Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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In the Outback

Kangaroos Silhouette Against The Setting SunI’m as much of an outsider to the populated metros as am to their remote and sparsely-inhabited inland. Yet, fate had it to see me become some sort of “tour guide”, an atypical one for the outback… too. The profession fell upon me through my father who moved he and I here when I was a teenager. He sought a world of peace far and away from the hustle and the bustle of consumerism and plutocracy. A self-made mountain-man back at the states, he lusted after the unknown of mother-nature. What better place to experience life than that where God only allows a few to survive: the land of the Kangaroos!

We spent months-on-end in the outback looking up at the stars during the night; gaining knowledge of the area and its people during the day. He built us a small scientific tour company to bring science out to the outback. It was our way of living, yet it took my happiness with it, too. I couldn’t accompany him in that last expedition from which he never returned. The last I heard of him was when he spoke to me through the screen door: “I’ll be back, son… no worries”, he said. The papers had it that a few of the members didn’t make it through the dry season but, I refused and still do, to believe that my dad was amongst the thirsty ones left behind.

The local media got a hold of my story and published it. It led to a major flood of thrill seekers at my doorsteps looking to go deep into the outback where other tourist guides refused to travel. They accompany me with the knowledge that I am not there for them nor their safety. There is always the possibility for one, or all of us not to return. I’ve spent most of the past 20 years looking from my father in the outback. I haven’t stumbled upon anything to build my hopes, still they are as high now as they were when I set out to find him.

Aboriginal OutpostBecause there isn’t a need for cash out here, I rarely ever charge more than food and spirits for my services. Tourists are dropped off for my pickup at random areas where I’m known to come collect water and materials throughout the year. It is also not guaranteed that I’ll make the drop-off times. If I’m not there in a three day window, I won’t be coming back for months; alternate spots must be sought by eager tourists. The few of us who live out here known where and when each of us loners is most likely to pop up.

I’ve become friends with many-a-criminals as I have kindhearts living and hiding out there. They have spared my life from nature more than once, too; which gives me hope that the same fate could have been experienced by my father. To the scattered englishmen in the outback I’m known as “the boy” because of the young age when I began my father’s search; the aborigines call me “unsettled spirit”. So called because of the pain I carry inside that keeps me pressing on and won’t let me die. They, the aborigines, are excellent companions in the dark of the night and the dry of the day. They taught me that while the outback is an unforgiving land, it has a way of selecting who will come out unharmed. No one enters here who can leave if nature selects them to stay behind… if fate cares not to spare their life. My dad could very well be one of selected ones but, that doesn’t mean his life could have been the price paid to stay.

Aboriginal WomanI have not picked up a tourist in my last three stops, a years worth of time I gather. My companion for the past few months, Kora, has rejected my taking on anyone, believing that the nocturnal spirit would have taken my life were I insolent enough to have brought them. The unlucky tourists have all been Americans. The greedy type, not the usual mellow fellows who find a breakage of an appendage time to smoke it up and drink. I’ve obeyed Kora each time. Being a foreigner to this land makes me listen to the people who’ve survived in it the longest. So, the soulless fellows have gone home after a few losing physical altercations with me. I suppose their money gives them the birthright to be disgraceful back at home, but here, in this land, I am the graceful one.

It’s the hottest period since anyone can remember. It’s been so hot that Kora believes we should create a new name for this type of heat. All I’ve heard in the week long journey to the only outpost within a reasonable trek is how the sun is not at all pleased. I am in an honest need for Kora to stop following me, or a few tourists to occupy Kora’s stories. She’s a kind one, but sometimes being alone in the outback for too long leaves one thirsty for verbiage. Oh, she’s at that point.

The night prior to reaching the outpost, Kora alerts me that this group of tourists, three in total, is welcomed in the outback. That I’ll be pleased of this group. I pay her little mind. I’m tired and would like a good night’s rest. She falls fast asleep quickly while I stay awake listening to the concoction of life during the night; more than any before I pay particular attention to it all around me. The fluttering of wings, footsteps drawing closer and walking away into the distance, the occasional thunder, and the whistles of the aborigines communicating in the dark. It was as if my ears were open for the very first time. Kora has been on a steady night-long-sleep. I haven’t slept… anxious for the imminent arrival of sunrise. To keep busy, I’ve been throwing twigs onto the bonfire to keep us warm. I enjoy the crackling sound of burning wood, coupled to the changing colours of both the twigs and the fire, it is as if alluding to the passages of a lifetime in just seconds.

I’ve prepared a meal for Kora and I, she’ll be up soon to get underway. She awakens ready to travel, ready to talk… If I’m not ready she’ll leave without me; not a bad thought at this point.

Leather Bowler HatI’m eager to feel the heat of the sun in the morning, to feel it strike my body until arriving at the outpost where we can ignore the sweat and suffocating weather for a few minutes. I’ve grown accustomed to the effects of the sun. I’m shirtless throughout the day most days… though covered in dust. I wear rubber-bottom cowboy boots and a old dusty leather bowler hat. At night my father’s leather overcoat prevents shivers from the unseasonably-cool breeze. I carry a day-pack with my belongings; not many, but essential for survival out here.

Kora spoke all morning long. She related about places I hadn’t yet visit, and the issues affecting her people. There wasn’t a topic she didn’t tackle. She even spoke of sexual encounters amongst the aborigines and the English.

By the time we reached the outpost, a few Englishmen were already loading two horses. They greeted me warmly, informing me that they were about to head east in my search to ask if I cared to indulge a few American tourists. As payment, these sneaky American mates brought three different bottles of whiskey from Colorado, loads of smoked beef, and dried fruits. How can I deny them with such delicacies brought to the wild! I shall take them, and drop them off in three weeks time at the abandoned post south east of here. They’ll be secure there until someone arrives to collect them.

They are an odd group. Kora continuously laughs at their mannerism… never having seen people like them; more so, men like the two in the group. Of the three people, two are males. The last is a woman in her early forties. The two men are, americanly-so, gay. Very flamboyant, friendly as can be, just as they are fearful of it all. I’m not sure why they chose me to trek the outback. There are far more accommodating guides than me. And, I’m not sure how Kora thinks these bloques will make it out in one piece. The woman stands a better chance than do the two fellows.

There are times when I pick tourists from, and return them to this very particular post. The proprietor, a young widower, allows usage of her horses for a small payment. The payment is of course, my services. Today she won’t be collecting any, I have not engaged in such services for well over a year. I haven’t a need for them at the moment. We are to set afoot for a week through some of the less traveled regions in the outback. The horses, and spending more energy here can only hinder us.

At the post Kora and I get acquainted with the tourists, eat then rest up until sun down. I indulged in too much of the fine spirits brought from the Americas than I anticipated. It was best to wait until I returned to my wits to resume the journey. Kora entertained everyone at the outpost, not hushing until it was time to leave. We are to walk for a few hours into the night. With the full moon it will be less difficult than otherwise. For the entire journey, the two men and the woman walk in a single line holding hands. They follow me and Kora ensures they don’t unsafely lag behind, she holds them tight at the end of the group.

I came to learn that they had selected to undertake this trip as a tribute to the woman’s father who had passed away here in the outback. She wasn’t American as her comrades, she was an Australian woman who’ve lived her entire life in America. Her father came home to rest in peace. He was an aborigine, and her mom was a white Australian. This journey was a homage to her departed father. The two fellows accompanying her were two of her closest friends. They didn’t know what situation they had agreed to undertake. But by the constant yelps and screams tonight… I’m fairly sure they grasp the situation.

Satisfied that we’d had enough of a head start, I set camp by a tree-lined thermal spring. That night I didn’t sleep either. The woman and I stayed awake trading stories about our fathers. She was in delightful physical condition. She appeared like one of them new-age women who spent too many hours sweating while holding strange poses at a yoga class. Her posture was incredibly flawless: standing or sitting. It was joy to watch her shape against the night with the help of a bonfire.

When light broke free of the night, her two companions awoke in an uproar. They had neglected to bring some items of utmost importance with them: digital cameras, music players, and chapstick. Kora agreed to take them back to the cabin, and catch up to us in a days time. I didn’t enjoy the idea of separating from Kora, but did welcome the thought of a quiet stroll through the outback without her. We agreed on a convening location: the mound of Birrahgnooloo, due south of our present whereabouts.

Scarlett was her name. As talkative as Kora was. I learned, at times ignored all about her. From life in college to becoming an author, she spoke of it all. I even learned that she’d only been intimate with one person: her high school sweetheart. When her father passed away, she became depressed… eventually abandoning him.

I walked ahead of her, often having to stop awaiting her slow gait to catch up. I’m not used to babysitting in the outback. It’s hard to wait on someone. It was midday, terribly hot, and it was time to eat. I set down my day-pack, instructed Scarlett to stay put until my return. I was gone close to two hours hunting a meal. I had to skin, gut and cook the three rabbits. I didn’t want to expose her to the outback faster than needed. When I returned she ate the meal not asking what it was. I assumed she preferred not knowing what it was.

I said little during the meal, but watched every move she made. My sight was fixated on her sweaty white shirt. Her breast attached the shirt speaking of full meals and pleasing sounds. She noticed me looking in her direction. She bashfully tugged at the shirt between her breasts and apologized for the sweat covered body. “Nonsense”, I exclaimed. “Sweat is part of the outback. You’ll get used to it.”

The continuation of the trek was somewhat peculiar. It was the first time that a female tourist probed into my sexual behavior. She was curious about how I managed the urge to be satisfied out in the wild. Who, when, where, how… when was the last encounter and with whom? Do I and Kara share more than a friendship? I had no reason to answer. It’s not habitual of me to reveal personal facts to strangers. I purposely disregarded the conversation; not because I ignore that I desire as much as the next primate but, out here in the outback many things entertain a person, many other things that I find more important than lust.

She wasn’t as secretive about her desires. She revealed details about her sexual preferences. What she didn’t and did like; how her monotone experiences sparked the curiosity in other men. She’d been a good girl, never deviated from her husbands ways, though often wondered about any and all the possibilities being missed by the limits of a lifelong partner. In her 40s now, she was ready to delve deeper into her sexual persona. All of the hard work on her physique was specifically for naughty purposes. Her belief was that feeling good about her appearance would draw a dormant personality. She would then have no quarrels withstanding the unknown of a controlling brute during intercourse. She’d handle it all, yet be able to fight back enticing more pleasurable-aggression from him.

Much of the sun was already under the horizon, only about a fifth stood short preventing the night from taking over. It was either pushing through ignoring hunger to a more suitable spot not two hours ahead, or listen to Scarlett who insisted we stop to bathe in the temporary lake that’d been created during the big rains up ahead. I reluctantly agreed. I was about to set off to hunt for our next meal when the sight of Scarlett undressing out in the open prevented my departure. She walked passed me into the water as if I weren’t even present. I turned to watch her walk into the lake, knee deep. She hinged at the hips right before my eyes. I wanted to forget about the next meal and consume her to my whim. But I didn’t. Instead I tossed her my knife, my whistle and asked her to use the whistle if in need of help.

I was gone for close to an hour, returning empty handed. I was far too distracted by the thought of Scarlett leaning over with her back to me. The slight changes of skin tones her body projected as muscles weaved and shaped her physique, just as did her anatomy, intoxicated me. I spent the majority of the time pondering the feast to be had with her. She made me forget about nutrition as means to survival. I desired her body as supplemental to nutrition. I licked and bit my lower lip until it throbbed. I could imagine her taste as it turned into my vitamins and minerals.

Stranahan's - Colorado WhiskeyScarlett had opened a bag of the smoked meat I received as payment from them, along with packaged goods she had been carrying. She looked to have had quite the meal. I opened a bottle of the Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey, sat on the floor and watched her gaze into the imminent dawn of the night. She wore a pair of ripped jean; the pocket mesh was coming out of one of the openings from where the colour maroon of her undergarment was visible. She had a fashionable safari shirt alluding to her inexperience in the wild. I drank, stared, and wondered if she thought to be in the Australian Exhibit at the San Francisco zoo.

While looking up at the sky, she asked if it could get any more beautiful. “Breathtaking they are, those very little suns suspended faraway in night of the sky. I’ll start a fire to lay beside where we can rest the dark away by counting stars.”

Magnesium starters are invaluable. They can start a fire in the thick of snow. Out here, a quick swipe and Scarlett rejoices about the little flames coming from the gathered twigs. She sways her hips without much need for music. I watched her lower body move, wondering if she would be as savvy when in my grasp.

By the onset of the night Scarlett and I sat adjacent to each other throwing sticks in the bonfire. We’d lay down to stargaze until it was time to refuel the fire. Only when a shooting star sped away in the distance would we comment. It was very quiet; enough to hear each other breathe. We took turns feeding the fire until she fell asleep. I got up to ensure there was enough supply of wood to keep it burning until the morning. I didn’t go to sleep right away. I walked about the edge of the lake listening to the nocturnal life satisfying their thirst.

Eventually I returned next to Scarlett. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but it must have been fairly quick. The next thing I recall is Scarlett shaking me awake. A howling dingo nearby scared her sleep away. She did not want to stay awake by herself, nor did she want to return to sleep fearing the dingo. I stood up, grabbed the Stranahan’s, took a big gulp and said: “What do you suppose we do in the middle of the night if not sleep?” She approached me, took the bottle from my hands and placed it back my day-pack. I wasn’t to have any more of whiskey that night. She refused I drink any more.

Scarlett again probed into my personal life; asking if Kora and I engaged in adult acts. I ignored her once, twice, thrice and again I ignored her. It wasn’t until she asked me to sit on the floor that I understood the severity of her constant inquiries. I sat on the ground facing the bonfire. Legs stretched out towards it. She stood between my legs and pushed them to the sides. Button by button she opened the Safari shirt, which she left unbuttoned exposing her bare chest to the howling dingoes.

Gab of woman between inner thighsShe wasn’t as deliberate removing her jeans; those she pushed down easily without having to unbutton. They fell to the ground with the same rapidly-fluid motion that my mouth opened. I wished for endless lightning to cover the starry-sky providing the necessary light to admire every detail of her form. I wanted to see the maroon undergarments pressed against silhouetting her intimate persona. I desired to see the opening created between her crotch and upper inner thighs when legs are held together. I wanted to see the outback through the opening.

I was told to unbuckle my belt, to unbuttoned my jeans, and to pull out. I did not anticipate her candidness, nor was I about to let her command me, I grabbed her right arm pulling her down atop of me. She straddle around my lap, telling me that she that the hard welcome was a joy. She tried to stroke me, but I refused. I wanted to engulf my lips with her breasts, run my tongue throughout the sides of her neck, even reach towards her earlobes to feel the soft of her skin against my tongue.

Her opened shirt gave way to the most supple, yet pleasantly-firm-to-the-touch chest this side of the Glosses Buff. I became instantly infatuated by them. I crafted my mouth upon her upper torso as a skilled artist would upon his canvas. The desire was to ravage her yet, the soothing touch of skin on her bare chest against my lips prevented it. It enticed me to comfort my desire with gentle maneuvering of her breasts.

The outback surrounding us hushed down to perfect silence. It all except the crackling of wood burning away in the bonfire intently listened to her and I. Dingoes, footsteps, chirps, whistles nor the wind interrupted our dialog. The still of the night gave voice to the sound of her desire, the sound of my lips against her skin. It hurt to stop the feeling of her nipples gracing my tongue, but I sought to kiss Scarlett… just Scarlett. And that we did, we kissed; at times aggressively, others gently. She’d exhale into me, I’d exhale into her. It was no more than the exchange of desire through breaths. I would have inhaled every last breath of her passion that night, had it been perpetual.

During one of the moments of aggressive kissing, she reached down, grasped me with her left hand, lifted her body and slowly lowered herself until I was fully covered by her innermost sensations. She released a slow and steady “ah” that prevented us from kissing until her wits returned. Her hips remained immobile… simply holding me steady, embracing me as if sheltering a storm. I felt the contouring of her insides pressing against me, just as I felt the saturation gradually sipping down until my scrota was covered. Her chest pressed against mine yielded glimpses of her heartbeat as it accelerated and decelerated calibrating the rush of blood throughout the organs in her body.

More eventful it didn’t come to be. There was no movement of her hips colliding against mine sending the splash of wet skin against wet skin through the desert. The most vibrant sound in the outback that moment was that of our lips kissing, of two people losing reality in one another. We remained in the same position consuming our lips until she climaxed. She struggled to kiss me at that point… she did managed opened-mouth contact against my lips coupled to moans sprinkled with sighs. I didn’t respond. I stood still waiting for her to complete the experience. She climaxed longer than I have been used to. Her expression revealed through hints of the remaining fire was enough for me to end our adventure at that point. Yet, when she finished, she looked me in the eyes and ask that I too finish inside of her; to moisten her need to be with that rugged man that didn’t respond to anything or anyone.

The sound of her voice drove chills reached every digit in my body. I opened my mouth and struggled to express what I felt. I tried looking at her, tried looking up, tried to restrain the pleasure from saturating the night. It proved impossible. She looked down at me smiling…

The fire had gone out; remaining was our bodies next to one another, totally free of clothing. The early frenzy of outback life welcoming us. It was time to press on to meet Kora, but not before tracing my hands throughout her physique.

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Club House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sunset Room

These many years of physical attraction between us in the office and it is now that I conceive the courage to act on my feelings. I sat across from her, staring intently at the movement of her lips as she articulated what was going to become of my last day in the company. She spent the most time on my compensation package as if I cared about the two weeks of wages for each working year; at my hourly pay I’d have enough for lunch for the next two days.

I welcomed every ticking second of the period she spent talking. It afforded the time to carry out my plan. I sought to go medieval on her. I wanted to appease the bubbling desires demanded by my id. I no longer felt unconscious energy operating on my urges, it was a blatant conscious feeling by now. Each enunciation formed through her lips bubbled more “id-pulses” in me. Taunting me that If I waited much longer she’d be forever gone from my life.

She stopped the monologue to ask if I had any questions. That if I didn’t, she’d ask for my immediate supervisor to come into the office. I shook my head rejecting the offer. She picked up the telephone, dialed my supervisor’s extension, and my heart sunk. I was more coherent about my thoughts than I was about her question. I meant to prolong her monologue but instead shortened our last interaction to where it might be impossible to sooth my boiling id.

She must have seen my physical reaction because she canceled the call and small talked for another while. She appeared concerned about me. Gave me a few articles and websites about depression, and the like, along with a hot-line number if I ever felt like talking to someone. We spoke of my time with the company, of those things I enjoyed as well as disliked. When we touched upon the topic of people I would miss, about those I would contact, the hairs in my spine stood up shooting waves of shivers through my body.

Business Woman Walking AwayThe blinds were closed; I gather for the purpose of hiding the tears of the “Sun-Setted” from the public at large. It took a minute of silence before she stood up from the desk to open the blinds; talking about how sunlight can help deter sadness. As she pulled down on the chain that controls the blind height, I jumped out of my chair pressed my body against her back, and attempted to lift her skirt. She stepped away from me, turned around and slapped me. I pushed again towards her to only encounter multiple slaps with both hands right across my face. I didn’t care that she was slapping me, I moved forward, closed in on her, threw my right hand in front of her raised left arm about to slap me, and pulled her towards me. We caught one another right on the mouth. I tried to kiss her, she looked to the side… a few times until finally giving up the fight.

Both of her hands grabbed my face, she looked at me, took a deep breath and asked, “why now? Why here in the office after all these years?” I didn’t answer. Instead I leaned her against the exposed glass of the recently opened window, and lifted her skirt to reveal the unobstructed view of a progressive woman stating that underneath the business attire and, behind the prudent demeanor lived a world of cravings. She wore nothing that prevented me from seeing her feminine affection. She wasn’t pileous to any extent. It was evident that she needn’t to worry about “manicures”. Instead, the natural shaped of the cumulative nearly-same-length-hair-strands traveled down and diagonally from very low in her abdomen until meeting at the cusp. The pattern reminded me of an upside down Christmas tree with my star waiting to be grasped at the very top. Even Santa Claus had never been this kind towards me.

It was a surprised to realize that she disguised her natural aroma with fabricated fragrance. I had always imagined her scent made specifically to attract me. I found myself crafting escapades of lips in harmony hoping she would promptly yield her true persona. I traced her lips with my tongue, biting her lower lip, inhaling her breath, palming her face from her left cheek to the back of her neck, my left arm pressing about her inner thighs slightly touching the back of my hand against her delight. I enticed her neck, earlobes, even biting her chin… dipped down to run my lips through her clavicles.

During the interactions of our tongues, she managed to tell me that she feared being at work, being caught by her boss… that her nerves would prevent her from enjoying me as much as she should. That she was struggling to impede appropriate conscious behavior. I was already in the Sunset room, so I cared little for either of our inhibitions. I dropped to a knee, pushed her legs aside, reached between the legs with both my hands grabbing each one of her cheeks with each one of my hands and pressed her forward onto my mouth.

She cursed the all too popularized four letter word, bowed down and with both hands grasped a full set of hair. Not only did she grasp, but she pulled me away detaching my tongue from its rightful place just to look at me, to look at herself readily reacting beyond her expectations. She pulled me into her again, holding my hair in a painful grasp while maneuvering her pelvis to the exact locations she wanted appeased. She came down close to my ear, instructing what was expected. She disclosed the speed, direction, strength and locations which she wanted to be pleasured.

My hands were instructed for one to trace the buttocks down the center and press against the orifice there found, the other was asked to trace a path from the back down to the front and pierce inside. The tongue and lips were to wrestle appetite out of her with each clitoral stroke. Whenever the finesse of my tongue faltered she’d shove my face harder against her crotch. A few times cutting breathing passages quite successfully.

I ignored the rule to have both my hands participating independently in nearby areas and pulled my rand hand up towards her to feel her mouth engulf my index finger. She whispered moans that could have triggered premature ejaculation, but I held strong, thought that I had to use my working hand to devour both the front and the back. My thumb enjoyed her warmth, the moisture that had saturated her crotch and my indexed pressed firmly in the rear.

Her thighs got a hold of my face, both my neck and jaw found the restriction disagreeably intoxicating. I didn’t care that for a period of about 30 seconds my jaw bone was forced skewed as it was never intended to be, nor that air couldn’t find a free pathway to my lungs, just as I didn’t care about the contorted state my neck was held. She pulled my hair sending cries of scalped cowboys through the Sunset room. Have you ever heard a woman talk through her climax? I never had until I heard her expressing the precise moment she climax. How she wanted me to continue on the very spot, taking the very same uninterrupted action. My mouth was pressed tightly against her, then she slightly released… Her scent rushed through my nostrils down my throat and into my lungs. I’d been taken to the garden of dreams where each petal of every flower smelled like divine intervention.

She had willingly chosen to hide the lure of her lust behind fabricated fragrances… leaving it to the lucky few, today me, to discover.

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Persian Tea Room

For years I frequented the Persian Tea Room during lunch breaks from work. I’d visit it twice, sometimes thrice weekly. They had the most delightful tea anywhere in the area, coupled to a middle eastern cuisine left me wondering why I did not visit the venue all week long. Typical to this region, the waiters were all men. The serious and direct type. It was all business to them; never making small chat, not even to someone as myself who frequented the restaurant for such prolonged period of time; even the host was an unengaging fellow.

Then one day the place became overrun by estrogen: two waitresses and the host, all female. Part of their attire was a hijab, which left me rather impressed. I had never figured that covering of the hair painted such alluring sight. The look of deep meaningful eyes staring back in my direction excited me more than any of the naked women I had ever seen staring back at me. To improve the matters, the females were more pleasant and far more amicable.

The division between the male and the female staff members was palpable; the tension, well, I ignored as the women’s beauty was far more engaging than the shunning they appeared to be receiving from the men. Females cared for a section of the dining hall, while the males cared for the other. It was soon enough that I noticed the sitting pattern, so I waited for the precise moment to enter the restaurant which led to being sat at the same table time and again. It would have been easier to ask but, somehow I felt uncomfortable doing so. I’m not a shy man to any extent, which leaves me believing that I’m respecting enough of cultural differences that I would be troubled to let “chance” take its course.

Woman wearing a hijabIt was always a joy coming in. The decor was pleasing from the monotones “modern” look of just about it all in the area. A sure welcome sight to feel the vibrancy of the restaurant with it’s middle eastern background music and aromatic spices emerging from the kitchen. The hostess ensured to greet me in a joyous tone each visit. It was as if she was delighted to see me. She would also come by my table, pull a chair and small chat. I never even had to wait, always ensured to have the very same table. A dramatic difference from the follow who used to show me to my table in times past.

It wasn’t just the hostess who became friendly with me. It was also one of the two new waitresses who cared for the table in which I sat. Number 12, that was the table in which I sat. It also happens to be my favorite number. She and I developed more than a waitress-client relationship. I would say we became good acquaintances. She stayed longer than required at my table, conversing about life in general. She’d tell me about her life, and I about mine… about the joy that it was for everyday to come spend an hour of my life in her presence.

The appearance of her olive skin coupled to an incredibly spotless white-teeth-smile resonated in her colourful eyes. Looking into her eyes gave no reason to wander elsewhere. It was her who I went to meet every visit. All the vitalizing characteristics of the restaurant were opaqued by her eyes. I tried valiantly not to signal that my desires followed her as she moved from table to table.

Episodes of debauchery replaced line items on the menu. I read them intently wondering which of them I was to be had every time I visited. Sometimes I’d read for nearly the entire hour, at which time I had to rush for a small dessert and few cups of tea. Still, I would leave satisfied that I had spoken to her, that I had shared dreams of consuming her while in her presence. It somehow made it all feel more real: her being in the room while I dreamt of having her. I made it an art, that of looking at her figure as she moved from position to position adjusting herself to clear tables.

I don’t recall the exact date where it all changed. It was sometime after management changed. The male staff was replaced with different men but; the ladies were kept. The feeling in the air, too, changed. The women were more progressive in mannerism, less restrained I would say. My waitress began to take my order from a closer position, sometimes she would join the hostess at my table to welcome me. I learned most of everything I did about her roughly one year before the incident that broke our relationship.

The attraction between the two of us wasn’t a secret to us. Even when the connection elevated to a more adult-natured one, it was no secret that our insinuations indicated more than restaurant-geared interactions. She flirted, oh and she flirted well with her eyes. It was the type of action that seemed void to American women. She made me feel alive, aroused, seduced with the variation of looks and stares she projected. A master she was at revealing her desires through the eyes.

When it happened, there was no prelude nor omen forewarning me. I came in, but not as usual. I had given up the mockery to be sat on the same table a few weeks back. I was greeted as usual, both the hostess and the waitress walked me to the table, all of us briefly chatted while standing, but instead of leaving to bring me the normal cup of tea with cubed sugar, the waitress remained behind, looked around, and handed me a piece of paper.

She disappeared for a few minutes, bringing with her my normal dish, and sides when reappearing. I picked through the side dishes, looked about the dining area and walked off in direction of the kitchen. As I drew closer to the kitchen, a light powered on to the right of the its entrance. It was the kitchen storage room. A beaded curtain was the only protection keeping the contents inside visible from the outside. I push aside the curtain, leaned in, look to the left… between the meat freezer and the spices’ rack stood a woman whose mind had been certainly westernized.

Woman wearing a hijabShe still wore the hijab, but her dress was being sustained by her left hand covering her crotch, most of it on the floor around her ankles. I’m no authority on muslim wear, but I don’t think she wore a Burquaa or Ridaa, this was more like a Sari. Still, whatever the dress was it looked just as good on her as it did in its many colours on the floor, and over her feet.

The olive of her skin felt haunting in the lightly lit room. I admired her beauty for long moments until she opened her grasp, and the dress gave way to her groomed, but not totally void of hair, nor manicured to form any specific shape essence. It was just shaped enough where it expressed more intimate knowledge of sexual awareness than I had believed. There was no need to speak, everything I needed to know was revealed by her stare into my eyes. It told me that her world of boundaries laid to the other side of the beaded entryway.

My intentions were to directly indulge in her groomed self, but instead her eyes drew me face to face. We kissed softly, very softly for longer than I had ever cared to kiss anyone. That day I only used my lips on her mouth, kissing as if losing my breath to her. I didn’t need to close my eyes because the world around me blacked out. It was the darkest dark I had ever witnessed. During the kissing she unbuckled my slacks, dropped them to the floor, and pulled me outside my underpants. She didn’t play, she didn’t try any sort of foreign technique on me. She simply reached up with her pelvis, swallowing me ever so slowly.

Fire rushed through my veins raising my body temperature to the point where perspiration responded. I knew then that this was an event sent by a higher calling. I didn’t want to respond in any other stance than the one where our lips locked to each other’s and our pelvis slightly swayed onto one another. That was the lunch time I learned to feel the climax of a woman who revealed no expressions of pleasure from the fear of being exposed during such an intimate moment. I felt the her warmth completely overtake me inside of her. It was as if she had spoken to me, greeting me to a world in which I was the alien. The kissing stopped, so did the movement of the hips. She looked me in the eyes, again, said nothing because she didn’t need to speak.

She grabbed my face, kissed my lips softly, stared into my eyes one last time… Woman wearing a hijab

When I returned to for my normal lunch two days after, she was gone. Not to return for another 30 days. I found out she married during that absence. Now I sit and small talk seldom with her. She sits me down, keeps her distance; only the times I leave her eyes speak to me. Sometimes they apologize, others they thank me.

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Telephonic Response

I’ve performed difficult acts with a detached expression, felt various emotions under a stoic look yet, I have never been confronted with such difficulties as I did searching for a proper response to the participants of my weekly conference call that Tuesday morning. I assure you that I’ve been much closer to earning an Oscar at many other occasions than I was during this one. I fear not a consideration was even mentioned.

I woke up late for the call. I suspect because of a long night at the office. I stumbled out of bed bumping into the closet door, and banging my toe against the bathroom’s door frame. I toss water on my face, brush my teeth, speak a bit to myself to ensure I do not sound asleep, look down… and thank all goodness that I am at home not at the office. Like all healthy biologically functioning males, every night for a period of a few hours, God verifies that his tool of procreation is in working order.

Yes, I do sleep in the nude; being home alone affords me that comfort. I can wake up half asleep, be in full duty without anyone noticing that I’m more than ready for physical interactions. It takes a good ten to twenty minutes for the biological testing phase to return to a less obvious state. Much shorter if I wake up with a need to urinate, but today, I must be dehydrated because I have no urge to do so.

Instead of sitting down on the couch, I grabbed my work mobile and lean against the bar top dividing the kitchen from the living room. I have this oddity that if I’m clothes-less, engorged and on the phone, I end up stroking myself to pass the time while conversing. Knowing that I would eventually do that if I sat down, I decided to stay up and lean against the bar top. I dial in, wait for the tone to announce my late arrival, then greet everyone on the call.

My superiors are all present, as well as the head of two of our three large partners. We are going to be talking serious financial risks, and I am the knowledge behind the operation. I’m not all that late to the call thanks to my boss who is known for his southern hospitality. He talks for chunks of time about the least of caring topics. Now that I’m on, we are ready to talk risks. We take turns explaining the goals, expectations, and risks.

Yellow Undies, Luckily DayI had long ago forgotten that I awakened amidst anatomical testing of my body. I was tunneled into one thought: how to get those big clients to become bigger in order to spend more on us, on me. Suddenly the lights in the living-room power on. I think of ghosts controlling the remote controls, turn around in fright expecting to see a floating globule, but instead I see my neighbor in her undergarments… the yellow “Luckly Day” bottom disconnects my attention from financial risks, and quarterly expectations. I forgot that I found her inebriated the night before, and because she had no personal belongings on her, including her apartment keys, I brought her to my couch and allowed her to spend the night until she recovered, remembering where to find her keys.

With a soft and gentle tone she whispers for me not to be alarmed. That she will not be of bother to me while I’m on the phone. I look for something to cover up, but it’s too late. I’ve responded to her physique both mentally and physically. I’m mentally incapable of continuing the conference call, and I’m physically unable to muster strength to keep myself from another anatomical test. This time, however, I would hate for it to be just a test.

She draws close, I turn around giving her my back, figuring that at least she will not see my masculinity void of embarrassment thinking of her. She goes right into the kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, drinks from it and looks at me with a deviant stare. In the meantime, I am paying undividedly no attention to those on the phone. My attention has solely been tuned to the yellow panties.

She walks around the other kitchen exit leading me to believe that she’s on her way to the bathroom. I quickly look around, look down at my partner and can’t figure out where to hide. She wasn’t going to the bathroom though, she came behind me… her touch froze me. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak,I didn’t even breathe… I did, however, heard the voice of my boss asking me to answer the posted questions. I took a deep breath, it was more like half of an ill breath as only a quarter of my lungs answered the calling.

Her hands traced from my shoulders, down my back, up again to my shoulders, my neck, down the flanks. One hand caressed my buttocks, but the other, the other moved forward touching my hip bone, then tracing it down to my friend who had long ago been expecting her. I kept as much attention on the conference call as anyone on my position would. Intermittently losing my bearing when she would kiss my back, or stroke me. She stroke slowly, very slowly… telling me that she enjoyed how my physique felt on her hands, how the different parts felt as she moved up and down. That she wondered how different it would feel in her mouth, against her lips than on her hand.

The hand remaining on my rear was a daring one. She ran it up and down, squeezed, lightly smacked, even went down the middle reaching the front and caressing the confinement of my testicles. I apologized to those on the phone, expressed that I had had a slight distraction and needed the questions to be repeated. One of my bosses summarized the questions. I tried to respond best I could.

I lost my voice a few times, concentration to the call more than a few. Her interruptions of my work, while ill timed, were perfectly received. Her stroke had grown stronger, faster. I looked down to see the manicured long nails, and strong fingers working on me. I liked how she squeezed me tightly as if seeking to pop it like a balloon. Best yet, I liked that she dug her nails into me while whispering if I liked her behaviour.

I continued to answer the questions incoherently, articulating much of nothing, accompanied with a lot of deep breaths. My bosses weren’t very much please. I just didn’t have my full wits that morning. They were more a tune to the lips that approached me with a sweet voice that spoke of much needed lubrication. Telling me that saliva was much the needed substance. I went into her mouth, my mind closed to the call. I could only feel her lips tracing about the head.

The sounds she made making sure she salivated me throughly lured me in more than the prospects of becoming a wealthy individual as I would have had I answered those questions properly. I came back to the call under a heavy burdensome breathing. I tried to save what I could, but her inability to let me concentrate was deteriorating. By now she was back kissing my back, her right hand across my hip… down to me; tugging and pulling with serious intent. She spoke the whole time, my voice quivered on the phone; she asked if I liked her yellow panties, I mistakenly moaned on the call; she told me that I would climax on my hands, I raised my voice as if on the park; she said not to worry that she would lick it clean, I dropped the phone.

I went on to moan, curse, and bang my hand against the counter-top. I even apologized to those on the call. I know for a fact that they heard me climax because I was too loud, and they were still on the phone when my bearings were returned to my wit, and her mouth had completed cleansing her work. I’m still attempting to feel bad about not getting the clients to wager more money on me.

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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.