Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Prison Break

Woman Behind BarsHave you ever been held in captive solitude… for a prolonged period of time? Not days, not weeks, not months, but years? It can opaque the brightest of faiths. For too long a time I hoped for my return to general population. I prayed, I begged, I even meditated with the sole objective of changing my fate. I prayed to the Good Lord, begged to anyone who’d listen, even sought the power of the inner self. But, as time dictates, I am to go nowhere; I am to stay in place. Stay in this 4 feet wide by 6 feet long solitary cell. It’s dark more times than not. It’s difficult to tell the passing of days; whether it is daytime or nighttime outside, I never fully know. Not that it matters. I sleep when sleepy, eat when not depressed…

Prison TrackOne hour a day, at differing times each day, I’m taken outside for a round-about the track. I see no one, just my shadow casted on the floor by either sunlight or a spotlight. That was my life until depression saw it fit to send me a companion. I call him “Candy”. He’s a short little alien-looking something who consoles me when sad, and advises me when I’m unable to keep primordial drives from surfacing. He’s been with me since the day I stopped crossing out “counting-sticks-of-five” on the walls. Twelve hundred and eleven of those sticks before I wrote his name (Candy) on the wall. That’s when he came. Since then things have been very different. Depressing, lonely, but still different.

Candy, with his ugly-toothed-smile and big bright eyes, was sitting on the bed rocking his legs. “No, don’t do it. You can get through this without it”, sang he. I have finally lost it, was my initial reaction; but, having no choice, I welcomed the company. That day we spoke until it was time for my round-about walk. He made me happy. I was finally in the company of someone who didn’t judge me, nor cared where I was, and why. Before I walked out the cell he said, “I’ll be right here when you return. Stay strong and No, don’t do it. You can get through this without it.”

I didn’t really care to ask what he meant. I know what he referenced. For sometime now I have planned an escape. With nothing to lose and a world of peace to gain, why shouldn’t I? He wasn’t go to convince me otherwise.

The walk went as all in the past. Alone and thinking of what should be done.

Candy’s voice was audible throughout the walls of solitary. It bounced around from corner to corner right into my ears. “I know what you will do, I know what you will do. And I tell you, that is something you should not do.” I smiled, at least someone wanted to talk to me, even if trying to dissuade me. He was at the very same spot as when I had left. Still swinging his stubby little legs on the air. He was a rather ugly little thing yet, charming.

I informed him that I had for once decided what to do. That I needed to break-out one way or another. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here for you”, said he. I laid down to bed, tired from doing nothing. He sat on the corner, closed his eyes and also went to sleep. Hours later when I awakened Candy wasn’t around. It made think it was all but a made up story from delusion, but when I readied myself to carry out the plan. He came out of the corner; only his big bright eyes were visible. He startled me straight.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. But do know that I, well, I don’t agree with this you are trying to do”, said Candy.

“Never-mind my business, you said you’d still be here”, said I.

I’ll do as you please, I just don’t agree”, he said.

The cell had double doors. The door to the inside was a normal steel-bars cell door. It was about 4 feet wide, and contained steel bars running from the top to the bottom at about 5 or 6 inches apart. Two bars, one at the top and another at the bottom ran from side to side. At the very bottom there was an opening where food trays were placed through. The door in front of the steel-bar-door was about 2 feet away from the inner door. It was a solid steel door with an eye-opening some 4 feet high from the floor. The opening was about 8 inches wide and 4 inches tall. The door prevented much light from coming in to the cell, as granted guards viewing accessibility to me.

I removed my clothing, turned my back to the barred-door, grabbed a bar with each hand, pulled my legs apart from one another then hinged at the hips to ensure my glory was promptly visible upon opening the “visibility” gate. I heard it squeak open, Candy disappears. For the first time in a very long time a woman’s voice greets me. My heart sank. The plot won’t be as successful with a female guard. I was about to go back into my bed when she asked me not to move. For what was left of my hopes, I obliged.

The female guard walked towards me, ran her hand right down me and said: “But baby, you aren’t even wet.” She left the food on the floor and walked away. Had I any hopes left, it would have been a vastly disappointing. It was the same story the next time the door opened. I spread my legs, grabbed two solid bars running down the length of the door, and leaned forward. It was her again. She walked over, said the very same thing as last time, but this time she ran her fingers down my bottom as well as vulva, and said: “We are getting closer, honey.” She placed my meal on the floor and left.

Candy sat silently next to me. Looking down, sometimes humming, at all times swinging his little stubby legs. He knew I didn’t walk to talk. So we sat there waiting for me to initiate dialog. It must have been a week’s time before I decided to speak, a week before I saw another male guard. When I did, I was ecstatic. Candy smiled and said it was time to carry out that “break-out” I so longed for.

When I heard footsteps that appeared to be coming in my direction, I took position as I had those two previous times. By golly, when the door opened it was that female guard again. This time she didn’t use her fingers, instead she knelt in front of the door, put her face in and licked me through the cell bars. “Mami, you are a wet girl… waiting for me I hope.” She tried to do as good a job as she could using her fingers, her tongue; the closeness of the bars prevented her from shifting her face around for a proper performance, but her fingers in me while her tongue massaged my anus more than made up for the lack of maneuverability. It was more than I had anticipated. As uneventful as it was, it was the most alive I had felt in years. It made me ignore she was a woman. All I cared for was for her return so that she could properly satisfy me.

The immediately ensuing time I did the very same thing. Again, she massage my guilty pleasure with her tongue, fingers and nose, then she asked me to turn around and get on my knees. I was confused by the request. Does she want to talk to me? I asked myself. As I get on my knees and put my hands on the bars she grabs them and pulls me towards her where my face is stuck between the bars. She crossed my hands hugging the bars and handcuffed them each to adjacent bars where I couldn’t move. I was stuck kneeling face first into the bars.

She calls for who is obviously not a guard; whomever he was, he was a large man and not in stature. She slides her hand through the bars, grabs a chunk of my hair and forces my face forward hard against the bars as if wanting to drive it through it. “I like your plentiful naughty secret against my mouth. But I like to watch a mouth handle a man. Open your mouth nice and wide that I want to see you gag on him”, said the female guard.

I opened my mouth and this girthy, large headed, vascular-ly healthy and throbbing thing shoved in making me gag instantaneously. Not only had I never been gagged, but I hadn’t practice in more years than I cared to remember. There was no compassion from these two. She held my face in place, while his hips thrust forward banging onto whatever part of my face stuck outside the bars, as well as banged against the steel bars. The noise of metal upon metal form the door thrashing about screamed throughout solitary.

It was a struggle to breath, but listening to the woman closely talking to my ear invigorated me. “Bad girl in solitary. Is he being bad to you? Do you like the feeling of a mouth filled with a large man? Are you getting wet? Do you like being controlled? Do you like being abused in that pretty little throat of yours? I’m going to watch you inhale and exhale globs of him! I like watching the eyes tear from your inability to handle a mouthful.” On and on she went talking to me.

He pulled out of my mouth just to slap my lips with him. The feeling of it against my lips brought memories of being young and innocent struggling to satisfy my first partner. This was the most alive I had felt in various years. Whether I enjoyed it or not, I didn’t yet know. But I did know that if being captive in solitude had a breath of freedom, this was it. I was finally beginning to feel free, to feel like the walls around me no longer controlled me, but helped me see life.

Between the two, and my scooting over on my knees, the door was opened. The female guard slid on her back between my legs and commenced to tongue all about me. She was dirty about it. She slapped my naughty girl, bit it, fingered it and gently massaged pleasure out of it. I secreted like any grown woman without satisfaction in years would have. “Yeah, let me watch you flow guilty slut.”, she said. It weakened me enough to instantly forget I had a man shoved down my throat. I tried to look down with the corner of my eyes but I couldn’t. The man held my face against the bars banging away. I had not noticed that he had climax until I tried to breathe and swallowed a mouthful. “Keep swallowing. I don’t give a free man that you are choking”, he said in the most of raspy and manly voice I had heard in my life. He shoved his pelvis hard into me, there was no where I could go. The pain on my wrists from the handcuffs was now visible. They were raw-red, not bleeding yet, but soon enough I imagined. A small price to pay for freedom, I thought to myself.

I both consumed his residue, as did I exhale some of it out of my nostrils. “You should see this, honey”, he said to the woman. “This is the lewd type of gagging you like to watch me do.” But she wasn’t going anywhere. She was going at me as if she were the one who hadn’t received a good eating in years. She squeezed my butt cheeks hard and plenty, even held my entirety between her teeth… oh, i imagined the good feel of having a mouthful of woman between the lips.

I came, not once but a few times… and the blockage of my air pipes enhanced every second of it. It was as if I was between life and death seeing “the light” for the very first time in my life. I came on her mouth like the man I still held in my mouth did. When he finally pulled out, globs of him were still caught around his penis, stretching back to my mouth. I gasped for air as if jumping out of the ocean after almost drowning. I inhaled deeply… he looked at me and asked I clean him before he goes. I sucked him nice and well, taking long enough to feel the nuances of his manhood in my mouth that the aggressive thrusts failed to show.

Before they left she gave me quite a hard spanking… as she said, “to remember that there is a new bitch in town”. My days were no longer solitary after that. Candy would heal my delightful wounds before the next encounter came about. I loved the reminder of raw skin. It became my life. Candy would talk to me, tell me that I was a good girl for doing bad things. That he would remain, not go anywhere if just to watch.

The encounters were daily after that. Sometimes she alone, other times a few men took turns making the time in solitary special, but to me, this was my prison break. I was not only alive, but free to feel the taming of a libido that had long ago escaped.

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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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Texts, Taxi Cabs and Fares

An unexpected text causes me to smile. It’s a been a long workday and this slow taxi cab ride from Brixton to Charing Cross is not my preferred method of transportation during a snowstorm. In fact, I hate even the driver who fancies a chat when I intend on being left alone. I attempt the disinterested stare out the rear-passenger’s-side window, yet he finds it an invitation to probe into my personal affairs.

Thank goodness for the text. I couldn’t have entertained neither the thought of watching snow banks pass-by along the side of the roadway, nor the chatter of the driver for the duration of the journey. The text changes everything. I already know that time will feel quicker than it is making the ride much enjoyable.

The text is a continuation to our latest interactions when I left wondering who I was. The instance I read the text, blood rushes to blood vessels on the surface of my face giving me that feeling of emotional embarrassment. Thankfully the dark of the early evening has already set. It will cover my emotional state from the driver, even if slightly. I look around verifying that no one else can see the text. I’m not sure why I looked, there is no one else in the vehicle but me and the driver. It must be a nervous reaction. Sexting

I scoot over to the corner behind the drivers seat, hunch my shoulders, grab the mobile with both my hands and respond, “I’m too shy for such. I will not.”

Minutes later I’ve forgotten my initial response. All I feel is the temperature rising in the taxi cab, and an instantiable desire to obey the commands popping up on the mobile phone. I’ve been persuaded into lust brought about by imagery from messages; faceless messages at that. I’m nothing short of a morning dew announcing the arrival of the heated sun. I try to hide deeper in the corner and away from the driver’s field of vision. There is nothing else I want to do but to oblige… there is not a reason not to follow the texts.

“LOL”, is my response trying to conceal from him that I am following the picturesque texts; laughing out loud I’m not. I am rather filled with vigor. I am captive to it and the means to liberty is to thank the elasticity of leggings. I slide my right hand down where it’s welcomed by a blooming saturation. I know what I like and how to go about achieving it. Another “LOL” to buy me time to the spread my lips apart and rub. SextingBut, the taxi cab loses traction and it goes sideways almost hitting a snow bank. I’m sent across the back seat to the other corner, my hands still down my pants tasting how well the texts have made me feel.

The driver apologizes profusely. I am startled, pull my hand out, look down and feel embarrassed. Though he didn’t seem to notice the whereabouts of my hand, I felt that I had been see in a most intimate moment. I return to my hidden position, but this time I am hiding of embarrassment. As I’m looking down hiding my face from the driver I notice how my reaction to the text is still undeterred. The gray leggings are visibly admirable. I am contoured to them well enough to lure my hand right down and over the leggings to assess the desire.

I’m still warm, and in need of touch. I grab myself as if I were an athlete adjusting his package and feel how plentiful the Good Lord has made me. I’d be quite endowed were I a man. I tug on the leggings pulling them out from the contour they’ve created on me, and again slide my hand down. There are a few messages to my delight. I read them while gently massaging myself, gently inserting my index finger into myself. I place the phone down beside me, pull on the elastic waist of the leggings and try to look at myself. I slap my lips and tell them out loud that Richard should be manhandling them.

The car comes to a stop, the driver looks at me oddly. I turn cold, grab my purse look for cash but there are no small bills. I recklessly push the door open, rush out forgetting payment, have to turn around to throw the money at him and tell him to keep the rest of the fare. He says goodbye to me with a happy tone. I’m sure he was happy… I think he knew of my hands whereabouts saturated with me along with my finger hidden deeper than eyesight allowed.


L’Inspecteur de Ballet

Whether professional or novice, each dancer for the Coppélia Romantic Ballet Company must pass a series of examinations. Not a single dancer can perform without my approval. I’m known as L’Inspecteur de Ballet; not because I am French, but so due to my affinity for the work of one Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec — a Realism and Postimpressionism French painter from the late 19th century. I own multiple of his canvases, mostly, of course, ballerinas. Be it by love for his work, or love of the ballerinas, I don’t know. What I do know is that I stare at the paintings just as meticulously as I inspect my dancers.

The day of the performance I suit-up to near perfection. I look as professional in my suit as do my dancers in their leotards, leggings and tutus; not a thing in disarray. I slick back my hair to do nothing more with it but place a hat atop it. After staring at myself in the mirror to complacency, I head towards the dressing room to begin examination of dancers. I normally don’t finish in time, so the lead and last of the dancers is inspected behind the curtains, up-in-stage prior to the performance.

The one time when I press the pace to a hurry is when running up the stairs to prevent the lead ballerina from going onto stage without my final inspection. From time to time I have delayed the start of a performance until thoroughly satisfied that my dancers look their best, even if they fail to perform as expected. In the past a few dancers have performed without my approval, and they’ve been momentarily relieved from their duties, consequently charged with penance. Upon its completion they have returned to stage, but a second infraction means expulsion from the company. I’ve yet to lose a dancer.

Already examined dancers wait for the completion of the final inspection lined up from the top of the staircase that leads to the stage, down to the bottom. Only I and the lead dancer are allowed behind the curtains and on stage during the inspection; I can not be disturbed unless I so call upon. Something might be out of sorts which could determine the success of the event. I can not have that!

Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901), Dancer (1895-96).Once on stage, I circularly wave my hand about in the air notifying the lighting crew that the spotlight is to be directed at us. I pace about the ballerina outside the circumference of the spotlight as not to obscure the line of sight with my shadow. I walk as slow as I do with intent. I observe all of her. From her hair down to the shoes, then up again. I do so for various minutes. Sometimes I tug at the tutu, other times run my fingers on her hair to properly align misplaced hair strands. Most often I ask for a second tutu; the lighting of some venues do not properly reflect the pattern of the tutu. If it all looks to be pristine, I draw closer for the final say. With my right hand I grab the side of her face and move it from side to side, up and down. I talk to her, ask what, or where she thinks she should be inspected. “As you wish”, I’ve come to expect from this particular ballerina.

During the “more personal” part of the inspection anything and all is reviewed. Her hands go up in the air so that I can inspect the length of her triceps as the long head leaves the elbow and hides below the rear deltoid. I also Inspect the forearm muscles as they supinate and pronate the hand. I run my hands down her flanks to the waistline where I press with my thumbs against her obliques. I like to watch her pelvis rotate forward. I repeat the process two, three times to gauge the sway of the tutu against slight motion.

At this point I take a knee in front of her, reach down to one of her ankles with both hands, slightly apply pressure and trace upwards to the crotch area with my eyes closed. I want to feel the contour of her muscular leg against my hands. Once at the crotch, the leg is shaken looking for little to no excess “after-motion”. The muscular shaking should stop quickly after I stop shaking the thigh. I do the same for the second leg. This time I am a bit faster in ascent but then, at the thigh, I slow down pressing firmly against the inner thigh. There I massage for a good amount of time while working upwards to where the top of my hand touches her crotch.

After a momentary massage of her crotch, I sweep towards her glutes with both hands, grasp them on the palm of my hands and lift. It is a test of their balance as I pull unexpectedly forward… she’s never fallen for it, not even the very first time. The feeling of each butt cheek engulfed on my palms under the tutu and over the leotard is exhilarating. I grasp firmly, then ask for the butt cheeks to clench. The hardness must be there, not in me, though it is, but in her glutes so that it perks out as it should in any and all good dancers.

Dancer Painting by Toulouse-LautrecVerifying the conditioning of the glutes over the leotard can be deceiving. That’s why I slide my hands between the leotard and the leggings to again feel the strength of her bottom. I don’t pull them out! Instead I choose to travel towards the crotch with my hands still between the leotard and the leggings. This is where the final minutes of the inspection are spent. I adjust, trace, tug until the perfect shape is achieved. I like for her to be plump, supple and tight where the the vision is reminiscent of a smiling cat.

I like to run my digitus medius down the center of her crotch to create a seducing indentation. I do so until I feel that she’s warm and moist. With this particular ballerina, I like to pull the leotard to the side of the crotch to see if the leggings show signs of moisture; and that they do! She is very quick to react to the examination. During this very procedure I notice that the leggings aren’t tight enough, they are bulging. I grab the extra fabric and tear it causing a rip down from the crotch to the inner left knee. I look behind me and ask for another pair of leggings; quickly too.

In the meantime I have her remove the leggings. I spread her legs to the sides and continue to run my digitus tertius smearing the wet in her throughout the area. By now she’s got both her hands on my shoulders and her eyes closed. I lean lower, bring the digit to my mouth and taste it. As radiant as she is on the dance floor, she’s even more so… desirably intoxicating to my mouth. I lean even lower to bring my tongue within touching distance of her. My tongue contours to her anticipating the moisture that strikes with lust.

The scent discloses that I should further expand my whereabouts. I slide my hand to wet my index finger, then head back to soak the perineum. Little by little I wait for this “thing” she does when asking of me to intrude the calm of her body. She flexes her legs and stands on the tip of her toes. I adore the sight of her muscular legs… how the thighs define and her calves enunciate. I allow my index to penetrate while my tongue massages her intentions. I don’t have to move my hand. She controls the depth in which she swallows my finger. The continuous up and down stance she undertakes weakens me. Were it not for the late time, I would lower my slacks to allow her to engulf me. To allow her to completely saturate me. To feel how strong she can hold, squeeze me while inside of her.

Having the leggings delivered to me, I take a last look at her. I turn her around, slightly bend her at the waist to admire the supple of her nature. A last kiss to the saturated area, followed by a grabbing bite and I release her. It is time for the leggings and commence of the performance. I am now ensured that it will all work well.

I watch her perform, really not seeing anything but thinking of the look of her femininity up close. I can still smell her aroma, can still taste it on my finger. Oh how I can’t wait for tomorrow’s act.

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Subway Guitarist

There are those who spend their life traveling the subway as no more than a means to transportation. I’m not one of those. I’m the type that calls the subway, work. My office hours are from 8AM to 10AM and again from 4PM to 6PM, Monday to Friday. I work during rush hour and only during rush hour. I’ve come to know exactly the times for which trains, and cars in it I need to board to earn the most money.

The idea came to me not two years ago after becoming a company-downsizing-casualty. It was about 4PM during the summer. I was sitting on cart 6 in subway train A returning uptown. I had just been downsized and I was extremely disappointed about the future. My training was as a musician, and as we know, most of us are starving while playing gigs… but where else: the subway system. There was this beautiful young girl pressed against her mans crotch, his hands were down her sweat-pants obviously making her feel better than I was.

I toyed around with the idea of working in the subway for a few months, and then it became apparent that corporate America didn’t have a cubicle for me. So I grabbed my guitar, put it on my back and hopped on the train. It took a few days to figure out how I’d get it done. I wasn’t going to become one of those public “giggers” at the same location everyday all day. I was going to move about the city trying out every spot to maximize profit. I was going to go to my clients, rather than have them come to me.

I currently have a list of regulars. Sometimes I’m free to gig, but more times than not I am booked. I start uptown on the C and work my way downtown, to then return home on the A. In the two years I’ve been doing this, I’ve only been approached a handful of times by strangers. All through hearsay. When that happens, I cancel my gigging with the source. It also tells me that I’m proficient at what I do that clients are eager to come to me. I’ve never taken a walk-up; always have been the one hand selecting clients.

I’ve considered myself street savvy. Not too much, but just enough to know that a free sample of a quality product gets anyone hooked. I use that knowledge to let my hands help me earn a living. I lost a client yesterday in the 9AM hour. He moved to the suburbs and will be telecommuting starting today. I haven’t had to find a new client going in 9 months, but I guess this baby is ready for delivery, so today I go out to find the “purr-fect” client.

Subway GuitaristAs always, I dress professionally with the exception of the guitar on my back. It’s part of my work-attire. A skirt-suit with high-heels, stockings, no bra to display the perk in my upper body, hair in a ponytail, and gray contact lenses; the gray colour always mesmerizes men. I stand on the platform waiting for my train that I know will be filled. Normally daily riders frequent the exact same wagons on the train, even if they don’t consciously know it, but it’s normally the same. Because I know that, I know which wagons have the highest return on my investment.

Today I choose cart 4 on train A going uptown. There are a few fellows who I know will ache to feel how well my hands play with instruments. The process is always the same. I place the guitar on my back to create a buffer space between the intended client and me. I follow him inside the train and stand back to back with him. During the ride I ensure that the guitar collides with him as many times as it can. Eventually they all turn to complain. When they turn to express discomfort, I turn, look at them and say. “Would you prefer my hands play with more than the guitar?”, Not yet has anyone rejected the offer. Some are more daring than others and outright agree. I’ll see how the one today reacts.

It takes not one stop for this fellow to ask me to watch my guitar. In the crowded train its difficult to move, but with years of experience behind me maneuvering in the crowded train, I quickly turn. He looks at me and tells me that my guitar violated his personal space. I look him straight in his eyes, break a smile, look down and don’t say anything. He responds with “I’m sorry, why the smile.”, “Nothing, it’s nothing.”, I says. He still inquiring, wondering why the flirtatious smile. That’s when I tell him: “Would you prefer my hands play with more than the guitar?”

He looks shocked. These mature-preppy fellows are all alike. Lots of bark and little action when confronted by an attractive woman and touched outside their comfort zone. His unresponsiveness is an agreement to my audacity. In the next bump I let my hand swing, gracing his already filled desire. He notices my intentions and closes-in just so. I grab a handful of him and strike a small chat. I talk mostly while he concentrates on my hand jerking him over the pants. These cats all seem to read the same fashion magazines, they all wear loose boxers.

With each station stop I grow bolder with the help of the increasing number of riders packing into the train car. By the fifth stop I’ve unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. My hand is down the briefs, my body is real close to his ear giving him a play-by-play of how he feels on my pretty and manicured hand. “It’s soft.”, says he. I tell him that ejaculating on it will feel much better, to stay close to me and let my hand play music.

I lie mostly to the men. Even the small gifted as this man; I tell them the things I wish were told to me were I a man and a woman was stroking me. I tell them I wonder how he would fill inside of me, wrapped around my lips, dripping from the side of my mouth. That I would love to stand beside him stroking all day; feeling the thick head between my fingers alluding to how the head would penetrate me. I push down farther to grab the scrota. I squeeze the contents hard enough for me to feel each individual one, for him to feel it nice and good. “I want them in my mouth.”, I whisper. “Jerk me, jerk me”, he responds.

The train pulls up to my next stop. It’s time to meet the next client. I pull my hand out, buckle him up, reach into my jacket pocket and hand him a card. “Call me tonight.” Maybe I’ll finish it. I slap him on his crotch, kiss my hand that I just hand down there, say “goodbye honey”, and run to my next client.

It doesn’t take convincing. He is mine and tomorrow the 9AM slot on car 4 of train A will be booked; rent paid.

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Echoes from the Pulpit

Every Sunday morning prior to service I, Father Amaro, must prepare the altar to receive the congregation. Sometimes the ritual is more involved than others, nevertheless it’s as serious a task as it is enjoyable. Because of theoretical differences with the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the details of my ritual have remained a secret between me and the cooperating Sisters’ of our Lady Of Francis Convent.

The ritual began shortly after accepting vows to enter the priesthood. It was an idea that entered my mind during the six-month decon appointment, which was just the time required to plan every detail. While my dream had always been the priesthood, the vow of chastity was much of stumbling stone. Still, I knew that the righteous time to make my peace with God would arrive one way or another. And, this ritual was my mends with the High Lord.

During seminary study sexual interactions were discouraged in preference of friendships; I listened very little. My hypothesis was that if I were to spoil my demons prior to leading my own congregation, I had to bask in the hidden treasures of many-a-woman trousers. I undertook all sides of knowledge by not limiting myself to catechism, but it also engulfing in philandering. If my hypothesis was to be proven a fact, experimentation needed undertaking.

The seminary cemented my desire to become a priest. I finally accepted my fate. I took the vows of chastity relinquishing perdition. At least so I thought until the backsides pressed against the habits of a few of the Sisters of our Lady of Francis Convent’s proved fatal. All I saw from that point forward was the movement of glutes against fabric. I wondered what hid beneath Jehovah forbidden fruits. Nothing more went or came through my mind, only to follow Eve’s path to eat the fruit.

Engaging a few sisters wasn’t a difficult endeavor; of course much of the work was done for me through hearsay. “Seclusion” does a funny thing to a person; I represented as much deliverance to the sisters as they did to me. I would ask for a precise nun to aid in the ritual depending on how I felt Sunday mornings… depending on the sermon, on how I felt after breakfast. Wake up time was at 4AM those days. I’d go for a light jog around the village where many parishioners thought me a holy man chasing away the devil. After the run it was shower time where most of the sermon was conceived, as was the ritual to take place at the chancel. Directly because of the ritual, the nuns and I became responsible for the upkeep of the chancel to ensure “proper” construction.

Church Bell TowerBreakfast was nothing more than a cup of tea and soda crackers to have on the go. I’d have it up on the bell tower watching sunrise over the hills. A coveted sight it was to watch the morning rays peek through the convent windows. It would reveal undressing bodies, some more appealing than others, nevertheless, it was epiphany to me. I learned what windows to watch every sunrise throughout the year. Some windows I skipped, others I tried to look inside even when the sun wouldn’t allow it. Once the sun was completely uncovered, I’d watch the nuns walk from the convent towards church. Those aware of the ritual walked behind on the line, looking up at the bell-tower in excitement of whom I was to choose, I selfishly hoped.

Sister MayToday’s ritual is to be carried out with the help of Sister May. She is around my age; I’m a young priest as is a testament of my hormonal mishaps. The nuns prepare for mass in the yard. They pray for about an hour, then ready to welcome parishioners. That’s when the ritual takes place; somewhere between 9:30AM and and 10:30AM. I’ll be waiting at the altar for Sister May to walk in from the rectory. There is nothing under my robe, just as there isn’t under her habit. The chancel is covered in palm leaves, purple candles surround the space where we’ll consummate this holy reunion.

As I watch her walk towards me, I pace around, praying, chanting, flickering holy water around the altar, ignorant of scruples… as this very moment needs no interference from higher morals. She walks towards me undressing, leaving whatever clothing she’s wearing down the aisle. I meet her down at the low step of the chancel, disrobe showing her that our very own mass is about to start. We kneel, look up at Jesus the Christ on the cross, and pray. I stand up, walk up two steps and turn around facing Sister May. She leans forward, grabs my scrota from the bottom with her left hand, and with the right she directs it inside her mouth. She’s become versed with time. She’s made me see angels floating about the nave many a times.

I recall the first time I climaxed in her mouth. She nearly regurgitated on the altar. Oh, what a pretty sight… it was to realize that at her age innocence still resided.

Her saliva lubricates me throughly, preparing me for a world of Catholic consumption. She meets the head with her lips fitting it like a handcrafted fedora. Swiveling her head around to ensure that each part of the head gets to feel the warmth inside her mouth. She massages the scrota while jerking the shaft. Before ceasing the adventure she pushes me in completely, releases him causing it to quickly return to upright position and slap against my lower abdomen. She leans lower and puts the scrota on her mouth, a feeling I never realized I enjoyed prior to meeting her.

Sunlight Through Church WindowSatisfied with the preparation, she walks up to the last step of the chancel, hinges at the waist until both her hands are flat against the floor, and says “Oh, Holy Father, I have sinned. What is my penance?” I look back at the rear windows, the light crafts a hue reminiscence of the descending good upon the earth. I return my stare towards her to admire the gates of heaven. I look, think of Adam, and too taste the forbidden fruit. I trace it with my tongue as if about to call out the Song of Songs. I had always attributed heat to hell, but knowing that his very second I’m about to meet paradise, and it is not only warm but moist, has made me rethink both inferno and paradise. My tongue is covered in her scent.. luring desires I knew not I had.

I walk up the steps to meet her, piercing her just once to appease the deities inside of me. I pull out, grab her by the hair, stand her straight, and lead her towards the palm-tree-leaves bed I’ve made. I lay her face down on the bed of leaves, spread her legs far apart enough where is possible to place both my legs between them. I leave her there, grab one of the purple candles and… I let wax drip down on her glutes. I love the watch their reaction when the hot wax splashes against the skin. The first few times we carried out rituals I only splashed it against her butt, but now I use it to inform her of what part of her body will serve penance. Today, it will be the first time that I will cover the center of her buttocks with wax. We devout Catholics have come to enjoy repenting with a little pain.

I believe any well worth commitment should be carried out with some pain for both parties. It’s more difficult to hand down the punishment of the Lord without proper lubrication in the area, but it’s well worth it despite it. My lips don’t neglect that this woman laying face down with her legs spread apart needs to feel the joy of the lord, just as she will some discomfort. My lips run the length of her inner thighs, up to her crotch where I exercise the recipes of the heavens. I don’t allow her to climax, only desire for her to feel the lure of good throbbing in her.

Not soon enough do my lips undertake an upwards search to remove candle wax from the area it came to rest. I find it, struggle to remove it with my lips and tongue, so I employ the help of my hands. I bite her cheeks, squeeze hard, even slap them both leaving behind reminders of my presence. Sister May talks of the trinity, of the need to ask God to forgive the indiscretions gone unpaid until now. There isn’t a need to be forceful initially; first my tongue pierces her, massaging the idea that something greater was coming. Then my index finger circles around the orifice, pressing in but never penetrating. Her butt sways, her legs tense expecting that I will push in, but I don’t.

The man of God I am, I wait for the signal that she is ready. I kiss, bite, run my tongue alongside my index finger until her signal cues me to resume. I lay on top of her, grab my engorged self with my right hand and trace him up and down her vagina, soaking the head enough to aid in the task of abusing a less moisturized body part. I push her legs wider apart, lean over to her left ear and ask if she is ready to receive forgiveness. Clenching some palm tree leaves, she takes a breath and replies, “Yes, Father Amaro.”

I ask that she grab and position me. She frees her left hand from the leaves… reaches behind her to grab me. Her full hand holds my shaft, positioning me upon the supple area. I feel it against my head and push in. She attempts a disruption of a full penetration by pushing against my pelvis with her hand. I grab the arm, and direct her hand to her butt cheek, grab the second hand and place it on the other butt cheek. I instruct her to pull to the sides to give me a view of where I am to thrust with as much mercy as Christ was demonstrated when crucified.

I withdraw, stand back and watch her glutes spread to the sides pointing to the entrance I am to have. I lean on her again, but this time I don’t need her aid. I push in merciless! The entrance is difficult on me; though, I imagine not as much as it is to her. I haven’t the time to be delicate, this is the ritual to take place today. She must be strong for the work of a greater need. I thrust in hard, feeling skin to skin burn for a split moment. I thrust and thrust, she tells me it is painful. I ask her to tell me how much it hurts. She can only manage to repeatedly say “Oh, Father forgive me, forgive, myself I give to you.”

Church NaveI’m thrusting so recklessly that the sound of my pelvis hitting her backside echos through the sanctuary. Her praying voice following each echo to every nook. She tells me it hurts, but that she never thought there could be pleasure associated with it. I ask her to be hush; that I want to feel as I climax inside of her. I lose control, lean my torso against her back and bite her left shoulder enough to leave bite marks without drawing blood. I can’t take it much longer. I pull her up to hands and knees by her pelvis; I squat down and watch as I take her ass to my whim.

She goes between cries, prayers, and moans. By this point she no longer tries to hold me back. Now her head is moving about with her mouth opened. She tells me she can not take it any more. I grab her hair, pull her head slightly back to watch as her mouth opens and her deep dark eyes stare back at me, and I ejaculate. I grab both her butt cheeks, squeeze very hard, slap her the hardest I ever had then, meticulously move in and out ensuring to leave all I can inside of her.

I pull out, watch as some of me drips out of her. It falls all the way to the palm tree leaves. I get up, walk around turning the purple candles off. Sister May on the floor still breathes heavily. All the candles are off. I begin to pray, the Sister joins me. I stand over her, grab the base of my semi-erect being and squeeze up the urethra pushing out remnants of my lust. They fall on the low of her back. She smiles, and asks, “Is it going to hurt for much longer?” “I don’t know Sister, please notify me when the pain ceases”, I reply.

We clean the chancel of any sings of our encounter while still naked. I grab my handy receptacle, light frankincense and walk about the church cleansing it from ill spirits that might have come to watch along with the angles. Finally the bells sound announcing that we are 15 minutes from service. By now we are dressed, Sister May walks to the front doors, opens them, and stands outside waiting for her parochial duties to commence.

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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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Christian Coitus

I consider myself a boring man, maybe boring isn’t the appropriate adjective, never the less, I have never been identified as a memorable partner. Many events in my past are to blame, at least that’s what I tell myself to make up for a lack of creativity. My entire adult life I’ve engaged in what I call “Christian Coitus”. I call it so because it has always been very sanitized, never deviating from much of anything. I’ve even considered lust a sin. I do not, I repeat, I do not engage in intimacy when in lust. I wait, and when it’s time to display love or to procreate, the old missionary position hails in rescue.

I have been doing that for the better part of 30 years. Never thought I’d get tired or bored, then this thing called internet came to be, and with it came a world of thoughts and ideas I had never considered. In these parts of the up-country traditions and thoughts prevail for millennia. I commenced reading late at night so that my sweetheart didn’t notice my new found interests. Every night for a long time I experimented with the ideas, and by experiment I mean attacking reason with bible passages to prevent me from seeing myself wrapped under varying circumstances.

I saw many-a things that sucked me in but, just as many I stumbled upon which I couldn’t heart to watch. It seemed like it all had an “ism”, “dothism”, “dothatism” was everywhere. I must be part of “Christian-ism” I thought to myself. The type of “ism” that isn’t found in all the other “isms”. I felt cheated! Ignorant of a world to which I was probably meant to be part. I wasn’t given a chance because of my geolocation; darn difficulty getting cable lines carrying 21st century thoughts into the mountain side.

Of the many demonic ideas, one innocent enough stayed with me. It is a simple step for a simple mind, I thought to myself. I feared that my sweetheart would reject the idea of sharing ungodly ventures. Yet, I had to ask. I had to find means to introduce her to the idea. I became so desperate to inform her that I even considered bible passages to support the thirst of slightly modifying “Christian Coitus”.

I was a changed man, a new man, a lustful man. But, would I go through with it? Would I be able to break the routine that had kept me safe all this time? The format that proved successful for all seven children of mine? The formula crafted by God himself. I’m positive when I say that immaculate conception was in the form of missionary. If it were proper enough to conceive Jesus the Christ, then why wasn’t it sufficient enough for the rest of the world, and now me?

One night I purposely kept the living room light on. It caused my honey to wake in the middle of the night. She looked around and I wasn’t in bed beside her. I was outside, in the balcony entrenched in wifi commodities. I heard her steps, though she still thinks I never did, otherwise I would have quickly changed to a more appropriate image. I did it on purpose! It was an indirect way to tell her I had been thinking about modifying my, our behaviour during intimacy.

At first it wasn’t easy. It mostly made her feel incomplete. She refused to agree that our life, or intimate life was confined by commodity, confined to religious dogma. It was days before her sadness lessened to where we could openly speak about it. I wish I knew the exact words I spoke to trigger a change of mind, but I don’t. I wish I also was the kind of man that speaks and the woman barks in compliance. I’m not that man. I sit, ponder, engage in dialog interested in a common ground. This time, however, it might have just been her who changed her mind. I was out driving cattle across the state following the green pasture for a few weeks. Upon my return, there were a few changed things. Most notably, there was one of them apparatus that takes digital photos. And, her undergarments surly shrunk in my absence; it must have been caused by the new dryer we got not a month back.

That night with my handy internet device, I went out to the balcony, watched the lightning bugs frolic, and read more in depth about intimate photography. I wanted to know when, and where, the angles which suited us best. Yes, I am ignorant. I don’t hide it, but this here thing gives me anything I search for.

It took us a few good months to become used to using the camera as well as looking at one another in provocative copulation. We hadn’t yet done, nor tried the one “ism” that had me ignoring the call of the good lord. No doubt it was soon to come, I could feel it. With each interaction we grew bolder, filled with decadence. Until one day it happened. As good would have it, we found one another in the all too familiar missionary position. This time, though, it wasn’t vaginal intercourse, no good sir, no.

I penetrated her where in my adult life I had never done so. It was also her first time. Her augmented secretion caused by the freshly discovered “isms” eased the entry. It didn’t work as I read in article upon article. We didn’t need aid to lubricate. She was lubrication enough. I slipped in. She looked at me and wondered how such ease came to be. I didn’t push all the way in, I moved back and forth at a moderate thrust and speed. She knew me so well that when I was about to climax, she pushed me off of her and readied for the “ism” that had me seeking rejection from Heaven’s gate.

The lips I had kissed for the better part of my life now wrapped tightly on to me. She wasn’t versed, but that made it all the more glorious because I knew that next to those virgin lips my residues of pleasure would come to rest. She slobbered more than she sucked. Her teeth scratching the head raw, a few times squeezing the sack too hard. Even the pain made it all seem surreal. I loved every second.

I picked up the camera while fighting back the release of millions of possible offspring. I held the camera in one hand — already having been set to “sport” mode for rapid image capture — and began to jerk myself close to her face. I salivated, my heart palpitated, I must have taken close to 20 gigabytes of “ism” that day. All of her face covered in me. Her lips dripping the substance, her left eye closed because of the long reach of my need. Even her nose captured essence. But it was nothing compared to watching the pictures of us with me in her mouth, semen on her face, and my object of affection being swiped clean with each stroke of her tongue, each insertion into her mouth. Index Finger in Her Mouth

The globs all over her face. I can not release them from memory. I can not stop looking at her in the pictures, looking at us. The one where the sticky substance is falling from her chin while the my head is covered in goo touching her tongue, with her big-bright-open-eyes staring back at me is my favorite. I haven’t told her so, but I have self-gratified to it various times.

I just don’t see how “Christian Coitus” will ever be the same.

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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.