Thursday, October 1, 2015




Their time shared in thoughts and ideas were the roots planted deep in their soul's soil, while the branches of future possibilities were extending into the heavenly heavens.  Their writing was like making love, never concerned with the orgasm, just focusing on the process, which made them each crave the orgasm.

Passions start as perky travelers, have brief flitty stays, could become houseguest visiting far too often, becoming tyrants, who grip one within their power.  Cyndy had dreamt of being so clenched.  She wanted to be that shimmering silver punch bowl placed on a delicate lace doily holding his golden apples, forever.  Yes, she went counter to the idea that the little head should not do the thinking, why, his little head was quite big.  James unearthed abundant evidence that she was profoundly horny for him.  Would he use her?  She hoped so.

He wasn't about to deny the sweet plea emanating from small throaty noises or the come-hither taunt of her luscious body to take her, touch her, fuck her.  Cyndy was a delicious instrument of pleasure, he expected he knew the chords, had studied the poise of her, felt the keystrokes were erogenous buttons needing practiced fingering.

Boobs were proof that men could focus on two things at once.  Though he held back a full savage onslaught, he eagerly bent forward, fastening his mouth onto one puckered and enticing nipple. At his succulent touch, her sharp cry echoed into the shadow dense room.  She bowed her body, determined to offer the completeness of that scrumptious swollen bud.  He divided his ministrations between her tits.  Teeth capturing one nipple in a delicate grip, tongue-tip lapping, while a free hand fastened on the fullness of her opposite breast, alternating between caressing, massaging and manhandling.  He then explored further, loving her body with his mouth and tongue, tracing a path over her quivering breasts and belly below, before returning to her breasts.  Ending this divine gifting by moving along the curve of her throat, taking her mouth in a long, searing kiss.

She quivered as if a neophyte, suggesting that this was her first time.  It was, with him, and her doe-eyes bespoke her virtuousness.  The most powerful of all aphrodisiacs was innocence.  She was the waif to his overpowering want.  He was that man, that special man, not one of those yes, my tits would like a drink guys she met with Lena at the local bars.

The universe seemed to fragment as he cast his sensual spell over her.  Now, she was the instrument and he the maestro.  For the barest instant, his fingers paused just below her belly button, as if determining which keystrokes he wished to play.  Slowly, he moved his hand, the way a musician would over a cherished instrument.  Then when he began to play Cyndy, her body burned even hotter.  He strummed passed her panties and tickled her small manicured triangle of curls.  Shockwaves of pleasure jettisoned to the core of her  pussy, and her soft moan was the musical note he had intended.  As if contributing players in a groupthink of a melody, her wet place relished the eminent touches, yes, they would kick death in the ass, biting the bear, scaring the poltergeist, while singing the Hallelujah Chorus.

More turned-on than ever, usurping her control, she couldn't find the strength or willpower to find her knees again to give him back this same divine pleasure.  He had loaded her clit-howitzer, was preparing to cock, ultimately, pulling the trigger on her; shooting.

He created a sexual haze and she continued to acquiesce to his talented playing of her flesh.  Could this be  a schism of purpose between them?  Was she scrutinizing the moment far too deeply?  She felt his riveting intensity and understood that thought was asinine.  They were anticipating feasting on the buffet of each other, nibbling at the raw flavors, and were at that peel and steam stage.

The childish pip-squeak who was chilly at first, was replaced by that gal who shared months of innuendo, loving each nuance.  If that had all been observed by contemporaries, the two might have been thought laughingstocks, their courting and wooing took an almost endless route.  Their patience was likened to resisting the purchase of a cruise ship just because they wanted the room service.  Yes, their wants were reasonable, but caged as if a rabid feral raccoon.   As if their sojourns to love and lust was identical to amateur comedy, it was all about the timing.   These two like-souls outlived, outlasted, and out-lingered the natural tribulations of their complicated love story. This night her room would be their bordello, free to every act or action that they craved.  

Running her hands up his chest, drawing perfect fingernails along tanned skin leaving ashen tracks, she migrated upward, dug her fingers into his shoulders, as if this was her tenable response to his continuous blitz upon her senses. 

Handsome and folly were old and natural companions.  James was striking and his masculine features played on her sensibilities much like that style of masculinity had throughout all human history.  Women were smitten and shamelessly gave of themselves in honor of that.

She wanted him to feel physical retorts of an eager minx, for neither the behest of guttural words nor any animalistic growl-sounds could convey swiftly enough her urgency-of-need for quicker, harder, endless; for simply more and more.  She acquiesced, "Exploit me!"

He was eager to oblige, gripped with dominant hands, and tore her panties away. 

That sound escalated Cyndy's wetness, knowing she was about to be invaded.  Her feminine tunnel twittered with expectancy and yearning.  She had envisioned and fantasized about the initial plunge, that parting and filling that would be a forever memory.  Now, it would happen.  Part of her wanted to prolong it an instant more, but her body refused such nonsense.  And proved it by pulling his waist toward her, she pressed forward to grind his hard cock against her pussy.  Raising one leg she was able to position it along the lips.  While it had not entered, it was sliding, being lathered by her damp want.  His penis initially had the poetic power of Halley's Comet, coming so infrequently. Wetness slithered down the insides of her thighs, as she spread them apart, refusing to cease her fucking motion, enjoying the torrent manipulation of her clit by his enormous cock. 

Lust was power, and all power was inherently aggressive.  She had to make it enter.  James displayed persistence without hasty insistence.  A kiss was a wordless articulation of passion, whose purpose resided in the future and obviously southward.  Orgasms were the laughter of the loins, a party in her panties, or bursts of uninhibited genitalia.  Lust was that mystical broadax that fells with one powerful blow, it was a big dog that leapt everything, sat in the largest chair, ate first, led the pack, ruled the ground it tread, but was nothing more than the clown of love.  So avoiding lust was like letting that big dog holiday with the taxidermist.   

Powerfully yearning to scream for his cock to discover the entrance to her love slot, knowing  how good it would feel deep inside her.  It was right there, so close, just the right nudge would force slippage right into her.  She twitched her hips, attempting to urge the enormous log into her needy cunt.  His head was ample, but she was sopping and knew it would fit, anticipating very little pain. That tantalizing head once more slipped right passed the entrance and pressed her clit.  Conflicting sensations of disappointment and fireworks propelled her movements, an even more rapid fucking motion.

Much like the foray into blowing his great length she questioned just how deep she might be able to take him.  It mattered not, she'd be sated and if she had to throat fuck him free of his expected voluminous load, she would.

Her hips rocked, slowly, seductively, and he knew she wanted him, wanted to feel that cock inside.   He retreated slightly even as she pressed forward, one hand beginning to grope for his prick.  Hands fastened to her ass, he spun her around, pushed at the shoulder blades, and flattened her against the wall compressing a cheek.  Simultaneously, he captured her wrists and then locked them together above her head.  He trailed the fingers of his other hand down her body and back to her mound, and then sliding one finger along her sodden slit.  He forced her legs to spread, grouped her anal cleft, and then slapped her buttock asserting power. 

She gasped, first, and then whimpered as he relentless teased that oozing line, not yet penetrating.  He loved hearing her honey-sweet sounds of arousal.  Loved the way her hair shivered over her shoulders as she tilted her head back and arched her hips, demanding he enter.

As she bent back, James engaged her in a partial kiss, nipped her bottom lip. “You are so wet.”

"For you."

"For what?"

"You know."  Men oft performed sex and oral sex much like they drove.  When they got lost they refused to ask for directions.  Cyndy trusted and believed that James knew his way around her body.  The hours of words and ideas they shared were the proof.    He knew what to do.

Imaginations was the daily bread of fantasy, the wilderness of ideas should never becomes walled by words.  Fantasy was a full participation event.  For years, Cyndy has been the architect of the frozen music of masturbation, but this night, at this moment, she was the crafty designer of a symphony of them, she wanted to conduct, but because of his greater skill she played first flautist. 

Faith was an oasis within the soul, never reached by the rational convoy of thinking, but an avowal not simply a notion, more the fundamental truth.  She had faith that James was the boldness that she wanted, no, needed to cling.   She'd play flute for him.   Faith was the song bird that sensed first light and sang while it was still dark.  So she'd take every step with him with her eyes wide shut.  She spread her legs reacting to his lead.  (to be continued)

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