speed limit

It was posted there, on the  left side of my brain, the speed limit.

I have been playing life way too safe.

My first car was a 72 Chevelle, three on the tree manual. The guy who sold it to me took me to a parking lot and took a few turns around the parking lot to show me how to let up the clutch, smoothly, so I didn’t kill the engine. Then he left me there. “Drive it back,” he said. “If you like it, we’ll talk money.”

I liked it.

Girls don’t drive muscle cars. I got that concept quickly enough when I brought it home. But I loved the thrill of speed, the exhilarating rumble of a revved-up engine, ready for green. Go. Go, I got my tickets, not many, didn’t get caught so often or talked my way out of most things, no excuses, just temporary insanity of sorts, drunk, not on late night beer, but on the temptation of a clear road, clear night, a car poised next to me at the light, his accelerator pushed to the floor, my feet dancing that balance between the clutch, green, down first up, down second up, down, third up quickly, and yes, yes, I raced him, raced far past the 30 mph, not to the 80 spray-painted over it, but fast, so fast, until he passed me, or I passed him, sometimes, or one of us killed the engine losing it all in those careless early shifts. But more often we raced close, not sure winning was so much the point as being there, and free, and laughing as we soared out alone past the flat fields .

i have been playing life way too safe.

I forgot the thrill of the limits, living at the limits, or better, somewhere beyond them.  Not on automatic. Letting off the clutch. Shifting into high.

 

disrobing

You always leave your clothes in the bathroom when you visit me.

You wander naked into my bedroom where I wait for you, fully clothed, because I love the way you undress me slowly, unbuttoning button by button, unhooking hook by hook, lifting fabric and shifting things and leaving things on, then ripping them off in a moment of urgent passion as you realize that they really are in the way of your intentions.

The first time I wore stockings with a garter belt, you ran your hand up my leg and I felt your cock stiffen as you reached the bump of the garter through my skirt then lifted the skirt and looked at it, the black stocking against my white leg, and your hand examining the hooks that held the stocking on. That day I left it on, pantiless I was all day at work anticipating you here in my bed here leaned against the wall half sitting, full of evident lust. I left on the garter belt and the stockings and straddled you as you ran your hands up and down the smooth nylon and fucked me harder as you felt the black lace at the top, folded down my red brassiere and sucked my nipples as I leaned over for you to reach them.

But no, last time you took those things off, your hand playing with the suspenders playing to figure out how they worked. You unfastened them, round the side, in back, and rolled the stockings down my leg as I pulled the garter belt off and unhooked my bra. You pulled the bra off and cupped my breasts in your hand and squeezed my nipples hard so that I gasped as you urged me quickly onto your upright cock.

I want you to come into my bedroom now. I want you to lay me down and unbutton my sweater slowly until you open the sweater and kiss my collarbone gently, gently not gently unzipping my skirt and pulling it off, pushing my legs apart–the panties are already gone–and your head is between my legs, your tongue circling my clit before I can even breathe, much less protest.

But I would not protest. I might whimper and thrash a bit, but protest no, even if I say no, because you know the difference between this no and that no, and you know when to stop, when to go, when to fuck me soft and when to fuck me hard, no holds barred, no bars and no restrictions on the roughness that takes you over as you become excited, as I become excited and want you to, want you to slap me harder until I cry out, harder until I want you to push me harder until you turn me back over and push your cock deep into me, harder. It astounds me how you can do this now and only excite me more. It astounds me how you can let my fingernails dig into your skin, pinch your nipples too hard, let me suck your cock and push my fingers into you, my toys into you as you cry out and fuck me again all plugged from behind and insistent and shaking and coming soon inside of me, shattering me, making my cunt bear down hard gripping you, squeezing every last drop as I climax too.

Oh disrobe me fuck me use me lie inside my cunt your cock drained soft softer kiss.

double trouble

“I want to fuck you while someone is watching us. I want to watch them, too, and I want to see how excited it makes you…”

These were your words. Remember?

In truth, I have been planning something like this for some time. It all started with an advertisement:

A thousand scenarios run through my mind as I type this…

Yes, it is true. I do have so many ideas of what this is supposed to be, what it may feel like. I am nervous, surprised I even ran the ad, wondering what you think of me for actually doing it.

We are real. Somehow it seems even filthier, more exciting with people who could be your neighbors, or your colleagues. Much hotter. Write and tell us what you like. Be real. This could be a one-time adventure or an ongoing situation if we all enjoy it.

It is filthy, isn’t it? It is hot. I am nearly shaking at what I may have unleashed.

But we are never less human.

I arranged to meet her. And finally, after many mishaps, we did. She is quite attractive, I’ll say, delightful. The bartender appreciated our presence, tried to persuade us to stay, offered us free drinks. The excitement buzzed through us, making us glow, I am convinced of that. But no, we did not take the free drinks. We all have lives we drift back to.

We are ordinary people, dreaming, feeling. She wants to bring a man. I want to bring you.

I wonder what I have done. I am dizzy, surprised, frightened, exhilarated….