Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Dogging it

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I don’t precisely want to come across as some sort of foremost authority in the sex-crazed phenomenon sweeping across parking areas all around the country, as I am not, but ladies and gents, it was much more than expected and I shall be doing it over and over again.

I hadn’t heard of it (the phenomenon) until around a month ago when a friend – who knew slightly nothing more than I did – convinced me of tagging along for some “let’s see what happens” kinda fun. By word of mouth he learned of a kickingly-acitve spot not 30 minutes walk from my home. We decided to heed all possible sexually transmitted decease warning… yeah ok, that wasn’t and isn’t much of a deterrent for the testosterone oozing out of my ears; a time and date were set with much anticipation. Each night prior to the date of the event, imagery of curves and sweat jumping from cloud to cloud kept me awake. Without much hesitation, know that I believe that if it were those images the cause of insomnia, it wouldn’t be possible to label it a disorder.

The daytime wait wasn’t much to have remembered had it not been for the insurmountable anticipation imprinting my thoughts. The sheer vigor pumping through my body during the walk to the destination intoxicated me with the prospect of the carnal fest to be had with perfect strangers. I spoke not one sentence while my friend spoke the entire journey. It wasn’t until after walking back home that I even considered that I didn’t really hear a damn thing he said. I was too happily engorged, too invigorated, too damn fixated by the feeling of vibrations traveling up my legs to my crotch with each step. Every calorie required for any and all mental activity was concentrated in the throbbing in my pants. I was standing tall and ready to spew on or in someone. It was so appeasing that I could have returned home without even carrying out our plan, all because the sensation on my solider was of pure, well, I’ve been had; I might not have even missed bypassing the lust of some stranger dribbling down my shaft, I felt so good. That was the sort of heartfelt lust revving me up that night.

The park and transport was scattered with vehicles. Most were stationed just under post lamps; I reasoned to elicit the most ardent of services. Why else would someone be at full display as if meat hanging form a hook at the market? Head lights, parking lights, inside lights on, off, blinking; windows up, down all the way, half way; doors fully opened, ajar, closed, even locked. It was a Christmas tree spectacle filled with goodies to taste and batter.

I’m an impatient person yet, the thought of missing something too great to have neglected kept me from launching towards it all. I allowed time to let it all simmer. I was just about to climb through the open window of a vehicle with three women spread as if American eagles in full flight about to snatch the pray when the sight staring at me from the corner of my eye stalled my approach towards the tripleta. The figure staring back at me wasn’t just a physique; no sir, it was not, sir; no, it was the scenery that must await every angel at the entrance of heaven. It was one of those structures crafted so tenderly that it instantly becomes one of nature’s wonders. It was figuratively and literally exceptional. Not one, nor very many could have made the slightest, most insignificant of improvements.

As is the case when I’m confronted with superior irrational elation, there was little choice other than climbing the structure to chisel away at perfection with the utter most pleasure of extracting nourishment. As inconceivable impossible sight as that was, is how I stammered towards it. I pushed aside anyone faintly close to my trajectory path; I was about to detonate and the target callously made herself visible.

She swayed side to side; her torso leaned up and over inside the driver’s side open window. Her feet dangling about, at times reaching, others not, the floor. The lines of her calves coming up to meet the hamstrings at the back of the knee pointed upwards to a nearly luminescent yellow panties tug snugly to her figure. I made my way through the crowd that was beginning to surround her, even slapped away the few hands that had lifted her skirt. I drew close, leaned at the waist, grasped her feet, unlatched her high-heel shoes then ran my mouth from her Achilles heel up her calf, to her inner thigh, reaching over with both hands and grabbing the panties; hooking my thumbs just under her buttocks and massaging them until forcing the panties to meet right between her butt cheeks, creating the plumpness of a plum ready to seep into my mouth.

The logical step was to tug a tad bit at the panties to fully sung the piece of cloth to her delicious lady. With my left hand, I quickly unobstructed her by moving the undergarment half way to the left butt cheek. It was done so meticulously that even the aroma that should have stricken me hard and indiscreetly didn’t have a chance to seep into the open air. A few more slaps to eager competitors hands seeking to capitalize on my pray had me on my way again.

Experienced and not, men or women, have not seen this much size, this much joy, this much lip, this much supple cushion creating a vagina; but, because that night decadence shook within me; that pussy was a carnival in a music-less world. It was tightly plush, lips against one another trying to keep secrets from me. Her ass cheeks came down around it caving in creating the illusion of a mitt in receiving stance. Someone took careful consideration into the impact that garden was going to have in those who sew its fruit.

After little consideration, I used my nose to split the lips apart. If any, the sense of smell seems to be the most appropriate of them all to commence this feast. She reached back with both hands and pulled me tightly against her then, released. Her aroma clung onto my nose with scents of devastation speaking to me. They told me to smell, to bite, to suck, to suckle, to finger, to engulf, even to ride my penis right down from the anal orifice down to the clitoris.

I lost track of time, actions, those around me, whether I had or didn’t any help; however, back at home my heartbeat rejected continuous attempts to relax. It beat strangely fast and in total disharmony. My cock still throbbed and the moisture clinging to it and soaking the scrota smelled of her. I insanely stroke it, time and again bringing my hands to my nose to inhale the lust still scattered about. The head sparkled gloriously, in my thoughts from the beating it got, well, at the carnival.

Now, in the AM, sheets with her scent attached them tell me I will refuse to clean them, to bathe myself, to wash my hands for sometime. I want to still feel her against my cock, her joy caressing it, protecting it from feeling alone, soft, cold…

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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