Friends,
I have been a naughty blogger in recent months, my attention swayed from the here and now to the there and should be. I am back.
Resolutions (quite obvious, I am sure):
Love more. Seek adventure (more). Kick through the snow and dried leaves, and see what lies beneath.
Unbutton a coat. Just one button. Then another. Mmm. Come right in. I have missed you.
Happy New Year.
Photo courtesy of @iSlut_ of A Slut’s Memoir
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~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
The Bitch is Back – The temperature at the table drops several degrees. “Like that?,” I say. ”Is that what you want?”
On Women Who Like Sex – I like sex as much as any man I know. I am not a weirdo, I am not a slut, and I am not in any excessive danger.
Secret Secretary- There she was in the reception room on my couch, lying on her back, legs spread, skirt hiked up over her torso, her hands frantically feeling between her legs.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
Street Harassment: It’s everywhere, all the time
~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~
Thoughts: Regarding Limits In BDSM
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Begin rant
Communication Breakdown
Family Planning
Great Expectation
My Fantasy
Rituals, Symbolism, Kink, and of course ME
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
How You Know You Are On The Rag
Intersecting
Kink & Fetish
Anal Slut
Belted
Flogger Use and Safety from a Beginner
Janet’s Magical Toybag
Protest Much?
Property of Seven
Playing With Fire
Please
Tonight I am going to fuck your (slave) ass
The Long-Anticipated Gangbang Post
Welcome To The Club
Erotic Writing
Almost Broken
Alive
A Bad Habit
A Sinner Sits for Sacred Sunday Service
BBQ & Beer
Birthday Sex
Cap D’Agde -spit roast with a stranger
Dirty Talk
Lolita Twenty-Twelve, Part Five
Matched
Oral at a Sex Party
once in a while
Revelation
Random memories: First love
Saturday Morning Pussy
Stress Reliever – Lubed Fingers
The shopping assistant
The Sting of the Crop
You
I am thinking of you.
I am thinking how fantastic you look now, your summer fit quite fitting my immediate needs to fuck, to be fucked, to feel your hands running beneath my skirt, and shirt, to feel your fabulous body next to mine.
Skin, I love your skin, hands on skin, so familiar, love your heat growing, grinding, love your hand roughly slapping me as I lie across your lap, naughty you, you so desired, so fucking hot, you so elusively not here right now, not groaning as I push your lovely dildo up your ass, as I take your balls gently into my mouth, oysters, so smooth, take your cock, so hard, how I could screw you silly right now.
Wet, you know I am, know I want you, know that happy hours are for weekdays and not weekends, though I wish, want, take a sip from life, from you, your come still filling my mouth, even now, or the thought of it, of you, thrashing, crashing into my warm cunt, satisfied, very, then, now wanting, wanting you back, here, sip, gulp, let me straddle you, toss my hair back, your kiss, my neck, share, again, now.
The signs were written in chalk: tomatoes, swiss chard, basil, fresh corn. You drove past, and then stopped, pulled over, and pulled my sweater roughly toward you, your beard rubbing my face raw as you kissed my ear, then bit it, not quite gently, just the way I like it.
“You are such a slut.”
My panties were wet already, even before you started this, but in reality it was the fresh produce that had caught your attention. You let go of my top, and shifted the car into reverse, screeching the tires as you u-turned quickly from the side of the road, and worked up the dust and gravel turning into the neighborhood stand.
The peaches, watermelons, corn were stacked in baskets. You loaded them into yours, and walked on to the grain-fed beef–packaged and waiting for you in the freezer.
“We’ll have a feast, hon’,” you said, pulling my hand close as you headed to the cash register.
I looked at you, that leather hat pulled low on your head, the shadow of your beard on your dark, tanned skin, summer, you pulled your wallet from the back pocket of your jeans and handed two twenties to the teenage girl at the counter. School starts next week, she told you, blushing at the white of your teeth, the dimple in your cheeks when you smiled at her, then once more at me.
You kicked a pebble from the doorway, then lost it with the others in the path, dust around your feet as we walked through the dry parking lot, your car dusty, too, seats warm now in the sun, your hand behind my headrest as you back up , leaning toward the center, toward me, as I grab your hand then, and kiss it, lick it, your smile, your laugh as you pull your arm back to shift into first, second, third, then grab my knee, squeeze quickly before grabbing the steering wheel once more, bounty in the back, the wine, bread, cheese, apples, your beach towel, speedo, taut ass beneath it. Soon your legs are stretched long on the sand, a weekday, hooky.
I should never be here with you, like this, like this afternoon when you have pulled me from those unimportant things, those never mind things, those Friday tired things that I would not have done anyhow, anyway. You pull me close once more, run your hands down my back, down my backside, and reach beneath my skirt to pull my panties off, toss my bikini bottom to me.
“Make yourself decent!” you growl, then laugh as you roll back and I pull the swimsuit up beneath my skirt, then remove the skirt, and look around as I figure out the top. The beach is deserted now, after Labor Day, the lifeguard stand empty, canoes turned upside-down farther down. No one is here, water warm, your soft lips next to mine, hard cock pressing against my hip.
You loosen your grip, and I break free. “Catch me,” I shout. You might.
I look back, and you have turned onto your belly, laid your head down, a moment, two, then you jump up, run to the water, and I run farther, then dive beneath the surface, your hand grabbing my ankle in no time. You are faster, pull my foot, skin on your skin, your kisses hard, then soft, then biting.
Your teeth sink into my neck, belly tight as my heart quickens, relax, my limbs limp, cunt wet as you slowly let me go, rush of pain, want, your cock even harder now when I dig my nails into your back. Your fingers pull the side of my swimsuit, then reach beneath. Yes, I am wet. Yes, I want you, want you here.
The car is hot, now, surely, vegetables baking in the back seat, sand in the seats now as you drive quickly back to a quiet place, a new place, a shady place, a roadside, a back seat, my mouth, my hair, my swimsuit tossed to the ground, yours, no room, no matter. You pierce my cunt, so long, so needed, corn ripe, peaches oozing as you step on the one that fell from the bag. Your sweat is pungent now, arouses me as I push you up, back, sit on you, bounce harder as you cry out, pull me closer, shout once more, twice, rush of warmth, dripping, I cry, I want, have, stop, cannot bear your fingers now squeezing my nipples, not more, not now, not yet.
So calm now, so sweet to lie back, tan lines, no lines, no cares, to bite into a peach and see you lean into your hands, rub your eyes. Once more, I say, I would, want, will wait.
Chard,beside the grill, steak, rioja, garden hose, grow up, on second thought, don’t.
Come to bed, sweet, come now.
I should have fallen asleep now hours ago, or before now, anyway. The night has grown late, and I wait for you, want you, cannot sleep.
I have found the turquoise nightgown, the old one, vintage, some fantasy from long ago. It charms you, I know, with its ruffles, the polyester lining beneath chiffon, my hair up, now down as you unfasten it, let my dark strands fall onto my shoulders, and you, the kiss of red wine.. I drink from your glass, and yes, it is wonderful. For this I stay up late, just to watch you walk into the room, then turn, aroused by my nightly reading, your hand on the hem of the skirt.
You are quick, my love, your clothing tossed to the ground so quickly, so hurriedly, as I barely have the chance to enjoy the slow exposure of your fine flesh, your trousers bulging in front, your spray-starched shirt laid carefully upon my stack of skirts and sweaters that I might choose to wear this week. Why not put them in the closet, you say, until you open the closet, and see the dilemma, no room, too much, you are not surprised, as you lower your head beneath my legs, nearly immediately, yes, I wore panties, was wearing panties, and you have rolled them down my legs so deftly, now off, and your head is where I dreamed it might be, soon, now, your tongue circling my clit as you kneel in your navy briefs and lick me.
I should sleep, but now am wet, my sweat unavoidable in this room, this gown that, while elegant, does not breathe, meant obviously to please only momentarily before eventual removal, and you have pulled it now over my shoulders, my neck, your cock pressing against the briefs, which I nearly as quickly roll down your ass, and off. I could stop, revel in the luxury of skin, your honey hair at the base of your ready cock, my skin now supple, first, inviting, hot, ripe, as I see your prick bounce as I lick you there, me now kneeling as you stand, run your hands through my hair, then grasp my head, thrust into my mouth first hard, then though you thought you might hurt me, toss yourself onto the bed, pulling me atop.
I should sleep, the hours all the shorter as I look at the alarm, set, must awaken by six o’clock, and it is midnight now, past, now Monday, early, and I want to sleep, want more to fuck you, want more for you to flip me over and send me into sweet oblivion, sweet dreams, your come dripping from my throbbing cunt, my ass, and the dreams between. No, I cannot sleep, not with you in my bed, not yet.
Did I tell you about the peaches? I saw them there, these Hudson Valley beauties, in baskets, three dollars or so for the entire bunch of them. I stood in the pouring rain, and handed my bills to the woman at the counter. She pushed her hair behind her ears. No, she had never been to Spain, she told the man in the straw hat, who told her that he had just returned, that he was back now, that he was home. She looked away from him. No, she had never traveled to Europe, not even to New York City, she said, but her children had, and her neighbor had, and she looked at me with my dripping hair and took the watermelon from me, placed it on the scale, and then the cantaloupe, and the berries, same price as the peaches, but fewer of them. She said that it was not supposed to rain today, but here we were, the puddles now flooding the parking lot as I ran out with my bags and tossed them in the back, rushed to get in myself, and wrapped a beach towel around my wet hair, and started the car.
I drove, drove on, forgot the peaches, turned down WFUV now in the driving rain, music now news, cars slow in front, cars fast behind me, the rain slowing, then stopping, then spitting, then sunny on the road that wound beside the railroad tracks, few cars, radio, “She Moves On” sings Paul Simon, little direction, the peaches now fragrant in the back of the car, so enticing that I pulled off and grabbed one, bit into it, bit my lip, juice running down my face in a sudden burst of sweet pain. I missed you then.
I missed you in the hot car, steam running off the streets as the sun hit once again, the corn green and tall here–nowhere else this year–and sparkling now, leaves hanging with the weight of the water, and again those peaches, I would feed one to you.
I would hold the peach so you could take a greedy bite from it, lick the juices from my fingertips, from my mouth, the sticky fruit no matter, in the heat, on a roadside, your salty rough face, calloused hands, shirt rolled up to your elbows, brown brawn, I want you. I want you there, that day, want the heat, and the clenching tight desire in my gut, the sweet lust for you, your lust for me, your company, and yes, sweet flesh, want you dripping down my face.
“You like to tease me, don’t you?”
Louise had followed Gregory’s directions to the estate. He led her past forests, past the long wall, and up the driveway to the home of a good friend–a friend whose family evidently collected châteaux and Maseratis.
Louise stopped beneath the portico, and pulled her car to the side. As Gregory had insisted, she brought nothing but a purse. He said he had taken care of all her needs.
Louise walked to the door and knocked. A small, stern woman answered the door and silently handed Louise a small bag, then brought her through long halls to a large bathroom.
“You may change here, Ma’am,” the woman said. “Mr. Gregory is in the next door to the right. Do not knock. Just enter.”
Louise walked into the bathroom and opened the bag. Ah, how sweet! Luxuries for a lovely weekend!
She looked in: a pair of stilettos and a corset, with a short skirt..
Louise hesitated, then slipped out of her own clothes and put on the costume.
Please feel free to dress in these items, darling, and use the whip as you wish. I am waiting.
Gregory
Louise walked from the bathroom to the next door, paused, then pushed the heavy oak panel.
“Greg, it’s me. Where are you hiding? I couldn’t wait to see you! I…”
Gregory was naked and face down across the canopy bed. His wrists and ankles were already bound to the posts–the scratchy rope was too tight, already leaving marks though he had little reason to pull them yet. Louise stopped, then slowly circled, tentatively swinging the small whip she had received gently against her hand.
“I think you want me to tease you,” Louise said–her voice more confident than she felt. She brought the whip down against a post, so the leather wound round. Not right. She walked around the bed again, then tried it on the bed between Gregory’s leg, watched him tense at the crack, saw him smile.
When Louise had received the invitation for a weekend away, it was a surprise. She had been seeing Gregory now for months, but he was away so often. Time was so precious, so rare. Too rare, in fact. But now, at last Gregory had managed to book a romantic weekend getaway, time alone.
“No, dear, not tease. What I want is for you to really use that whip. But I am in a compromised situation to demand things from you, I realize.”
Louise wanted to kiss Greg now. She wanted to tell him about her drive, wanted to cuddle beside him as they used to when they first met. But it was not the time, she saw. She knew well of Gregory’s fantasy, though they had never played these games before. But he wanted it now.
Louise raised the whip, and let it fall on Gregory’s thigh. A light red line immediately appeared. He flinched a little as she whipped the other leg, but she continued. He tensed as the strips of leather hit his legs again and again, but he shut his eyes and a sort of calm seemed to move into the room as she whipped harder.
Louise watched as Gregory moaned and cried, his flesh turning redder all the while. The rope was even tighter now, and Louise stopped.
“Are you hurt?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face as she saw the welts rise on his buttocks, his face red, sweat streaming down his face. She bent to kiss his bruised shoulders.
“Please,” Gregory gasped, “please more.”
Louise climbed beside him, and kissed his neck, her fingers tracing the red paths on his back. “I care about you, Greg,” she took hold of the rope, began to loosen the knot. “I can’t…”
“No,” Gregory turned, “no, oh, no. Don’t stop! Please, Louise, you turn me on so much. Please, the whip!”
Louise climbed down and whipped Gregory, whipped him hard, as he begged, pleaded her to stop.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.
“No, no!” Gregory panted. “Oh, it’s not the word. Remember?”
Yes. Yes, Louise thought and remembered. It was not the right word at all. She whipped him then until he said it, cried it out once.
Louise loosened the ropes, and saw Gregory’s cock stand as he rose from the bed. He grabbed for it, began to sit, but then stood, then took Louise’s hand and led her to the bath.
Gregory thrust his cock into his hands, yelling out as he quickly climaxed, leaning against the cold shower wall. Come rinsed from his hands as the water poured down from the shower head. He panted, then looked up at Louise and smiled. He reached for a towel and patted his skin.
Gregory fell into the bed and lay motionless, red backside, arms, legs, skin swollen now after all, still, the sting of hot water, the long arousal, intensity of the orgasm Louise had watched. “Oh, thank you,” he said, “it was ecstasy.” His shoulders surrounded her, her arousal stirred for the moment until he let go.
“Gregory, I don’t know…” she kicked off the heals, and lay the whip on the night table. She kissed him gently on the neck and wrapped her arms around him. He was asleep.
Gregory slept the sleep of angels, Louise thought. But she was not quite sure.
The dark clouds and sunlight in the late afternoon cast shadows that made the entire landscape seem more colorful than it really was. It was bound to rain later, which always makes for a romantic evening, Louise started to dream. But not now.
Not ever, it seemed, the promise of romance gone as quickly as it had come. Or maybe the whipping was supposed to be romantic–but she felt a crack in her soul as she hurt him. And yet he seemed to need it so much. Maybe she should have stayed, even if…
But no, not like this. It was not the fantasy that troubled Louise, not the thought of the pain, the delicate balance with pleasure–that, in fact, was the seduction. No, not that she wanted to hurt him, either, but that something was missing. They had barely spoken, before or during. Nothing so intimate should ever be so cold.
As the fairy tale became smaller in the rear-view mirror, Louise felt a surge of relief, driving in the rain, toward the night, through this unfamiliar land, but eventually, finding her way back home.
I was thinking today about that apartment on the fifth floor, the walk-up with the kitchen exhaust fan that surely saved our lives in the humid evenings when hunger finally outweighed exhaustion, when I finally lit the gas burner and tossed the steaks into the pan. Your landlord told you to stop grilling on the balcony. The mosquitoes had discovered the patio below. You never grilled.
Your skin must still glisten in the low light now–even a table lamp seems to add to this kind of heat. We drew the shades all day back then, turned the fans to blow the air out of the small dark rooms, lay motionless in the small dark world until the sun set, until I startled at the hour, reached over you for my panties, pulled them on as I stood into my sandals and walked into the kitchen, zipping my dress along the way. I stood in front of the refrigerator, pulling out cucumbers, carrots, the two steaks, poured the last quarter bottle of chilled chablis into the wine glass on the counter. I answered my calls, talked while I chopped, and life returned, nightly, a radio flipped on, the air at last cooler than our flat, fans turned in once more, your drunken cold pecks landing on my hot neck.
I fucked you slowly then, slow the only way to survive the days, the long days. I slid slowly over you beneath the shower, in oceans, in beds at home, in holiday inns beside lakes up north, in the cool lack of privacy, the bickering want for ambition, my want. I dreaded relief in those hot days, slowed days down as if to hang on longer, dreaded the strength that might return when the haze lifted, when the phone rang, and it was someone else, something else, something clear, and crisp, and full, and faraway.
Your muscles tightened beneath your skin as you lay upon the hot mattress through those idle months. I hated you, your unemployed cock still hard, shameless, your body fit, maintained in all the hours, morning hours, long hours with nothing more to do but to adore it, to adore yourself. I hated the hours you had to spend, motionless, your passion seemingly endless in the abyss, passion without a cause. I hated the flowers you gave to break the news to me, your gift to yourself, your selfishness. I hated the rumble of an engine, your liberty, you said, your life, unexplored, really, as if lying in these small rooms with me really ever was enough, if only I’d stay there with you, bound by the ring on my finger, only you, no friends, no landscape beyond, as if you thought I wanted nothing more in this life than you, as if wanting more was to betray you. I betrayed you.
I loved you in that room, you know. I loved the heat, radiating, loved that dizzy feeling that nothing else mattered, loved the mind-twisting illusion, your blind jealous red eyes, loved the cool knife pushed oh so gently into my flesh, my senses slowed, dulled, loved the lull, the gradual loss of myself, longer, loved the mirage, the promise of more, you, there, just a little farther beyond.
This subject is trite. And yet I cannot stop myself from writing another piece about the soft raindrops falling outside, the pitter-patter on my roof, the way it makes me feel.
The unfortunate truth about this is that it is true, completely true. The rain whets my lust. I want you most on days like this, on days when I sit beside you as we drive to some sort of bliss, with windshield wipers, and the grey comfort of clouds, no reason to venture beyond this shelter on a day like this, after all. I could have you all to myself, then, here.
I remember days like this, yearn for them once more, the thrill.
The thrill of the warmth, yes, but the wet, the unrelenting wet as I go out in spite of you without my umbrella. You feel compelled to follow me, to chase me, running, to find me, finally, to kiss me, here, in this cool rain, in my wet warmth, my excuse to undress you, to kiss your head, to warm you then, in showers, warm showers, to embrace you here, beneath the warm water, the slick wish, oh yes, I’ll say it now, I want you, I want you now.
But, of course, this being a trite exercise in writing about rain, in writing–really–I am aware of the distant, the intangible. And still…
And still, it is urgent, this desire. It is urgent, to me, to want you, to want you to want me, to want rain, to want wet, what, where, when?
Sanda wore gold ankle bracelets that jangled gently as she wandered through the farmer’s market. You’d hear a soft music, and look up at a black silk of hair as she sauntered past, look down at her bare foot kicking out from beneath the tightly wrapped long skirt, the circles of gold around her brown butter baby skin.
Sanda told me the story of climbing quickly out a window late one night, never to return home again. She remembered the shadow of the teak chairs on the porch, the banyan tree, voices hushed, her brothers. And then she imagined the rest of her childhood through the stories her father told her.
We sat on her living room rug and drank wine. She complained about her boyfriend’s refusal to fuck her during her period.
Our boyfriends denied us many things, we decided.
“I want him to eat me,” she slurred, lying now on her belly and hugging a pillow. She rolled to her back, and ran her hands down her arms, and across her thighs. “I want him to bury his face between my legs and lick me until I pass out.” She laughed, “That’s not asking too much, is it?”
My boyfriend was completely willing to venture into the world of cunnilingus, regularly, if lethargically. His sweet surrender to my every whim was enviable, Sanda told me. And for a little while, I was aroused by that thought–that he would do anything, anything, I asked him to do.
“Will he lick your ass?”
I knew he would, if I asked him. He asked me how, and dutifully spread my buttocks while I bent over his bed. I felt his tongue wet and cool around my asshole, my pussy all the wetter as I envisioned describing the experience to Sanda. I pushed back against his mouth, urging his tongue in deeper–a sensation so strange, the way ice cream feels in your mouth, sweet and smooth, only it was not ice cream, and it was not my mouth. I slid my hand beneath my pussy as he spread me open, wider, his tongue fucking me now, my fingers slick, circling my clit wildly as I cried out. He stopped, then stood behind me. His cock rubbed gently at my ass, teasing against the tight rim. He hesitated, then sank gently instead into the heat of my pussy. “Oh, you are so wet!” he gasped, and he pushed in once more, much longer. His come dripped from me as his soft dick popped out. He fell onto the bed, nearly asleep already, and I climbed up beside him, pulled the towel between my legs, and hugged him. The towel rubbed against my ass, my clit still wanting.
After awhile, my period began to arrive with Sanda’s, and we spent the evenings of her menstrual banishment lying on the floor, sandalwood smoke trailing from the incense burner on the mantel, record after record spinning, my head light and giddy as the night grew darker, longer. Her skin smelled like butter.
Sanda stood and stretched, her moonlit silhouette framed by the window like a poster. Sanda cupped her breasts. “They are so swollen and sore!” She held them. “Whenever I touch them right now, it makes me want to fuck!” she said.
“Such a jerk.”
Sanda’s boyfriend never acknowledged me, but walked into her apartment occasionally, unexpectedly, and went directly to the fridge. Sanda rolled her eyes as he tossed her an empty beer bottle on the way back out the door. “Think fast!” he’d say.
“Hey, are you coming back later?” she’d ask. And he grunted back to her his yes or no, without embellishment of detail.
My own breasts were swollen now, too, my nipples hard from rubbing against my lace t-shirt. Sanda had promised to show me how to wrap a skirt, and she remembered suddenly, asked me if I wanted to do it now. I stood and reached for the batik cotton length that I had brought, and handed it to Sanda.
“Come, we need some pins.” Sanda stomped carelessly through her third-floor apartment, the neighbor’s inevitable knock on the ceiling bringing her back to herself. “I am very cranky, tonight, Leyla,” she said, as she walked into the bedroom. I followed her.
“Stand here, by the mirror.”
Sanda reached into the drawer, and pulled out a handful of safety pins and threw them on the dresser. She reached across, and pulled at the waist of my shorts, and unbuttoned them. I pulled the zipper.
“The skirt needs to be tight on your hips,” she said, sliding my shorts off.
I stepped out of my shorts, and saw the curls of pubic hair beneath my panties. My cunt grabbed onto the tampon I was wearing. Even so, my panties felt damp as she unfolded the fabric and reached around me to wrap it. “This is beautiful,” she said as she pulled the cloth tight. I moved in closer to her, let my breast brush lightly against hers, as if it were an accident.
Sanda folded, and pinned. I could smell the sandalwood in her hair as she bent down, her breath on my breasts as she worked.
“There!” she straightened, and turned me toward the mirror. The skirt was dark blue, and she had hung it low, below the top of my panties.
“I see your underwear,” she giggled, and pulled at the elastic.
I froze, felt her warmth behind me. I shut my eyes briefly, then opened them and looked at her in the mirror. She gazed into my eyes there, and gave a soft nod.
I turned back to face her. Her nipples showed through the peach camisole, and my hand drifted up to touch her breast. She sighed, then smiled, then grasped my hand and kissed my wrist my arm, as she backed into the bed.
For weeks, my boyfriend had teased me about Sanda.
“Oh, is this a girl date?” he had snickered, as he looked up from his work order.
“Her boyfriend ignores her this time of the month,” I explained. My boyfriend did not ignore me. But he was glad, he said, to have some time to catch up on things at home.
In truth, I knew I overwhelmed him. He said so, sometimes. He said so the month that I stayed in the huge house I sat while my professors were abroad. “Sleep with me here,” I begged him. And for three nights, he watched me brush my teeth before bed, the me in purple pajamas that he wrote about years later. I began to kiss him, all three nights, talking talking all the while, and came three times each night after he was fast asleep. When the birds sang in the mornings, I climbed on top of him. He told me he needed more rest, and rolled away.
Sanda lay down on the bed, and I crawled beside her, dizzily turning to kiss her cheek. I pushed the strap of her camisole from her shoulder, and kissed her there. She sat up and pulled off her top, and I did the same.
She pinched my nipple, and leaned in to suck on it, relentlessly, as I moaned. She held my shoulders down, climbed across me, her pelvis now pressing against my knee.
The batik worked its way higher as I spread my legs open.
“May I?” Sanda unpinned the fabric as I whispered yes, yes. She lay next to me, and I reached down, dreamily expecting a hard cock. My hands ran down her legs, then pushed them apart
Sanda wore no panties. My finger followed her heat. Her eyes opened wide, as she spread a little wider. Her labia opened, and I touched her. She was drenching, and I felt the string from her cunt.
“You, too?” she laughed. We paused.
“Have you done this?” I asked.
“Never. You?”
“Never.”
I began to kiss her breasts, her belly. I wanted to lick her cunt, but she stopped me.
“I shouldn’t,” she explained. Her boyfriend was supposed to come over, after all, even if he was a jerk.
I told my boyfriend about the evening. He always encouraged my little crushes, and this time it made me wonder why. Love, yes–but passion, desire! That’s not asking too much, is it?
One day, I jumped into the passenger seat of a westbound convertible, and drove away forever. Sanda and I wrote long letters back and forth after that. But Sanda is the type of woman whose comfort lies in the tangible, in time spent, in the voice, in the body.
Come to think of it, I am that type of woman, too.
