Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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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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My Bearded Man

Part of my symptomology is a healthy dislike, not fear but dislike of germs. It’s turned me into a habitual hand-washer, groomer of the self. I am indeed, as clean as I look. So when I found myself pressed against the bed by a bearded man reminiscent of the late 1890s to mid 1940s scholarly “clads”, visions of an Elder Hemingway captured my thoughts… even if much younger he was. I felt, in all reality, party of a poem. Young Bearded Man

I was no longer tormented by whatever undisclosed germs entwined his facial hair strands. All I wanted to do was feel his lips traversing my spine with the common interruption of hair against my skin. I came to believe that this man might teach me a lesson, not a sexual one, but one of life experience, one of literacy nature where he’d not only handle me strongly, but somehow manage to make me a character in his poem.

Concentrated solely on his actions I was. Feeling his firm grasp massaging my right and left flanks while his mouth made slow work of my back, enticing my mind to conceive the sort of writing that he’d do with the rest of my body. Then…

My thoughts and reality united by the unexpected sight of his bare chest. I have been raised in a time that sees hair but as repulsive sign of the human anatomy. Hair is considered the uncivilized, uncared disgust of the human structure by those who are in the “IN” of the fashion industry. While it could be argued in support of their views for an organically-grown-out-of-control hairy physique… I argued to support hair, and against current dogma about it simply because of his sort of manicured chest that turned his physique into a rugged, manly reverie.

He infused my society-structured beliefs with rage when I saw his bare chest, then torso down to his belt buckle where the obliques pronounced themselves until covered by the pants. I had been lied to, shaped to believe what others wanted me to believe, but now I wondered what hid at the end of the “V” shaped muscle towards his lower abdomen. There was no time to analyze the perception of the few sold to the many, sold to me.

I could see his shoulders, his forearms flexing as he prevented gravity form forcing him onto my back. This man was built by uncountable years of evolution bestowing upon him the prowess to lure the opposite sex. It had given him allure, seduction, by all mighty God, facial as well as body hair. It had given him a physique desired by any and all fitness aficionados. …and he was right behind me speaking to my skin the way only learned men can muster.

He journeyed towards my rear with the gentle of his lips; the bites to my lower back sending goosebumps up and down my spine. The hairs on his beard touching every part of me introduced me to the unacquainted delights that can only be brought about by masculine hair. I felt intoxicated by the verses, stanzas, and couplets he summoned from within me. I was filled with the need to have this man inside of me. To hear how I sounded completing schemes of rhymes and meters with each inch that delved deep inside of me.

Do you know how it feels to have your hips lifted from the bed slightly to the point where your crotch lifts from the bed giving clear passage to a woman’s wonder to a bearded man? I have! He toyed with me as if I was a writing utensil during a free form writing barrage. His mouth touched my glutes all about and precisely at the center of my attentions. He traced about the orifice, slightly piercing me with his tongue, his moustache and beard running amok upon my rear massaging, enticing, telling me of a world far beyond pre-pubescent ideals. He bit my buttcheek, and not very softly. I liked it, and hoped to all grandeur that I see his teeth embroidered on me so that I could see in the morning that his look of medieval sophistication had more medieval than sophistication.

The enticing of my rear wasn’t the sole consumption he made that day. He kept my hips elevated from the bed while he traced all about my labia, both inner and outer. He would bite my lips with his lips and tug on them as if informing me that this stanza might only rhyme with vulgarities. I loved the feeling of his hands on my pelvis, holding me, spreading me as if a butterfly basking in the morning sun before preparing to take flight. But flight wasn’t to be had…

The bearded man shoved his face into me, his nose touched the orifice of my butt while his lips, mustache, and beard suffocated my belief. He then meticulously lowered his nose from the orifice of my rear end down to the my pulsating being, all while taking a profound breadth as if a pedestrian on a flower garden. When he pulled me up to my knees, and laid down on the bed, I rushed my left hand to clean the moisture I had left on his facial hair. He caught my hand in mid flight shaking his head declining my symptomology. He wanted his beard to remain entrenched in the lust of my secretion.

He called me down next to him, led me to kiss his lips, then down to his chest where I felt for the very first time the difference between a man and a boy. I wasn’t only immersed in his chest with my mouth, but also my hands as I squeezed hard, dug my nails, and caressed his groomed chest. Little by little he continued to push my head towards the crotch. For a little while I stayed running my index in and out of the lines created by his crafted abdomen. One hand I kept seducing the hairs on his chest. Oh how I wished to fall asleep touching this very man.

With one swift push of my head I came face to face with all of him. He maneuvered my head from his inner thighs, lower abdomen, and pelvic bone, to his navel, but never to his engorged body, traced with protruding veins and a glistening head. I wasn’t allowed to put my mouth, my lips, my tongue on it. I even asked to allow me feel him just a tad so, even if it’s running my lips from the tip, down the side and inserting the scrotum in my mouth… a little just to wet him and slightly clench my appetite to feel him inside my mouth.

He didn’t oblige. He ignored my pleas to shove him in my mouth. He simply wanted me to reveal my desire to be seduced, and abused.

For the next few hours I laid beside him, watching him sleep, tracing his lips with my index finger, running my hands on his chest, on his abdomen. I had long ago forgotten about the moisture trapped in my crotch, about the need to feel every inch of his being pushing me to the edge of desire. Now I watched him, wondering how this hairy man came to lay on my bed. How this man left me secreting desire while he effortlessly fell asleep. How he managed to release me of this dire need to constantly wash my hands. I now waited until he awakened so that I could fulfill my appetite by climaxing and laying in bed with remnants of his poem written on my face, lips, chest, ass, and, well, the book in which I’m waiting for him to write his final stanza.


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Satisfying Meal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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For the Neighbors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

68 Weedy Road,
Hunting Gardens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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