might find my affinity to laundry undesirable, it must be taken under consideration that the allure of pieces of garment on the floor, tumbling about in dryer, even the sound of water being battered against clothing in a washing machine suffocate my reason. I’m sure this “fetish” of mine has got to be in the DSM-IV manual somewhere. So it stands to reason that the uncontrolled urge might be misunderstood by many. Still, I must head home… to do the laundry.

Today I’m running late, and I’m in a foul mood with myself, work, the tourists slowly walking on the wrong side of the street, and the rain. I can not afford to miss today. I was haunted by irrational imagery of articles-of-clothing throughout the day. I wasn’t able to work, and the work I was able to complete was nothing more than hand drawings, all related to dirty clothing. I drew boy-shorts, brassieres, socks, cotton tank-tops, even sweat pants. I was so consumed by my drawings that when the alarm alerted it was time to depart, I had forgotten where I was and what I was being paid to accomplish. I kid you not, the alarm is the sound of clothes tumbling in the drier.

Man in bike rushingMy heart ran off palpitating as if a 100 meter-dash sprinter forced to multiple all out gallops. Damn alarm! I haven’t began the race and the sight of clothing being separated into mounds of related colours gives me dyspnea. It is time to fight the multitude of tourists, as well as the uncountable number of taxicabs preventing free passage across the avenue. As it’s happened many-an-unfortunate-times in the past, I miss the first train by some seconds. I grow filled with distraught and nearly go into hysteria, but the soothing thought of clothing being tossed around the washer clears my mind. I set off to the pay-to-ride bicycle shop at the entrance of the terminal, hop on a bicycle, rush to the bike lane to speed down the avenue towards the next terminal. The entire time I pray for a sound train-traffic-delay between stations to allow reaching the station on time.

Upon reaching the pay-to-ride shop next to the train station entrance, I jump off, release the bike to cruise on its own towards the next fellow waiting his turn. I run towards the train counting my blessings. Ha! Graced I’ve been by a kind universe. The “B” line is being held up midway to the second stop by train traffic; some unfortunate fool is being arrested for mooning an elderly group of tourists… they won’t be forgetting this trip anytime soon. Nevertheless, if the holdup continues, it will be impossible to reach my destination at precisely 6:15 PM. I can’t wait for the creepy fellow to be taken away. Train flow must return to normal! I pace about the edge of the platform, tap my feet on the concrete, even tap my finger on my wrist-watch wishing that the tapping would break it, in consequence stopping time from moving on without me.

The man is taken away; trains start to move, the “B” identifying the train is first out of the tunnel… it stops, opens the doors in front of me, and everyone boards. I can’t help but to notice I’m twenty minutes behind schedule. I’m both disappointed and mad. Nothing but divine intervention will help me today. I wish for everyone aboard the train to be clothing-less so that their attire isn’t a reminder of what I am about to miss. I try closing my eyes not to see who is wearing what, but I’m only prompted imagery of what I will be missing at home. I want to cry. I slightly bang my head against the perpendicular handlebars in frustration. I don’t make it a habit to curse, but after such an ordeal, I felt compelled to. So I look around for a good recipient to my expletives explosion, and find just who I’m looking for.

I look at him dead in the eyes. In my mind I look at him in the eyes… because he isn’t really looking at me; but were he, a struggle for stare-dominance would ensue. After finding my victim, I close my eyes, and think of all the bad language which I will lay on his ears. There isn’t one thing I don’t repeat at least five times. I let him have it as if I were President Bush attacking Iraqi oil fields. That doesn’t help any. There isn’t consolation for what I am about to miss. However, I now feel guilty to have soiled an innocent man’s day with out the aggression improving my day any. I shrug my shoulders, mentally apologize to the fellow, and proceed to bang my head against the handles again. Damn be this day! I should have not gone to work. In fact, tomorrow upon reaching the office I will ask again to telecommute on Mondays and Fridays. I’ve asked enough times; maybe the request may be granted.

crowded bussTime moves on ever so quickly. The twenty minutes behind in schedule increased to twenty two. My only hope at this point is for the buss to be nearly empty so that less stops have to be made. That hope vanishes, and quickly. The bus is standing room only, just as always. There isn’t a possibility to gain any time. Actually, lose some is more appropriate. As many riders as allowed by the law squeeze inside the bus. I am among the last.

Ride long I pray, I even internally cry a bunch. I can’t believe my luck. I am going to miss laundry day. I begin to perspire, feel light headed, I just need some air; I need some space, I need to reach home. At the next bus stop I disembark. I board a cab in an act of desperation, agree to pay thrice the amount the fare is worth, and ask that the law be broken to get me home in time. He would have sped away, but during rush hour speeding gets one behind another vehicle just as fast as abiding by the law. At least I’m not stuck in a bus filled to capacity. But now I find myself with too much time to reminisce about all the years I’ve enjoyed helping with the laundry. Though I also think about the days that I didn’t get to enjoy them. Smiles are interlocked with sobs of the soul. I ache for the missed opportunities in the past, but I rejoice for the ones that didn’t escape me.

My house is visible from a distance, and looking down at the watch, we have gained time. I am just twelve minutes behind. Enough that there is a possibility to reach the house before the day is a total loss. The cab pulls into the driveway, I already have the over-payment on my hands. I toss it on the front and run into the house. Unlike any other day, the door is unlocked.

I run into the house in direction of the laundry room. I struggle to remove articles of clothing while running just so that I can place them in the appropriate clothing mound without any more deterrents. I get there fully nude, then I see what awaits me. I am out of breath, my heart races to help in my recovery, I smile, and stare at each article of clothing, but this time not the pieces laying on the floor, but the ones on her body which I am about to slowly remove. Woman hinged at the hips from behindShe is late to do the laundry. I don’t care why! Of all the days she could have been late in the past, none was she, but today. Today she is here, hinging at the hips, legs locked straight, her shorts deeply caressing her skin. The pronounced lines of her hamstrings alluding to the feast for which I struggled to reach the house.

I do as I have every single time in the past. I reach to the top drawer on the table outside the laundry room, grab a lubricant she keeps just for Mondays and Fridays to be used explicitly on laundry day, slap it all over my engorged desire, and massage it nice and gently. I return the lubricant to its place, then reach for a blade sitting beside it. I walk in. She welcomes me hello without moving from her position, I grab the blade, pull the top of her boy-shorts at waist-level up away from her skin, and cut a slit on it. I proceed to rip them off her butt… can’t fully remove them as the rip is uneven. The shorts stay hanging from her right thigh. I stare at the beauty of her physique. I swallow hard! She asks if I want to help with the laundry. “YES”, I reply in rejoice. I take my position behind her butt, lean over, kiss her back, stand erect, position my boy in the best of spots in the entire world… my hands I place on her waist, and you can imagine why I rush home on laundry days.

It slips right in, she takes a deep breath. “I’m a dirty girl, I need a bath” is the last I recall before forgetting the aches of the heart that came about my lateness. “Oh… how tight” I murmur…

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Whispering Galley

All I knew about the city was that it was loud, overcrowded, and distant to those who chose not to frolic amongst the skyscrapers. I was on my first year of law school attending a prominent college in the upper west section of the overcrowded island of Manhattan. I hated every second of it. It was a daily reminder of the world passing me by. Each night the laughter of residents returning to the dorms spoke of times I wasn’t to have. I chose to study, to push immediate gratification aside because I believed that hard work now flourished in the future. So when winter break reached campus, I chose to leave behind the reminding agony that was being in New York City. I grabbed my few belongings, said “hasta luego” to the empty dorm room, and rushed out in desperation to Grand Central Terminal.

It was impossible to feel more desire about leaving Manhattan than I felt during that taxicab ride to the terminal. Paradise simply awaited me at the other side of that metro ride. I did not even wait for the cab to come to a full stop; I opened the door, jumped out and ran to the ticket window to purchase a train ticket back home. The next departing train wasn’t for another hour: enough time to cry, to leave behind my sadness before boarding the metro.

Opposite the ticket window was a ramp that lead to a small foyer. The perfect place to go release my frustrations, I thought to myself. I put my head down, reached the foyer, looked around, didn’t see anyone; I leaned against one of the four corners damming my life, eventually began to cry. Call me ignorant, if you will, but when I heard a voice coming in my direction from the corner itself, I thought that I had died and met God. He had a soothing voice, understanding, seemed to know my desperate plea for schooling to end and the good times begin. I looked around, yet there wasn’t anyone in sight… except for that fellow at that other corner diagonally from me. He seemed to be in the same mood as I. I ignored him, and leaned towards the corner again to verify if the voice was still speaking.

The voice asked that I not become startled but, that I should know that he’s been standing at the diagonal corner for as long as I have been weeping, listening to my sorrows. That the sound of my voice carried by some form of architectural marvel caught his attention while walking by. I came to weep at Grand Central Terminal’s “Whispering Gallery”. This square foyer actually carries voices from and to diagonal corners. I turned around to see him waving at me. I returned to the corner embarrassed, still talking out loud to myself; which my voice again carried up the corner, to the ceiling, diagonally across it to the other corner, down to his ears where he again heard me.

He introduced himself, expressing that he was willing to carry out a conversation with me through the corner, but would prefer if it could happen face to face. I gathered myself, agreed, then greeted him at the center of the foyer. I had already been laughing in nervousness. I apologized even for things that weren’t my fault; such as his horrid shoes. He laughed… just laughed looking at me as if I were a lost Middle America girl in too big a pond. He was on his way to a dance audition right there in Grand Central.

Within minutes of meeting him, he had convinced me to attend the audition with him for moral support. We walked upstairs where a big “echoey” room opened up. The music was already playing. A female dancer in the center of the dance floor moved in manners that would make the math infinity symbol proud; I gawked. We watched her dance for the duration of the song, about 4 minutes. When the song ended, the girl called out his name: Andre. He looked at me, asked to wish him luck, took his overcoat off, and by God, I wasn’t dead. This was the first time I had been alive while in Manhattan. He was the typical Latino that we in the Midwest hear about yet, never meet. He was nothing short of a man. The music resumed, and they commenced this terrifyingly harmonious seduction of one another. I had never witnessed anyone make love, let alone with clothes on while dancing.

Visions of John Travolta in the movie “Saturday Night Fever”, when he became angered over the theft of first prize from the couple which he deemed most deserving despite he, himself having won the competition, floated all around me. I felt like John Travolta did. Mad that although I was leaving with the price, I knew that I could never do what she just did to him. The music ended, he kissed the girl on both cheeks, bowed, and approached me. I stupidly jumped on him, climbed off, pushed him, and pushed him again… I cannot believe you dance like that, I said. “My shoes don’t seem that horrid any longer, do they?” was his reply.

I came to learn that he was a non-practicing lawyer. He rejected an awaiting position before the offer was even made, that he graduated top of his class from the very same school I attended. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. Instead he became a software architect… and self-taught Latin Dancer. The audition he just had was his foot into a Latin dance traveling company. I shouldn’t mention it, because it’s obvious but, he became a member of that dance company.

My life was never the same from then on. I never did make it home that winter, either. I spent it with Andre. Amongst the many things he taught me during that first winter together, dancing was the absolute best. During that cold December to January school intermission I stayed in bed every day waiting for him to come dance with me after work; and, did we dance. He didn’t give up his day job despite being part of the traveling dance company. He was able to work remotely when on the road; never missing a beat. However, I did miss him the chunks of time he was gone. Not only did I miss his body pressing against mine, but missed him as my study partner. The man remembered college courses as if he were attending classes. He made the next few years of Law School possible to bear.

I graduated near the top of my class. I missed the top by a few grades because I chose to repeatedly give my body to him that last semester instead of studying during midterms. He was in town for a brief period before departing yet again. I don’t regret it! I felt blessed… naturally. The perfect man I had stumbled upon during a depressive episode of my life; there was nothing I wouldn’t have relinquished for him. I, as you know, went on to work at a relatively successful firm, married him and have enjoyed each day as if the very first day we met.

I’m sorry it has taken this long for you two to meet, but you being gone overseas for so long has its drawbacks; as not knowing where you have been for a decade. You should have known my story years ago. Let’s have one more cocktail while you tell me your story, then we can go to my house to wait for his arrival so that you can meet and see what he’s done every Monday night since he and I met. I’ll tell you what he does, then you can tell me your story that you seem eager to reveal.

Every Monday after work, after dance night, he arrives with a bouquet of roses, and a garbage bag filled with fresh rose petals. God knows where he finds them. The bouquet he hands me after we are finished being intimate, along with an apology for his transgression of staying out later than he should have. The rose petals he tosses around me on the bed, on me while I’m asleep. I am awakened by the feeling of running lips through my bare backside. I’m already moist before fully comprehending what’s happening. He devours me without mercy or care. He turns the lights on, opens the blinds covering the ceiling-to-floor windows for the world outside to see inside, then returns to bed and intoxicates my body with his lust. He becomes what he isn’t at any other time. I am tossed about like a doll, pierced through every orifice given to me. When done, I’m covered in him as if he hadn’t climaxed in years and it all came out at once. I’m dripping out of my mouth, my face is a mess, my chest displaying it as if a custom crafted necklace. I throb from both the front and the back. Sometimes it takes up to a week for me to stop feeling the discomfort not felt during the entire event. And… the smell of our copulation coupled to smashed rose petals… is a thing of fairytale.

Don’t be embarrassed tonight. I am loud, very! Especially during Mondays when he misbehaves. You will hear me. I will climax multiple times, and most of the time he’s being rather lewd in vocabulary. It enhances it all… so I believe, for me at least. If you happen to hear me asking for help, don’t. Sometimes the thrust hurts so good that I find “help” to be a suitable exclamation.
I’m sorry, I know you want to tell me something. I’ll cease about Andre.

Well, Jess. You and Andre have found something… I wish I had. But, after tonight, I think I have found someone that might make moving back stateside, here to New York City, worthwhile.

I met up with you late because on the way here the cab stopped in front of this little place called Flamingo’s. There was enough time to wait before we were to meet, so I decided to go inside for a quick drink. It’s been opened not 3 weeks. It’s got live music, people dancing, affordable cover-charge and drinks. I met this gentleman that can lure Satan out of decadence and into the grace of God. I don’t give myself to anyone I don’t know. No I don’t. You know that. Even as a kid in undergrad I didn’t commit such a crime. But tonight, I tell you, I’m freshly arrived from a night of debauchery. My undergarment is thoroughly saturated. And, wait until I reveal why and how. You’ll be wet as well.

I went in, this man saw me, approached me; I liked him instantly, the type of connection that is found once in a lifetime greeted me hello. The world around us was pushed aside by the tunnel vision that connected us. We spoke for no longer than an hour before I found myself on the second floor of the venue listening to foreign music and being seduced by that man; out in plain sight! I didn’t care if we were caught. All I cared was to feel that connection while intertwining myself onto him. Whatever I knew about lust, intercourse, plain old adults at play got erased tonight.
Listen carefully because I think I’ve come up with a life altering fact. The difference between love making and sex is connection. Regardless of what is done during the act, be it rough or not, bound or unbound, it is about a connection that makes impossibilities possible, makes it all shared.

Don’t interfere, Jess. Let me finish. It’s still fresh on my mind and I want to relive it by telling you the story. Live it with me! He grabbed my hand and brought it to his crotch to feel him aroused. He was thoroughly engorged. Filled all the way to the very top. Part of it stood outside erect, touching all the way to his belly button displaying a glistening head. He didn’t have to pull me down to meet him because upon sight I dropped to my knees, unbuckled his loosely tied belt, unbuttoned his pants and attempted to swallow all and everything I could.

I would have won an Oscar for that performance; two even. One for best female actress, and the other for best supporting actress. I led, controlled him, and took my turn being controlled and directed. I wasted little time trying to engulf him with my mouth. I couldn’t take it all in, but the part I could, caused me to gag. I have never felt girth that far deep in my mouth. I enjoyed it. It felt natural and I wish I could have been able to consume it all. But I wasn’t, so I tried to be as brutal, loving, playful, hurtful as I could. I wanted to give him any and all reasons that he had ever desired to burst in my mouth.

I crafted my lips onto the head making him believe that my mouth was forged just for him. My tongue massaging the shaft… that were I Swede it would have been considered their trademark massage. I traveled his crotch as if an explorer in the new world searching for riches. I gave and gave with the sole intention of forcing bliss out of him and directly into my mouth so that if I left never meeting him again, I would leave with parts of him inside of me.

As it worked out, he forced his pelvis away from my facial thrusts, grabbed me, the devil knows how he pulled one of my legs out of the slacks, tossed me atop one of the tables face down — Look, I’m not lying, only one button, the top one that was already unbuttoned survived his pulling apart of the blouse. When I landed chest first on the table with head looking towards the left, his hands reached to the top of the blouse in the front, with a swift pull to the sides my breast came face to face with the table. Shirt completely opened, breasts exposed. I get tickles thinking about it.

He could have easily penetrated my desire apart without little effort… he could have. But, instead of thrusting his pelvis separating my anatomical muscles aside, he pulled my undergarment together from the outside-in right down the middle of my buttocks. I welcomed an assault of his tongue, lips, and teeth on each cheek making other more sensual body parts jealous of the attack not being experienced by them. I would have climaxed had he remained exercising his will upon my butt cheeks longer. The stimulation ran through me fast, hard and for long enough to feel it in my G-Spot. Then, then… he pushed the panties to one side to place his tongue directly on my delight crafting each letter of the alphabet, in both lower and upper case, teaching me the grammar from which I spelled out “TAKE ME, ABUSE ME, I THROB”.

I enunciated the phonetic sound of each letter of that alphabet clear and loud enough to create the language of sheer longing. I told him I secreted only to feel him inside of me. “Don’t be timid, don’t be timid”, I said in a low voice with my face still looking to the left side, cheek flat on the table. Timid was the last thing he was; he turned me around and situated me with my back flat against the table. Grabbed both my legs, put one each on each of his shoulders and climbed upon me. My pelvis was raised away from the table. My undies were still on, his member pressed against my underwear moving about… teasing me.

He reached over with his left hand, slid my undergarment to the side, and with a single precise forward shove of his pelvis, pushed aside all my longing to have him inside of me. My expectations of being unable to fit all of him were true. Yet, the repeated piercings into my body forced me to give way to all of him. I felt his pelvis meet my crotch, feeling his sack smack against my rear. It soaking more and more each time it collided against me. I was a wet mess; still I’m, a little. Because of the volume level of the music, the collision of his body against my saturated being wasn’t heard across the venue as it should have; as I wish it did. I wanted everyone in the hall to know that man had weakened every muscle throughout my body.

He looked me straight in the eyes, returning that tunnel vision upon us once again. The room went silent, I forgot we were on the second level of a music hall laying flat on a table with my legs spread apart, and a man shoving his whim like no one ever has. He didn’t give me time to respond, not that I would have declined anything, regardless of what it could have been, from him but… his voice was orgasmic. I came, Jess, I came.

He told me that he would pull out. That he wanted me to hold my undies to the side, to keep it in place while he finished dispersing through me all. I held it in place as he asked, and I washed him stroke. His strong hand moving up and down with surgical precision until he spilled out and onto me. He used his member to smear it around. He smacked me with it, which raised a chuckle out of me. He lowered my legs, climbed forward on me, and had me lick him clean. He tasted like a fantasy come true; tasted like a meal I hadn’t been served in a lifetime. He kissed me, softly, very softly while still touching the result of me and him over my undergarment.

He stood up, smelled his hand, and left me his card to contact him next time I’m in town — I think I shall stay in town!

He left before I did. I remained on top of the table for a few minutes collecting thoughts about the event. My chest was still exposed, as was my lower body. I sat up, looked down at my saturated-with-his-residue panties, touched them, pushed them to the side, touched myself, and brought the finger into my mouth. I wanted to savor him and I together as one.
I got dressed… slowly. If no one had walked up there during our interactions, no one was going to come now. I walked downstairs; the bouncer looked at me when I got down to the bottom step, and said: “Honey, you’ve lost all the buttons of your blouse.” I acknowledged him, thought to myself “Well worth it”, then said goodbye.
So, Jess, that’s why I was late.

Shut up! Stacey! What? Stop, stop! You didn’t!

We are late, Andre is about to reach the house. Finish the story in route.

Yes, Stacey. We also have an expensive car along with a few other commodities. All resulting from that initial encounter at “Whispering Gallery”. I’ll bring you there in the morning.

Get in; let me see the card he gave you.

Jess, I left it! I left on the table at the venue! We have to return to Flamingo’s to get the card. It’s on 21st street and 11th avenue.

I know just where it is. It’s not two avenues from here. We’ll get there quickly. I drive slow and reckless so brace for a joyride.

It wasn’t there, Jess. It wasn’t there… The bouncer was still at the bottom of the staircase where I last saw him. The card wasn’t where I left it. No one has gone up there. I must have dropped it on the way here. I’m depressed.
We’ll have a few drinks at my house. You can tell me the story again. I enjoyed it.
Stacey, wake up. We’ve arrived.

Lovely home, Jess. Money has granted you much to be happy about.

Sit, I’ll prepare you a cocktail. Rye or wine?

Jess, apparently you still are naive; my panties are covered in a man’s residue, and you are asking me to choose between wine and rye? Wine is for pretty girls who want to feel sophisticated. Open the rye, I want to feel my throat burn.

I’ll pour three glasses. The extra glass is for Andre who should be walking in any second. You need to wash up. Go walk around the house you’ll stumble upon one of the eight bathrooms in it. I’ll wait for you at the dining table. I want to hear more about this fellow, what he looked like, what did you guys speak about. Everything I want to know.
Your home is fantastic, dark too. What’s with all the boxes?

I don’t know. They are Andre’s. I don’t really ask. Anyway, tell me more about the Flamingo’s man.
He’s tall, but not too tall. Maybe because I’m short he seems tall. Sort of modern male business attire; no tie, dark pants coupled to a vibrant button down shirt. The type of shirt that when the cuffs are pulled back they are a different print than the rest of the shirt. He was slim, not skinny, but slim. Oh, and a great ass. I grabbed his ass when he was in my mouth, and the hardness and plumpness gave me goose bumps. You know that back home males have very little back there. The ones I’ve been with… at least. His was also very thick!

Jess. Really! Now, please. As if every male in Manhattan walks in full bloom for the benefit of horny women. You can keep the details to his other physical appearance to yourself.

He had a full set of hair: jet black, shiny and slicked back. It was sort of long. When he was leaning over me it fell down over his face. I enjoyed watching it bounce around. It gave me a running description of how hard he was thrusting into me. By-the-way, just when I was washing in the bathroom, there were globs of it still all over. I tasted it again. A bit darker complexion than you and I. Still a white male, but not snow white type of a man. Lush eyebrows with a beard, not a thickset beard, nor scruff. Somewhere in the middle. The hairs from his moustache irritated my skin down there, around my inner thighs. I can’t see my buttocks, but I suspect it did there, too. My skin is so sensitive. Did I tell you he bit my left cheek? He did!

Andre’s here, Stacey. I think I heard the garage door close. I’m asleep by this time any other day. He’ll be surprised to see me, to see us. Finish your drink; we’ll go greet him by the front door. I’m going to turn all of the lights off. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Sh, sh, he’s going to open the door and turn the lights on. Wait until he sees us.

That night Jess’ life fractured. Upon Andre’s entrance to the house wearing sort of modern male business attire; no tie, dark pants coupled to a vibrant button down shirt. The type of shirt that when the cuffs are pulled back they are a different print than the rest of the shirt, hair glistening and slicked back, holding a bouquet of roses and a bag filled with rose petals, she realized that Andre was the man who saturated Stacey’s inhibitions. Jess drank the rye she had poured for Andre, and proceeded to toss it in his direction. It shattered against the wall, part of it flying towards Andre, cutting him across his right eyebrow.

Andre had never expected that during his Monday night rendezvous he would run into another Middle American girl who as life had it, was to be found in his house hours later. There was little chance for explanations. Stacey’s reaction fully revealed that the man who can lure Satan out of decadence was standing before them; a married man, husband to her childhood friend.

Of that night much isn’t said, remembered, other than the image of the once flawless bouquet of roses, now withered lying on the floor, accompanied by a bag of dried rose petals that the wind had scattered about.

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The Venetian Hotel, Las Vegas Nevada
It’s no secret that Las Vegas, Nevada is an overplayed bachelorette destination. But, that is precisely where I’m taking my girls. Not one of us has ever been there, and well, I plan to make it memorable even if it lacks creativity. There is seven of us making the trip. Our stay will be at The Venetian, one of the better known hotels in Vegas. I’m looking for an old world charm in a place where sin leads to heavenly creations. I understand that the financial impact will be costly, but I don’t care. This event has been in the works for two years, and now that is time to have it. I want it to be where I want it to be, cost me even a slap on the face. So, The Venetian it is.

It’s May 29th, the day of our flight, and the party has already started. The stretch limo sounds like a chicken coop with the compiled voices of seven excited woman reverberating throughout. I’m trying to leave all the creativity for Vegas, but this skimpy bridal gown doesn’t exactly scream prudence. I have a feeling that I’ve started something that I just won’t regret doing. My girlfriends are the coolest bunch of accomplices anyone could ever encounter. So, we’ve all purchased trashable-mobile-phones that can only be used for texting, and phone calls. There will be no capturing of graphical memories from the “hen night”.

Mid way through to the airport, most of my companions are mildly under the influence of B52s, though I think the shots have been mostly kahlúa. I am not drinking, my wit is as sane and alert as it can be. I don’t want to miss a second of this here journey. Upon arrival at the airport we are rushed to the terminal because the plane just happens to be waiting for, specifically, our party. I think we might have been running a few minutes late. Our suitcases are checked for proper safety, then brought to the gate with us. Someone takes them from the plane door of the Boeing 747 to load in the cargo section. He’s very cute. Had I me hands on him…

We board the plane, find our seats right on the “business class” front area of the plane. I’m row A, seat 2. I want to be on the isle, looking forward to check the cockpit. I’m a fanatic of planes and purposely selected A2 so that I can try to view the flight from where I’ll be seated if the cockpit door is left open. I’m more excited about the possibility of being allowed in there than I am about the bachelorette party.

Emergency instructions are presented to the passengers, the plane takes off, it levels out, I am ready for the five hour flight. The crew welcomes our party, and congratulates me. We are served more drinks as if needed. I take my drink, but leave it untouched on the tray. I am just too excitement about being so close to the front of the plane that I can’t concentrate on anything other than the thought of the door to the front-control room opening. I can hear my girlfriends chit chatting about the plans for the first few days. I’m glad they are here to worry about all of it for me. I am mostly concerned about making the view from the cockpit memorable, the rest I hope is a blur.

A quarter of the way in to the flight a few of my girlfriends are already asleep, those awake are rowdy enough that the crew members need to settle them down. The captain comes out to greet the passengers. He notifies the cabin that the door to the front will be open for sometime, anyone wishing to view the front is welcomed. I wait quite a while, no one comes up to the front. I presume that not everyone appreciates planes as I do.

Pilots in cockpit, mid-flightI’m apprehensive about coming to the front, so I take the drink that’s been sitting on the tray and gulp it. It’s encouraged me to stand up and head towards the cabin, I knock outside the door, the flight attendant sees me and comes over. I inform her of my obsession with planes and that I would like to view the goodies piloting the plane. She tells me to wait that she’ll inform the captain. Soon enough I’m looking at the sky ahead of us, the captain welcomes me aboard. We exchange small talk about my plans in Vegas, my chosen dress for the flight, and the controls all over the cockpit. I’m as excited as a teenage girl attending her first dance. He stands up from his chair and asks me to please sit down and “take” the controls. I’m jumping about like I’ve won some sort of price.

Sensual Bride in CockpitThe two other “pilots”, the first, and the second officer look at the captain in disagreement. But, I still sit, put my hands on the controls and instantly become saturated with lust. I would have exploded were I not a human being. I clench my legs, tightly closing my thighs as if it could help prevent further desire from seeping out of me. I’m uncharacteristically shy, I feel that if I get off from the seat, spots of my reaction from touching the sidestick controllers will reveal my wants.

I look back at the captain, he notifies me that it’s time to return to the cabin. I take a deep breath, stand up, quickly look down at the seat and sigh in relief. There is nothing to divulge that being in the front of the plane aroused me. The captain grabs my hand, and leads me towards the entrance to the cabin. Before we arrive at the door, I stop, look back at him and tell him that I’ll be at the Venetian in Vegas. He takes down my information and tells me he’ll meet me there. He escorts me to my seat, kisses my hand goodbye and returns to his duties.

Minutes after, and a few drinks to feel daring, I head over to the cockpit again. The flight attendant fetches the captain, he greets me outside where we engaged in flirtatious dialog, after-which he leads me inside the cockpit. I close the door behind us, and quickly remove the skirt from my “wedding” gown. He stares me down in deep thought, then walks to the front, delegates flying duties to the first officer and walks back to me. I push him against the wall next to the second officer and kiss him. I go for his belt, but he holds me back to unbuckle it himself. He slips out and I grab it with my right hand while using my left to place his right hand on my bottom.

I jerk him slowly. I’m an addict for the feel details on a manhood; I can spend hours caressing the engorged body. The first officer puts the plane on auto and stands up to have a view of us. I’m kissing and stroking… “I bet the two officers are staring at my buttocks”, I think to myself. The daring tease, even if shy, I am. I turn my back to the captain, slide his penis between my inner thighs and hold tightly to my crotch. I grab my undies, push it to the side, stare down the gentlemen looking at me and grind my crotch on the captain’s manhood.

The captain tries to insert it in, but I say: “no, no, not now.” I continue to slap my buttocks against his pelvis secreting on him. Down below at my crotch his head peeking out is visible. I reach down for it, push the head up and slip it inside of me only to jump off of instantly. I turn face to face, squat down and put him in my mouth. His hands reach for my face, but I slap them away. I’m the only one controlling how much “richard” goes in my mouth. I play around with the head sucking the sides and running my tongue on the tip while my hand pulls back the skin on the shaft to ensure I see, and suck all I can on the tip.

I’ve always found it meritable when sucking a sizable man to self sooth; my left hand reaches down, I pull apart the lips with my thumb, and index finger and proceed to rub my clitoris. The plane hits a single disturbance and it goes deep into my mouth. But, I don’t gag. I lost those reflexes long ago before this very moment. Even the unintentional shoving into my mouth goes unnoticed. I retrieve him, look up at the captain and slap his penis against my lips.

“Captain, care to share?”, I ask of him.

There wasn’t a need for a response, both horny fellows zipped down and quickly. They were much more to write about than was the captain. So much so that I debated trading partners. I wish I didn’t have to bypass them, but the captain, well, I did enjoy his size. In time of need, beggars can’t be choosers. I place the “Cappy” back in my mouth, grab each boy with each hand to jerk them. Have you ever had a feel of three men? One on each hand? The other in your mouth? You should try it. It’s less of what you think it is, and more of what you don’t think.

I’m versed enough swallowing whole that I can look to the sides to check how the fellows are responding to my hands. They are enjoying it, but not enough. So, I release “Cappy” grab the fellow to the left and gobble him for a few mouth fills, likewise I do to the follow to my right. Were I more daring I’d want to swallow the outcome of this venture from all three of them. Yet, I’m here to feel “Cappy” inside of me. I turn around to give him my back. He is allowed to go inside of me to fulfill his whim. He grabs my hips with both hands and slows in entry until his pelvis meets my buttocks.

His body slops against me increasingly harder making it difficult to stroke the officers. He slams against me, bouncing my body about as if going through turbulence. It’s much a joy, the sound of clashing bodies, the sound of wet vulva against a penis, the sound of jet engines flying at over five hundred miles per hour, and the sound of making the three of men enjoy me. It would make anyone lust into climax. “Officers”, I say. “I’m going to turn around, you can remove my underwear. I’m going to lean, spread my legs, put my hands against the wall, and you will finish, all three of you, wherever you desire. Smack your penises against me. Let me feel them hit my vagina. Don’t forget that the ass, too! It wants to reach sin city covered in prayers. I’ll return to my seat counting my blessings, leave the prayers written on my skin so that I may read them and smile about what you’ve done.”

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Crouching Obsessions

It’s the middle of the spring season. We are being blessed by one of the most beautiful afternoons of the past decade. I sit outside absorbing the sun while watching insects fly from flower to flower in the multitude of budding beauty.

The picturesque scenery accentuated by the aroma of newly blossomed flowers remind me of all the women I’ve met. The very same many woman I never intimately experienced. I’m sure with them, too, a garden could have been built. But, that wasn’t to be. I’ve been raised with a fist of morals that prevents me from breaking religious dogma. I’ve come sinfully close to breaking vows of chastity; I’ve never faltered. I haven’t faltered because of a lack of desire, but from the belief that a relationship should be consummated under the blessed sanctity of matrimony.

My girlfriend sits across from me. Her tight yoga pants and fitted shirt flatter her figure. I wonder if she personifies how Eve must have looked, not solely in beauty, but in purity. Surely Adam wasn’t phased with my uncountable difficulties of the 21st century. He and she alone, nude in the garden could have only led to world population, while me, well, who populates my own home from the many I’ve met?

I believe she is the one, sitting across from me, my wife to be. I know something will happen today. Just as innocently as it has all the previous times with many other candidates. Will this time be different? Will I go through with it, or fall back to my morals? I don’t know the outcome, yet. But, it will be answered soon.

The sporadic warmth of summer carried by the breeze alert of the imminent heat that will blanket the region. Just as it alludes to my longing for her. We normally walk hand-in-hand but, today I walk backwards ahead of her. Purposely so to look at her Lululemon’s yoga pants that reveal much more than possibly intended. They grasp her like I wish I had the decadence to do yet, I’m at peace with my decision to look, salivate, and dream.

Back at the car, I can’t contain not seeing her full potential. I sit on the back-seat behind the driver’s side. I direct her to sit on the driver’s seat, to lower the back rest, and raise the steering column as high as it can go. I’m fully aware that I will be controlled by my morals; nothing will happen. The next best thing is to do something I haven’t in quite sometime, I am to self gratify to her persona. See, there is quite the gratifying feeling accompanied to gender in Christian Credo. I’m the man, and she is somehow, well, mine to have, even if haven’t or never do. Even if I don’t understand the reason behind my supposed control.

She sits on the driver’s seat, lowers the back-rest to just where I want it, then I ask her to remove the yoga pants and underwear, to place her hands down by the pedals and her knees on the lowered back of the seat. She looks back at me, agrees, asks if today we’ll go through with it. I decline, telling her that if we are to be, the time will tell.

Woman on front seat of carThe pants come off, she struggles to position her body as per my request. I fail to help her because I’m stunned by the sight. I got my hand on my penis, my lip caught between my lips and I’m stroking for salvation. I feel nasty, but to repent won’t be an option. So I look down at myself, guess that I need moisturizer and I willingly spit right on the head. She’s still struggling to find a comfortable position, but not I. I found mine. I’m looking straight at her thinking that I’ve entered McDonald’s and ordered a double quarter pounder with cheese. I’m salivating at the thought that all of her, right there in front of me, is erupting between her legs and will be mine one day. I’m obsessed and lusting! I’m not sure if the obsession and lust are among the many sins we are warned against at church, but by God if she’s got sin between her legs I want to die in hell. I switch to my left hand, stroke, switch back to my right and beat it equally the same. I can’t stop looking as the anatomy of her vulva triggers wars of misconduct against reason. I don’t stare, I examine her vagina as it molds into the perineum leading to her anus. That’s what I pause and pant, looking at the orifice; unaware of any scripture indicating that I can not have her right there in the very spot where it’s impossible to bear children.

I beat, I choke myself all while asking for her to spread a little more for me to admire more of God’s work. I want to see more, more than just the outer body. I want to see what is closer to her insides. I want to see how it leads into her vagina so that one day I can grab myself, place it near the gates of heaven, and burst inside. I wish I were close enough to smack her right in that meaty section taunting me as if a vice for which the cure is more intoxicating than illness. Her skin has various tones as it goes in and out of places, as it forms parts of the body that should be for all to see.

She is part of the salvation God secured for the advance of mankind. It stands in display like a lone vibrant rose, waiting for me, away from everyone until it’s time to be had. I increase and decrease the speeds at which the strokes glide down the head, onto the shaft. I want to spank that bottom, bring it here, I tell her. “Slide it down the head, fully feel the shaft, all the way to the base”. But, I quickly rescind the order and say “no, no”. Now I’m beating down on myself with my left hand while shoving my pelvis forward trying to create as strong a collision as I would have against her bottom.

The car is jumping about as if something was really going on between the two of us. Still she struggles to remain comfortable, the blood rushing to her had turns it red, she asks if I’m through. I tell her to wait, to wait, and if she can be naughty enough to touch herself… Out comes her hand, she holding her torso with her left elbow, her hands run down her ass to her vulva, she spreads and tells me to sin.

I ejaculate expelling sings of life far and away. They collide against my chest, onto my belly… all over my hand many drip. I continue to stroke as if the end of life was near and salvation was brought on by semen. I didn’t want to stop, but had to. I laid there, with my hand on my manhood slowly stroking it… in a daze looking at her as if she’d just drugged me with a meaty feast. My eyes are closed. I see myself contorted behind her. My knee rests against the backrest of the driver’s seat; my right foot is stretched out on the floor; my body is twisted to the back and to right; my tilted forward looking down at my left hand as I grab and run myself down her anus, down to her vulva with enough friction to slide aside her lips leaving traces of me behind. I quickly open my eyes and wish it were true…

I know that God will reward me in the future. She’s my reward, for the love of God!

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Park & Ride

Prior to the fall of the housing market some years ago, my life was both difficult and simple. The thought of losing the lap of luxury kept me engaged at work. I was abreast old and current market trends always looking to be a step ahead of everyone. The difficulty of staying viable at my job made the rest of my material life simple. What I didn’t account for was that the same place that sustained my livelihood was deteriorating at the core. The greed at the helm was playing gambling games with fake money, just as they were with other people’s finances. In turn, the world came tumbling down taking with it my security.

Savings disappeared in less than a year trying to maintain my status. I watched in much desperation as my possessions were taken away to be auctioned off at a fraction of the cost. All I had was a fridge half filled with old groceries, and a bank-book taling to zero. The desire of corporate America to hire someone at my salary, position and age simply wasn’t there. “You are as good as hired, we’ll call you upon confirming your salary”, was the normal response from HR recruiters who never did contact me.

One night I suddenly awakened covered in sweat. I dreamed that I was being pulled out of my flat by the police. The landlord and lawyers laughed, holding up my bank-book pointing at the zero in the total column, mocked me. “How far have the wanna-be’s fallen”, they repeated constantly. In the dream, I was driven to the Park & Ride off of exit 57 in the Expressway, and told I had no place to live. Confronted with the reality that I will lose the roof over my head, I had to act as severe as was reality. That’s the part that awakened me.

Young Pretty Woman in Driver's SeatIn the morning I took a cab to the Park & Ride. I sat at the waiting station for about 3 hours wondering what I was to do to prevent any further financial difficulties from taking place. I dressed as if going to work on a casual-friday; brought an empty briefcase just to mesh-in with the everyday worker. After three hours I gave up hope. I could not find the meaning of the dream, nor an answer to preventing the last of my world from crumbling. I stood up, looked left, looked right and when about to walk in the direction of the taxi stand, a young woman pulls up next to me. “How much”, she said. “How much what?”, I answered. “Listen, I’m clean. Young, pretty, have money to pay you. Why in the righteous world would you assume I’m an official trying to pick you up?”, she replied.

I still hadn’t the faintest idea about what she was talking. I looked puzzled and walked away, still she pressured on.

“Listen, listen, get in the car. I’ll drive you to wherever you want. Just get in”, said she.

At this point I had little to lose. My life wasn’t worth much, so losing it would likely be the better option. So, I hung my head low, looked in her direction, and reluctantly agreed. I boarded the vehicle, and told her to park. That I wasn’t about to let anyone drive me anywhere. She laughed, telling me that I could stop the games. She pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills from her purse.

“I’m not looking for just anyone. I want a regular, someone I can come to here at Park & Ride and know he’ll be here, and even if with another, will stop and come to me.”

“Hm, I’m listening”, said I.

“I come here twice, thrice a week, some days more than once a day. I pay cash. My husband is a two-timing scum, and this is how I will return the favor”, said the young girl.

“You are too young to be married, and if you are asking me for sexual intercourse, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that”, I said.

“Why are you here, then. I’ve watched you for the past three hours and you’ve sat there waiting for someone. You don’t look like the rest of them. You don’t run down, tired, broke, homeless, nor bisexual”, bluntly said she.

“Rubbish, you don’t know anything about me. What you should do is go home to your parents, give back their money and repent”, was my response to her.

She continued laughing, tossed the money on my lap, jumped on the back-seat and said, “Look around, it’s no secret why people who don’t have to commute come here.”

Park & RideI looked around and it all instantly clicked. The cars that stopped in front of me all that time were trying to figure out who I was and what I was doing there. I wasn’t dress the same as the others, so they must have been scared off, and not requested anything from. Now I know why people of all sexes and types went into cars yet, the vehicles never moved. The Park & Ride had become a sex shop.

“Do you request, or do I do?”, I asked her.

“Today, you do. Whatever the $500 will get me”, said she.

I didn’t jump on the back-seat, instead I opened the door, walked to the back door and went inside. She looked nervous, very nervous. Now, not only did I lose most of my material possessions, but so did all the women who frolicked with me because of my financial abilities. I hadn’t been with anyone in the past six months. Because of depression, however, I wasn’t really that much interested in the pleasures of the flesh. I really felt like a “no one” without the cash to flaunt.

Now, this young girl laid in front of me. Long hair, slim, well groomed. She couldn’t possibly be in her late 20s yet. What was she doing married? Now looking to repay her husband for his transgressions! Well, his present was mine to have. Of all things I miss the most, well, is the tender touch of a woman’s secret against my mouth. Hair, cleanly shaved, groomed, even medieval has never been a concern. Just the touch, the taste, the view, the aroma entrenched upon my lips once done. That’s what I enjoy, and miss most.

To have my lips and tongue entangled in struggle for pleasure where I might not be the recipient of a climax, but I feel as if I were the winner. I approached her closely, pulled down her shorts midway to her thighs and took a prolonged look at her underwear that was visibly moist. The middle part rode up on her… I grabbed it and pulled it out for her. She smiled. I proceeded to pull it to the side to take a close look. She was very well groomed, shaved in most of the area except a line about two fingers wide that went from the mouth of her vulva up about two inches or so. The hair strands were visible manicured close enough to the skin, but not too close. Just perfect for her, really.

I leaned forward and kissed her just at the mouth of vulva. She was soft, very soft, supple, flawless skin, colourful, and most rewarding, the moisture touched my lower lip enticing a goosebumps-reaction from my body. My tongue escaped me quickly and slid right between her inner labia. The desire was solely to taste her, to experience this young woman. I traced my tongue around to gauge both my comfort after such long departure from the secrets of the body, and her willingness to let me lead.

The shorts came off of her, as did her underpants. The skin on her legs was as enticing as was that on her crotch; a piece of white paper had more blemishes than did her skin. From her navel down to her toes I stared at her in awe of this Godly-sight of perfection. She looked down at me with shy yes, but the grasp of her teeth on her bottom lip indicated she was well aware of the effect of a tongue soothing away her husbands iniquities. However she came about this “eye for an eye” decision, I was delighted that it was me who she selected. There was truly no payment required for my “services”, it would have been payment enough to swallow my own saliva mixed with her saturation.

It was quick thought, knowing what I was to do. The lengthy absence of female touch during the last months of my life indicated that I was to consume her; being that it was also a financial transaction, I had to ensure her side of the agreement was as fruitful as mine. I pull her feet up on the back-seat, situate my head between them, slide my hands under her buttocks and position her to my liking: her bottom raised some few inches from the ground. There aren’t any obstacles interrupting my mouth from easily contouring through her.

The plush of her lips against my lips causes sighs, deep breaths from both of us. She is more than a mouthful, plenty a woman. The moisture on her indicates that she was no stranger to the game; that she is well aware of what she likes, and what it means. Readily engorged, she honestly looks as if having just had naughty moments before finding me. I swear that my lips feel the palpitation of blood rushing through her body from the touch of her lips. I delve straight to her left inner thigh. She smells freshly bathed, as if she just out of the shower, where the scent of coconut-cream soap refuses to leave behind the touch of her skin… stays behind to rejoice in the secretion that is about to obscure it.

I position my hands so that the thumbs are able to trace from her butt forward to her vulva. I press deeply, running them along back and fro as if massaging her, all while my lips trace the soft of her skin from inner thigh, around her outer lips and up to the other inner thigh.

Before I have a chance to fulfill my whim for her skin, she grabs a chunk of my hair, lifts my face up and says, “That’s where that warm tongue belongs”, then proceeds to shove my face against the vagina as if looking to shove me inside of her. Had it been a fight for my life, I would have fought back, instead, I attempt to lick her best I can. The most I can do is move about exactly inside of her; thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a creative tongue, and quite the unusual ability to sustain a few minutes without breathing.

When she finally releases my head, her hand comes running to my face and slaps a sweetly good smack on my lips. She cleans my mouth as well. Then, releases me to proceed to my liking. She’s unaware that I enjoy forceful play. The smacking, the biting, the scratching, even suffocation. Not that this will lead there, but her slap of my lips only urges my longing. I go directly where she had asked me and clench between my teeth soft enough where I can pull up on her outer lip without painfully hurting her. I pull up, then release and follow the receding lip right down to gorge her as if a piece of large watermelon.

That’s just how it feels, the moisture about her vulva has saturated my nose, mouth, chin and is dripping down to her perineum. I use one of my thumbs to circle about the wet area, just to help it along to her anus. I circle it, trace it about, circle it again, still tracing the anatomy of her vagina yet to tame her clitoris. The movement of her pelvis down against my thumb assures me that tracing isn’t just what she likes. I move right to her most sensitive of areas, suck it onto my lips and massage it with my tongue. She pushes down on my thumb causing it to pierce inside.

I’m thumb is inside of her, my lips and tongue tangle in a fight for pleasure against her clitoris, and with the same hand piercing her anus, the index finds comfort in the warmth of her vagina. I don’t move my hand, I leave it still… the movement is coming from her. She traces figure eights with her pelvis while grasping my head by the hair. She’s gone into recital of pleasurable lewdness. Nouns escape her tongue as if unleashed from eternal captivity. She continues to pull my face up by the hair, and shoves it down onto her crotch.

She’s now moving her pelvis incoherently-rapid in short motions. Her hand shakes against my head, and she calls out “eff u cee kay” in both verb and noun form, repeatedly. I don’t change a thing, I continue to the exact same motions as I had believing that if I change, it’ll stop whatever she’s feeling. So I continue the use of my tongue around her clitoris up and down quickly and controlled. My fingers still inside of her holding in place to withstand the motion of her pelvis against them.

She’s breathing heavily, and pulls my head up, squeezes her legs against my face, looks at me, and tells me to get the money and leave the car. I pushed her off of me, turn her around and spreed her butt-cheeks to the side and tongue, bite her butt, slap it, and massage again with my tongue over and over. It calms her immediately. I have my mouth tongue pressed against her anus so strong that had it been any stronger, it would have easily pierced through. She moves her hips again, this time side to side, her belly lifted off from the seat as if begging for more.

I put my hand on the low of her back, press down on it and slam her against the seat. “Now I’m leaving. Come back tomorrow, double the payment. You’ll hurt for days after I’m done.”

I walk out the back door, reach in to the front door to grab the payment as well as belongings when she peeks out the window and asks, “At what time?”

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Expectant Desires

Pregnant Woman in UndiesI wish some sort of definite answer explaining the enjoyment I feel from looking, from touching, from copulating with an expectant mother existed. But, there isn’t one. I’m left to speculate, to search from reason A to reason Z; each probable answer sounding better than the next. So it is to reason, at least for me, that a most favorable location to indulge in my, well, shall I call it fetish, is the Destination Maternity.

The neighbor’s wife is close to her seventh month of pregnancy. Her “glow” has been apparent from before it was properly revealed that she was expecting. There is just that, I don’t really know what to call it, about a pregnant woman that causes her to light up as non-expectant women can’t. Personally, it has to be caused by the her aura notifying the world that a miracle is about to happen. She, my neighbor, and I have become good friends. I even revealed my feelings about pregnant women to her. She’s received them quite well, even takes me along whenever she knows there will be other women for me to gawk. She’s like one of the boys, expect pregnant.

Today, luckily, she is in search of swim outfits for pool season. She’s asked me to tag along to Destination Maternity to help her choose a swim outfit. I honestly believe she purposely wears revealing clothing for “kicks” about my reaction. I can’t control my body, I’m not that versed as of yet. I become easily aroused when I see the shape of the growing breasts against a maternity dress; more so watching the belly protrude as if crafting a niche for the breasts to rest upon.

From the rear, oh what can I say, those long maternity dresses slide in-between the glutes alluding to the final destination for my anatomy. There is a beauty to the body that in my limited years of experience in both life and partners, I have solely found through a woman’s pregnancy. All about the body becomes accentuated. It’s as if speaking a romance languages with all its idiosyncrasies that turns speech, well, romantic. The rolling of the “R’s”, the tilde master-izing the “n”, the accents on the vowels. Oh, watch a joy to watch the capitulation from the body of a woman carrying a developing offspring.

Leave no doubt, my attraction is not limited to the effects on the female body, but that of my imagination chasing stories of what that woman endured from a male to now find herself in such a state. It doesn’t fail ever, for me to conceive imagery of how the act must have happened. Whether it was fast and furious, or slow and steady; even the location and how much she moaned and screamed. It could have hurt her a little, a lot… yet, the result is the same: conception.

My neighbor’s wife has let me in secrets regarding pregnancy previously unknown to me. Some ill received, but a few others, such as her uncontrollable libido have made my desire for them much stronger. Needless to say, I’m heading to Destination Maternity already aroused and expecting to appease this desire of mine to see, touch, be with.. ahh, mothers-to-be.

On the car ride I can’t take my eyes away from my neighbor. I look at her legs, knees, face, hair, the seat-belt as it neatly contours between her breasts. She flirts the entire ride to the store, asking if I like the length of her dress today. “It is revealing”, I think to myself, then proceed to tell her. She says the freedom of the dress when her body is always in discomfort helps her get through the day. But, that she wears it short because she knows that I’m easily influenced by an expectant mother. I lightly laugh, and agree. She pulls the dress up more, then stops to say, “Don’t you wish you could see all the way. You won’t, dear. You won’t.”

We carry on with heavy flirting, enough that my penis has readied itself with preseminal fluid. I can feel it wet the tip. I squeeze my buttocks hard simply to feel the pressure of the penis slightly pressing against my pants. I wait for her to exit the car, then quickly slip my hand down my pants to squeeze with force, and adjust my penis that’s been caught uncomfortably against the pants.

I slow my walk to allow for her to walk just a few shades ahead of me, i want to watch her body sway with each step she takes. I lie not when I say that I desire this woman. I want to be forceful with her, I want to ejaculate inside of her, I want to spank her bottom, I want to watch her insert my penis deep in her mouth and savor it like a delightful lollipop. Despite not having told her so, I think she knows that I want to me more than just her admirer. Even if just for the remaining months of her pregnancy. She interrupts my thoughts by asking me to hurry along.

Pregnant Woman in UndiesInside the store we are greeted by two of her old college friends. They too are expecting. I automatically fall in love with the three. My mind scurries for assumptions of how these two could have copulated to be in such a state. One of them can’t be no more than 5 months. She looks to be the naughtiest of the three. I wonder how the father of the child had his way with her. I can guarantee that she is into S&M, was bound, gagged and repeatedly pierced while being spanked, maybe even digitally simulated concurrently.

I smile with them, but not at the same things, rather at the stories wandering aimlessly in my mind controlling little else other than my lust. Though my mind is thinking of the smaller of the two, I lust for the friend who looks ready for labor. Her wobble brings about visions of her crouching on all fours while I penetrate her from behind. I’m having a lustful time until they nudge me to come over near the dressing rooms for a “male” point of view. All three go inside, each one taking turns showing me revealing outfits. At this point I’m wishing that I were home so that I could wrap my hand around my penis, squeeze it, then beat it relentlessly thinking of these three women.

I’m still blurry as to how I got into the dressing room, but here I am looking down on the friend who is exactly 40 weeks along as I came to find. She’s got me in her mouth slobbering all over me to a glistening beauty. I shine from both the engorgement I’m filled with, and the saliva she’s sucking clean from me. The head sparkles as if headlights flashing on the dark of the night. This continues while I both look down at her making me weak, as I think about what it will be like to ejaculate inside of her.

I think of all the times that she’s had intercourse during her pregnancy, wondered how many different men she’s pleased during her rampant periods of libido soothing. I see her in flashes of intricate and not so intricate positions, her belly in the way of comfort, but still she is willing to handle semen inside of her with little worry of what will happen next. Soon enough I realize that I’ve ejaculated inside her mouth, she continues to suck allowing some to drip onto her nude breast, onto her belly. I tell her that I wanted to finish inside of her, that I wanted that, all of it; to feel the pressure of changes in anatomy during pregnancy to seduce my penis. She stood up, placed her hands against the door of the dressing room, spread her legs, and waited for me. I grabbed myself with one hand, ran my other hand down her butt, placed the tip of the head on her vulva, and shoved in.

It was the first time I had been with a woman that far along into pregnancy. I was filled with ecstasy as I was filled with fear. I was afraid that I would collide into the unborn baby, in turn preventing me from fully thrusting inside of her. I pushed it half way in, alternating between fast and slow thrusts. She asked me to push in hard, not to take it easy. I was so troubled, I was getting what I wanted and at the same time had sights of injuring a baby. I didn’t know how to react or what to say, except that she asked for more and harder.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted, I couldn’t push hard, but… but, I got to feel her. The tight wrapping and soaking I was receiving. I climaxed a second time while slowly moving my pelvis and grabbing her belly on the sides. I still thought of taking more from her while realizing I was unable to fully please her from some inexplicable fear, even belief that I would hurt the unborn child.

When she turned around to look at me, her breasts were still stained with my semen. I used my finger to clean it off her, then she sucked my fingers clean. We got dressed and walked out together. My neighbor and her other friend greeted us, asked me if it was as good as I expected. I smiled and nodded in agreement. I told them that now all I wanted was put them in a row, lean them over and feel each one of them wrapped around me warming my pregnant pleasures. I was still engorged, the lust hadn’t subsided… it only increased.