It is highly distracting to stand up and discover your come running down my leg.

My panties are utterly useless to stop it–completely sopping they are after even one thought more of you, hurried, me hurried and wanting, you drinking coffee with hot milk in my kitchen while I suck your cock, you turning me round to fuck me up against the sink long enough to make me come, not long enough that you would come, but almost.

And you, your tongue, your marvelous tongue, and your thumb (whatever magic trick you were doing with it), and my tongue, you, your ass, your marvelous ass, lovely and ready, and willing, and more. A million things I might do, have not done.Maybe not a million. A few.

I wish at times to fuck you in all ways, to fuck you like me, to fuck you like you, sweetly that way, not sweetly, but hard, harder. Stop. Then switch.

Now I am you, bent over the bed, as we started in the kitchen, but closer now, closer, yes, now you.

And you, your come, your luscious come, dripping down cream, down my legs, distracting me now, dizzy, reminding me of wanting you.

walking home

I liked to walk home from school. Sometimes there was an important reason to hurry back, but most days not. Some days were cold, some rainy, most not. And the days that held no other excitement invited the opportunity for new paths, new explorations. A creek, usually dry, wound back through the way home, woods and alley shortcuts, the connected yards where no one minded kids sneaking through the lives of their various owners with their habits, their particular kindnesses, or a harsh admonishment in the wrong place, the older siblings out of school earlier–or skipping, smoking pot and making out on the hill out of sight of adults who pretended to have no time for exploration. Days and days back in the woods behind my house, the stash of Penthouse magazines we found there, the secrets, the snakes and birds. Time.

So rare now it seems is this exploration this walk, perhaps in new places now, a harbor walk, a garden, the roof of a building that owns the city night–or seems to–the wonder in tracing the lines of your body, your smooth skin, your hair, the curve of your ass when you roll over, the way you tense, then relax completely as I push you apart and wander around you, over you, in you. I love this, the changes in your voice excited, breath shorter, then a long sigh, an urgent passion, deepening in the desire for it all, this discovery always new and yet familiar, the paths and all that grows there, comes there, stays there sometimes forever, sometimes for a short time, and then still seems new. A tan evident now where the sun visits, white and cool where I visit the contrast exciting me all the more as you peel back the fabric, finding my lines and curves, my secret desire warm and wet and wanting the intrusion, your seemingly perpetual tumescence in the haze of new summer, new years, new nights.


I reach over to the nightstand for the bottle that I always keep there. It is a bottle I am fond of, the words “Chanel” on the label, with that distinctive Chanel chic squareness, not Number 5, but the one I have always worn in extravagant moments, which sometimes means everyday, for days or even years, sometimes not at all when I have forgotten or perhaps when I have intentionally closed my senses off from the effect.

I think of the times I have so carefully prepared for meeting a lover. The bath and the bubbles in the scented water, actual shaving cream to aid as the razor glides down my vulnerable skin, the warm towels freshly washed in a bathroom freshly cleaned, the tidying of my always messy existence as if to say yes, yes, this is something extraordinary, you are. The lingerie, selected with care.. color in consideration, favorites, lace, drama for the day, the lingerie dress with its red and black and garters attaching themselves to the nylon that I carefully roll from my painted toes right up my shaved legs.

The kindling for the heat of an embrace–ah yes, the ritual. Peonies on the nightstand, enormous flower ring on my right finger, a spell is cast in this luxury, I find myself there…

I look at the clock as I roll to find the square bottle–nearly midnight now–as I remove the equally angular top and spray a faint spritz of magic into the air above me, letting it fall and disperse. The witching scent seduces me, makes me follow it somewhere beyond the absence, into the real, the warm, the kiss, my hand slipping down beneath panties as if the hand were not my own. It is an extravagance, to sleep like this, I think, thinking of a lover as I drift off, thinking perhaps of you.

twitch 2

9:30… nearly a half-hour to drive, very close I think. A half-hour to turn back, not go. A half-hour to contemplate the birder, his thick cock pressed up against his shorts.

I enter number and street name into the GPS and let the voice guide me:

“Turn right.”

“Go straight.”

“Turn left.”

Bend over, on your knees. Kiss me. Lick me.

I am soaking now, I know–my panties clinging to skin, my shorts no better off, my pussy still throbbing now in… what? I think, the window down with the scent of damp lilacs in the cool air surrounding me, an odd wood fire. I try not to let my mind wander too far into the realm of possibilities while I am still behind the wheel.

Around a series of now forgotten curves and turns, I find myself at the edge of yet another forest. Yes, birder the outdoorsman may well live here–it is plausible that he would be comfortable here in this land of ski racked vehicles, bicycles on front porches, rocks and wild things across the yard. A canoe. Reading between the lines of the REI ads, I have always suspected that the underlying adventure always is never so simple as climbing a mountain, but about that most urgent nature, the need urging me here, now. An address, a time. I am on time, and I wait. He is not here.

Or is he?

The birder has a way of appearing suddenly, not answering front doors as ordinary people do, but coming around to the porch from somewhere else, as though he had never left this morning, as though nothing had ever happened, as though it were perfectly normal to turn women around and push them gently through a front door they have never before seen.

Tea. It was tea he offers, black tea. And it is cool outside and warm in his house, suddenly soft here on a sofa, here with the wood burning, and his warm tea breath on my neck, my skin electric as his fingertips trace my hair, the edges of my clothing, as he kisses me here on the sofa. Yes, that giddy hot feeling as he silently grins and unbuttons my blouse, peeling back the fabric and exploring each new inch of skin with his tongue, his cock hard and full against my leg as I lay immobile with lust now lavish and full.

And yes, it is that sharp acidic scent damp with perspiration that I kiss the top of his head as he kneels between my legs and unzips my shorts, rolls them down, pushing my legs back together as he grabs the shorts and tosses them across the room, then opens my legs again, my panties still drenching, caught to my hot skin, not a modest covering, but a souvenir catching the scent of my desire now for hours, the near climax in the woods earlier, the walk, the anticipation, all here in red lace slick, too, and in the way in my own mind, but not in his as he simply moves the fabric aside from my swollen labia, his tongue now close, just touching a shudder. Fuck me now. No. Take the panties, take them off, all the way, please. Let me spread wide open for your lips, your tongue sucking my clit as your fingers explore skin, my dripping desperate cunt. A cunt that wants you now.

Yes, I hold your head half for bearing in this real world, half to keep you from stopping, my legs shaking as I squirm wider open to your face, yes. My near the edge panting–was it moaning, you said later–my need-you fucking good time hoping that you will not stop praying that you will not. I want you, and it is not about the bird now, is it? not about the birds and the morning hike and the pine and the crackling leaves. I want you to flip me over and fuck me hard while you pull my hair–you do not even know my name to shout it. And I want you, want all that you might be and all that you are, your shorts now so crowded that I stop your sacred tongue. I want you, and I stop your tongue and its magic all as I unhook your belt and buttons and zippers and want you, yes, this cock so willing and delicious, so eager as I push down your shorts and your briefs and your cock bounces back my lips surrounding you as you sigh and push deep into my throat just as I wished you may. Wished you might, and your semen beads up, your cock ever harder. I want you to fuck me now, plunge right into my sweet pussy in one quick stroke, your balls tight and wet now, too, you deeper still and motionless inside of me as I try to writhe and pump you, as you push one notch farther in, and my head falls back and lets you, my nipples hard and no longer forgotten as I come once more, as you now pump me and groan as your cock fills me white.

I knew you, birder, I call you, though I do not truly know you are such an avid pursuer of winged creatures like that. Or are you following me, perhaps, in the early morning, wanting me, wanting you?

spring twitch

Birders are a fascinating breed, those oft-bespectacled early risers, out to catch a glimpse of whatever variety of fowl tickles the fancy that day, or week, or season.

Conservative though he may seem, the birder has been known to captivate the careful observer with his particular habits. So, I indulged my own curiosities this weekend and headed into the woods at the break of dawn, armed with my trusty binoculars and notepad, and a backpack full of assorted accessories ready for the right moment. After all, the Lady was once a Girl Scout, and she has never forgotten exactly how to be prepared.

6:00 a.m. I have arrived to the hiking grounds, deciding on the trail that leads toward the river. A note near the park headquarters indicates that the birder has arrived, has already seen a pileated woodpecker.

6:15 a.m. I have sighted the birder walking quickly beyond the meadow, entering another part of the forest. Through binoculars, I watch as he stops, looks around, then looks down before walking a little farther. He hesitates once more before moving on. I follow. The birder is molting, I believe, as he removes a jacket and stretches for a few moments.

6:25 a.m. The birder has disappeared. I followed into the dark forest, but he is nowhere to be seen, although I clearly saw him enter at this point, and there is no clear path he could have taken to elude me. Perhaps he can fly. I walk on.

6:30 a.m. As I have walked on the path, it occurs to me that I have not seen a single other person here, much less a pileated woodpecker. Birders, as I said earlier, are indeed a curious breed, and I wonder at my own curiosity to have wandered here to follow so damned early in the morning.

6:35 a.m. I am still on the path, noting the appearance of thorn bushes–berries perhaps, but none yet at this point. A creek is ahead, and I realize that it is time to stop and pull the blanket and thermos out of the bag, and simply wait.

6:45 a.m. Coffee is good. The morning is lovely, still dewy now and chilly, but not cold. Stirred by the scent of the pines, I long for company, bird-related or not, but settle instead for my own hands brushing my nipples, which harden as I feel my pussy clench, moistening, noting conveniently that the woods are the perfect place of course for a proper fucking, if only a fuck were anywhere on this horizon.

6:50 a.m. Birder be damned, the woods are wonderful, and Girl Scouts always travel with dildos as well as condom, because a ready penis is not always available, but silicone will never let you down. I have unzipped my shorts, fingers stunned by the intensity of the hot wetness beneath my own panties. My fingers quickly find my greedy clit, and I cry out at my own lust, feeling the urgent desire for cock, any cock, now, ramming me by its own power or by my own. In the still of the early morning, I take my shorts entirely off, my red lace panties down to my ankles as I fuck myself with the dildo, ecstatic, the mist in the woods, the sheer joy of masturbation here in my own secret forest, my own

7:00 a.m. I hear a rustling in the trees, and oh my fuck, a groan perhaps. Compromised as I am by my own desire, I quickly pull out the blessed dildo and quickly pull up my panties, find my shorts. I was about to come, damn it.

7:10 a.m. I have walked on through the woods, now quite disheveled and horny, frustrated by the interruption that was evidently not an interruption other than my own fear of being caught, my own wondering if perhaps I should finish the job now, or simply walk on, try to see the pileated woodpecker that drumdrumdrumdrums loudly somewhere–I have spotted him for a moment only once on this walk. A dragonfly–yes, a dragonfly. Swallows swooping in the meadow as I cross over it, wanting, wanting.

7:30 a.m. The river: a heron stands still in a shallow part, waiting, hoping, praying. I wait there, too, wanting.

8:30 a.m. In the parking lot, I see the birder. So there he is.

“Did you see anything,” I call to him as I open my car door.

“I did find the pileated woodpecker,” I say, as he walks over, now standing quite close to me.

“There are all sorts of surprising creatures in the woods today. I took a few notes,” the birder pulled a worn notebook from his backpack, opened the page:

I look at the notebook, drawings of all sorts for pages back, words, numbers. The heron, yes. A snake. Oh. Scanning for filth, I am, and I find none, sadly.

“Yes, well, I never saw the snake,” I said, then blushing.

The birder has not shaved this morning. He stands over me, grinning and not saying a word as I feel myself turn red, as my pussy starts to throb. He reaches to push his glasses up his nose, and looks baffled as I hand back the notebook.

Birders are, as I said, curious creatures. I turn to open the door, ready to go home for a bath and other grooming that has presented itself as necessary this morning.

The birder is now behind me, closer, reaching around to open the door. I wonder briefly if he is completely sane, but change my opinion as he traces my wrist, runs his hand down my hip, and smacks me firmly on the ass.

“It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.”

“Oh, how was I fooling anyone?” I answer.

“Letting anyone think that you are more interested in pileated woodpeckers than in.. snakes.”

His cock is hard and pressed into my hip now as he growls. I arch my back, let him run his hands down down down–yes! His beard scratches my neck as he kisses my ear, then bites it, his cock throbbing as I gasp and sigh.

A car pulls up. Hikers.

The birder straightens up and tears a page from his notebook, scrawls an address.

“9:30,” he says.

to be continued…