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: cannelés 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

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