Thursday, March 31, 2016

Chase Me



She doesn’t have a face per se. Only that her eyes are mischievous, yet trusting and sparkly. Her full lips, glossy with red paint ... the most intense shade of red you can imagine. They make me want to lick my own when I look at them. Her smile melts me, makes me nervous, almost insecure of myself. Her brain. Oh her beautiful brain. She is smart. She is creative. She has her own philosophy. Her own doctrine. But she is open. Her body is my temple and I am prepared to devout the rest of my life worshipping it. I will be thankful every day. I will not take for granted. I will confess all sins.

I truly truly long for this woman. I don’t know how to find her. And if I found her, I fear I wouldn’t know what to do. As I write, I feel tears welling in my eyes, so I stop for a moment as regain my composure. I feel waste. My life that is. There are people in it, people that love me that are close to me that would do anything for me, but I feel empty. I think of Winona Ryder’s character is “Autumn in New York”. I covet. I would give all to have deepness like that, if even only for a brief moment.

Do you see? Do you see that she is fantasy, but I want her in my life? My real life. But for now, she remains faceless. I expand upon the first entry.
The elevator is fast. I can feel the pressure on the bottom of my feet, carrying me upward. It stops just as quickly, I still have that little bit of ticklishness in my belly as I turn the corner and see Her. I know it is Her. She is wearing exactly what I told her to wear. We discussed it at length. I knew how I wanted to see her. She found it fascinating. She had told me how each of her clothes fit her. How these particular pants clung close to her ass, showing its shape without changing it. How this particular top was selected because it demonstrated exactly how little additional support her perfectly curved breasts needed. I pray to thee. And that's the thing...this woman...this smart, devilish, tiny ball of conference room class and rock star cute had the security to totally let go. And to please both of us in doing so. She tells me how she walked to work looking at her reflection in downtown windows, sizing herself up as she knew I would had I been some random pedestrian passerby. Imagining her confident smirk checking out her own ass melts my fucking brain. A couple of quick drinks once settled comfortably in a large booth 30 floors above the street, and we are sufficiently removed, physically and mentally, from ourselves to let our brains and emotions to roam freely. Ask me anything. I will tell her all. My most valuable secrets. That's the deal. The filter is off. She knows me. And I know her. Let go. Let me touch the small of her back, knowing what that does to her. Let me get so close to the nape of her neck so as I take in the smell of the perfume she chose for me, she can feel my nose grace those little hairs on her neck. Let me see the goose bumps.

And let me see that look in her eye. Burn that memory into me. Touch my ear. Take complete pleasure in the pleasure she is giving me. Because she knows what this does to me. She knows how this stays with me.

We order food, and the server senses our connection. They are polite in a way that is efficient, yet lets us know we will not be bothered. Inhibitions slip. I grip her thigh as she shoulders her way closer to me. All these moves are, for us, decadently unsubtle. But nobody can see us. It all feels so honest and intense. I love seeing the smile come across her lips. She stares at me staring at her mouth. And as my hand slides further up her leg, she pushes herself forward on the seat to meet it. And it is so warm. I am slightly embarrassed when she says she likes my soft, low growl. I didn't realize I had made a sound. But when she touches herself for me...runs her hands over herself like I ask her to...I realize that she has been waiting for that moment for as long as I have. And she revels in the way I melt...and grow more intense at the same time. She plays with that power until I have to ask her to stop. She just giggles.



She is sitting back against the fabric of the booth, the film flickering surreal, her hands gripping the bench, her legs spread wide, motionless, while I explore her again, and touch her in places not meant for exploration in public. We both watch her chest as her breathing quickens, as her nipples rise. We both feel her pushing down into the seat. Against the fabric of her panties. We both feel the humid heat through her skirt. We are desperate for home. In the kitchen, we will strip each other of our clothes and make a beautifully sweet concoction together. I will feed her from my fingers to her mouth.

She will prance around, watching me revel in the amazing sexiness of her feminine confidence. She feeds on my excitement and it is my nourishment. We will rest beneath the rose petals, submerged in the warm water. I wash her feet. Her ankles. Her legs. Her tummy.

Her breasts. Over her hands. Under her arms. Her neck and behind her ears. Her body glistens in the water and it is more beautiful than I have ever seen it before.

She is in a chair and I am pushing her legs apart and exposing her sex. She rests her feet on the arms of the chair and lay back as I lower my head between her thighs. I stare at the folds of her womanhood. Take them in to hopefully remember forever. My thumb caressing her clit and then my tongue. I am drunk on her aroma, on her sweet nectar. "Growl and roar!" she cries, "And then attack! Maul me hard, don't hold back!" At my nipping mouth I'm all but tripping over bursts of joy inside while sipping on her lily petal. A scrumptious hothouse flower yearning for pollination -- moist, scarlet, burning! Jumping up, running she shouts, "You need to chase me around the place, capture me rougher, fling me on carpet, ramrod me tougher!" I tackle her, out of breath. ”I want your cock in me now”. I need no other urging. I virtually leap into her, and I slide into her wetness, her tight cunt. I feel her soft fur against me as I lay on top of her, my hips pounding, her claws against my back. Her taut legs wrapped around my hips, and she is yowling in pleasure, her breath gasping with every thrust. She is chanting me on, “yes, yes, yes.." I keep on fucking her, taking out in her all my lust. “Rougher”, she grunts. I seize her neck and squeeze, bend her over the cushions, commence to rend her with deep thrusts. My right hand grasps her hair. Her head back as I smack her rear with the left, delight in delving harder in her cleft. Two thrusts and she's tense, clawing at my chest, while guiding my hands to her heaving breasts. Her face is flushed with the tint of pink angels, Cleopatra hair ruffled, dripping, eyes upon mine, mouth lingering open ... she is cumming.

And her body relaxes, but her eyes remain connected to mine. And mine to hers. “Make love to me”, she giggles. The four words render me capture me and as rough as it was now turns to delicacy. I imagine babies with her and pray again to her temple that they are as beautiful as she. She knows. She knows I want forever. I want to keep this feeling deep inside of me. I want her always in my heart. She is everything. I'm smitten I'm bitten I'm hooked I'm cooked. And as I lay upon her, our sweat fused together, her fingers run though my hair and mine through hers, my pearl is released to drift within her sea. I stay inside her as we exchange our current passions. Hers: cannel├ęs de Bordeaux, which I will fetch for her in the morning. Mine: her. Will I ever be able to fetch that?


My head is spinning

Pad Thai Girl

Strange how something can trigger a memory. I went for lunch today. I passed a young woman. Leaning against a brick wall. One foot forward. Smoking. In a cubby hole of sorts. Shelter from the wind. She caught my attention and my stare lingered. Long enough to glance down through my tinted lenses. Tight jeans. Gap. Her hand resting on her inner thigh. Her thumb, if she were nude, would no doubt be firmly against her slit. Coincidence? Was she masturbating? Did she want me to see? I drifted in thought.

 It all happened so quickly. Her note hit my inbox. Number included. My fingers dialed. Her voice was sweet. Seductive. Confident. Her dialect was city English. Probably grew up in London. Small talk. Chit chat. And then direct instruction. On the next night, I am to go to “such and such” restaurant at 9 pm. I am to order spring rolls. Bean noodle salad. Pad Thai. Bring a bottle of wine. And then wait out front. The next night I enter the doors. Bottle in hand. Taking in my environment as I walk to the hostess. The restaurant is buzzy. Noisy. Active. Alive. There is a woman at the bar. Facing me. Taking me in. It’s her. I know it is. It has to be her. I hope that it is her. My eyes are locked to hers as I order. My mouth moves. I have memorized the list. She wears her version of the little black dress I desire. The loaded gun. It’s cocked. She shifts. Crosses and un-crosses her legs. Thoughts race. Nerves? Masturbation? The approach. There are six empty bar stools next to her. I chose the one to her left. Order whiskey straight up. The bottle is in front of me. And all I can think to say is, “So what is your favorite ... varietal?” The English rose responds. “Anything bold is what I go for. I like it to stay in my mouth”. It was enough for me. Game on. We forgo my last instruction and begin our dance. Dinner is ready.

We walk. Her home. Minimal would be understated. Temporary. Her brain alone makes me wet. Most certainly Ivy League. 40 ticks above my own IQ. Probably here remotely for work. Probably someone back home. Fuck it, I don’t care. Drink. Drink. Drink. Until everything is fun. Spinning dizzy. Slipping out my ordinary world. Out my ordinary eyes. Into someone else's life. And then she wanted to get me high. High on her balcony. Her delicate fingers worked. Rolling. Her tongue sealing the deal. She inhaled. Her mouth was sexy. I wondered what it would do to my cock. Her hand drifted. Down. Resting against her inner thigh. And then lower. When a whisper in my ear insatiable breathes, "Why don't you follow me inside.”

The room is small. The room is dark. Her hair is black. The bed is white. She strips to the bone in the mirror on the wall. Her slender frame trembled slightly. She holds out her hands and I follow her down to my knees. My finger traced a line from underneath her earlobe, down her neck and onto the perfect skin of her chest. Nipples hard as cherry stones. She sighed as I lowered my mouth onto her shoulder to taste her skin. I could feel her powers questing out to me from every pore in her skin. Hungry and seeking sensation. Aroma. I could smell the moist heat between her legs rising up to assault my senses. Open. Discard. Push through. Tear away. Mecca.
The small triangle of silky black hair. My fingers slipping into the darkness to seek out the pink wet folds it hid. Overflowing. Tears of her desire oozing out onto her soft white thighs. My fingers swam through the sea. Over the hard, brazen bud between her nether lips. I stopped my attentions and helped her in her frantic attempt to undress me. Equally exposed. I stood in front of her naked, her gaze appraised me, sliding down my skin like a thousand tiny burning needles to settle on my manhood. Reaching out to surround my erection with the long, delicate fingers of one hand. The other spidered up my chest to my neck. Pulling herself against me. The contact was exquisite and at the same time painful. Her kitsune soul reached beyond her skin to grasp at my senses, anchoring spiny hooks into my consciousness. I could feel each tiny hook embedding itself. It was essential that I not give any hint of the pain her intrusion caused me or else she would guess immediately that I was something other than what she assumed I was. She is more powerful than I. She could take control immediately if she wanted. Would I be strapped to the bed? Would she turn to the closet on the far side of the room and emerge wrapped in latex and leather? Would it be lined with whips and crops? Would she torture me? Spank me with a wooden paddle? Fuck me with a fake plastic cock? Leave me?

We fall into a puddle of silks. Her lips upon my lips. I settled between her legs. Beneath her small buttocks. Lifting her hips. Exposing the smooth insides of her thighs to my attention. She mewed as I kissed the tender skin there. And there. And there. Slowly snaking my way up to the open, crimson flower that wept her feminine dew. She smelled like good earth. Autumn leaves. As my tongue explored the petals of her flower, her sounds echoed. Her body writhed. I plunged between the folds to trace the tip of my tongue around the erect pink nodule. Her hips began to dance, directing me to the places she desired to be caressed the most. I knew the taste of her was poison but so tempting was it that I could not help myself. I lapped and swallowed as more and more of her sweet nectar poured forth. I felt it burn my lips and claw at the inside of my throat as it went down. Frantic in her passion, she curled herself around and forced me to change my position. Finding my erection a shadow of what it had been before, she whimpered and took it into her mouth. The full ferocity of her passion hit me. Every part of her animal ghost began to invade my body. Sending barbed tendrils through my nerves. Flaying the covering that was human. Her hungry mouth around my cock demanded its response. I went back to my own feeding. Tending to her secret garden with my tongue. Her scent was everywhere and her legs pressed against the sides of my face as I indulged her. Soon, I could feel the febrile tremors of her storm building. Her hips pitched and shivered and I pushed my fingers deep into her cave, flexing and exploring the dark velvet cavity inside. So greedy was she for my essence, she spun her body around like a wild thing and straddled my hips. For a silent moment, I thought to deny her. She was a creature like me. And like me she would devour and devour until nothing was left.

She purred as she slid herself down onto my throbbing sword, sheathing it in her dark wet embrace. She clung to me. Squeezed me. Rode me. Her eyes closed and her parted lips revealed her tiny fangs. A pink pointed tongue swept across her carmine lips before she bent forward and the night curtain of her hair spread over my chest. All I had to do was keep her teeth at bay until I finished. I reached up to caress her breasts, taking each nipple between my fingers and pinching as she rocked herself on top of me. Her thrusts and whimpers became more urgent and she ground herself against me with every downward stroke. Any moment now she would open. Then she would be mine for the taking. I grabbed her sides and rolled her over onto her back. She responded gloriously by wrapping her legs around my waist and urging me to drive into her hard. And so I did. And there beneath me, quivering and convulsing, her spine arched and her head thrown back, was the fox demon. So lovely. So sleek. Flushed. Panting. I made her say all the naughty words in her aphrodesiatical accent. I plunged down into her again and held myself there. Hands on my hips.
I looked down to see the beauty adore my cock with her mouth. Her wet warm mouth. Her questing tongue. Her hands were everywhere, stroking my ass. Encircling the girth of my prick. Jerking at me wildly. Against her tongue. And her lips. So anxious for me to let loose with the venom that would acknowledge her sexual skill.

Acknowledge my acceptance. My appreciation of her skill. It was not long coming and I allowed her mouth to fill with the clear fluid that would drive her crazy for my body. Give her the burning that she so yearned for. Looking down at her, I watched her mouth expand as I filled her. Watched her swallow some just to let the burning scold her innards. When she pulled away she looked me deeply in the eyes, letting the clear cream drip from the sides of her mouth, onto her tits. Then with one massive spitting motion, onto her cunt. For that, I spanked her. She offered her puckered star and I fucked her in the ass.

Nice to see you again friends Max

Monday, August 1, 2011

Dear Perfect Girl - #1 ... in her mirror

You know the way a woman can enter my thoughts with a confident sidelong glance as she makes her way across the crosswalk in front of my car on a spring day. How I take her in. Her stride, the way her pants ride her hips. This undercurrent of voyeurism has tuned my attention. I only need a few seconds. Her posture, the small upturned corner of her mouth in a fem-cocky smirk. I take it all in. Psychologically licking her, like an ice cream cone. Appreciating the sweet taste while maintaining control over the way she melts into my brain.

And I revel in the decisions she has made. Her short haircut accentuating the simple, feminine strength of her face. And I notice what she notices in the mirror when she is feeling good, and happy. The curve and nape of her neck. Is there any more private place on a woman typically laid bare for everyone to see? The makeup she applies sparingly, knowing that glow is far more seductive than sparkle. I feel like I am there with her as she pulls her pants up over her thong, and turns to check out her ass. No panty lines. She wonders what her ass looks like to others. How they see it. I love that she cares. And so on. I take it all in, and when she is past, and I drive on, I feel heightened. Alive.

My fantasy girl knows who I am and understands this about me. And she drinks in this kind of attention. She will call me, and tell me that she has bought new clothes. For a date, or for an event. Or sometimes, simply because she enjoys the unspoken power it gives her over people like me. I will go to her. In her dressing room she will stand in front of the long mirrors, and get dressed for me. For her. She is nervous, because like me, this is exciting for her. This perversion of an everyday occurrence.



She has a natural body that many would consider doing unnatural things to achieve. She is young and in her prime. She hasn't always been this way, so she appreciates it even more than I do. She is naked. Running her hands over her body, she confirms the visual evidence with the tactile. A gentle squeeze of her breasts reasserts the firmness she sees in front of her. A slight cupping lift in her hands demonstrates an appropriate heft for their perfect shape. She smiles coyly, and it is the perfect mixture of modesty and naughtiness. Her new shirt is thin, and is meant to fit close to her. Not tight or clingy. But in a way that mimics the taper of her torso. The new shirt spills gracefully onto her hips. The shirt is thin enough to make her choice of bra a concern. She tries on a number of them. I watch. And we both comment on what we see. This one holds her too high. That one pushes in and up, in a way that takes away from the round fullness of her natural shape. She tries it without a bra. She moves in and out of the light trying to see her nipples through the material. She looks at herself from the side. Arches her back. Holds her hands behind her back. Leans forward. She wants to know how she looks doing each of these things. She is loading her gun. And finally, she decides. No bra. Her tits sit perfectly and spread sideways ever so slightly. The only place on her entire torso that the material stretches is across her tits. The stretch lines are not extreme, but they are obvious. Perfect. She looks me in the eyes, and as she does this, she pinches hard on her nipples. And twists. They are hard and obvious. And there is one more stretch line across her shirt, directly linking her nipples. She smiles. More naughty this time.

She tries on several pairs of panties, assessing each one for its visible panty line or lack thereof. She sits in a chair, and stands again. Crosses and uncrosses her legs. As panties creep into her ass she turns and stretches and looks in the mirror. She pulls them out and rearranges them. I notice, in the mirror, that her nipples are still hard. This has an electric effect on me. She playfully hikes them up between the cheeks of her ass. She tells me that she likes how that feels. It is building for both of us. And she is feeding off the obvious effect this all has on me. She lets a fingernail drag over her clit as she puts on the high cut panties she has chosen. Her skirt is modest, but flirtatious. Not tight, but of a light material that will cling to her legs as she walks in the wind. She tests how this looks by pulling it from behind. It is delicious. She asks me to pull on it so she can see what she looks like with her arms in a normal position. She asks me to pull it tighter.

Her sandals are obvious, but she puts them on for full effect. Her calves look amazing as she twists in the mirror and stands up on the balls of her feet. And then, when she is all dressed, she poses. She looks amazing, and she knows it. This drives me insane, and she knows it. And she loves it. And she touches herself. And so do I. And we feed off each other's excitement. And this all is a fantasy. Or is it?

Love,
Max