Picky, picky

When it comes to choosing a lover, I am pretty amiable. I like men of all shapes and sizes, blonde with blue eyes, dark hair with smoky brown eyes, soft and firm, tall or short -- they all taste so sweet. I usually prefer them married, but my brown-eyed Irish boy is not. He was a welcome addition to my fuck parade after a drought, but in one area, he fails.

Maybe I shouldn't be so picky. Maybe I should be thankful for an ever-ready cock and twisting fingers that so easily find my g-spot. Maybe I shouldn't assume that all men who cheat with a married woman like the same things.

I have a secondary love affair with words, and until now, my lovers have joined me. Stories about dreams, desires -- many posted on this site. Typed promises about next meetings and naked rendevous. E-mailed memos about music, movies and porn.

I was lucky. My previous conquests were voracious e-mailers, seducing me with their virtual attention as well as their honey tongues. My big strong man would often send me three or four messages at a time, and then plead for my quick response with a terse, "What are you doing? Please answer me!"

Part of the thrill of an affair is that extra attention a lover bestows. Lately, I'm not so thrilled.

I'm already contemplating the end of this affair. To end it now without a replacement would only leave a hungry, selfish pussy in the wake. I can fuck him for a while longer.

But my fingers are itching to type those seductive promises to someone new -- someone who loves words as much as orgasms.

Why, my love

How do you answer the question, "why" when you're an adulterer? It's a question I've asked myself many times. A close friend posed that query this week. Why, she asked, do you risk everything important just to fuck someone you don't want to love?

The first time was for love. I fell for him, the sexual intensity was an added benefit to our already kinetic connection.

What about the second, the third, or my current, the sixth? There's something raw and animalistic in taking a lover who is not yours to have. Biting skin that cannot be marked. Dragging nails down his back, making marks he'll have to hide.

The scent of a naked man who wants to fuck you until you cry is intoxicating. It rises from his skin like mist. I want him to hurt me. I want him to invade me. I need him to fill that empty, warm, wet space that is begging for him.

I want that look in his eyes, that look reveals me as an amazing sexual being who only offers pleasure. I want that first time when he slides in and we both sigh. I want to see him cum, shaking and rolling his eyes with intensity. I want to know that it was me that fucked him -- the best he's ever been fucked. I want him to come back for more.

I want to be wanted.

Hand jive

I am a sucker for brown eyes and the perfect dimples. A come-hither grin will win me over every time. But that's just an introduction, the fun part starts with his tongue in my mouth, his breath hot against my skin. Warm palm against my stomach, under my bra, pinching my nipples erect.

The first time is fast, hot, needy. We race to make each other cum, determined to fuck with exciting intensity. He leaves me wanting more.

Today he remembers all my favorite spots, or rather my most favorite spot, that quirky little g-spot that when properly plied will welcome him with a gush.

He makes me cum again and again, wet against his palm. He smiles as I writhe and moan, riding his perfect finger as it twists and pushes. I beg him to stop before it's too much.

Then I do what every nice girl should -- I swallow.

Am I your fantasy girl?

I should warn you, I like to be the best at everything I do and sex is my favorite challenge. So tell me what you've always wanted to try. Share your fantasy, let me fulfill it for you. I cannot promise you'll know me for very long, but I swear that you will never forget my name.

I can be that girl you've always wanted, but couldn't find: That naughty, slutty girl who wants nothing but a bit of your time, attention and energy. That same girl that leaves as soon as you're done without a backward glance. Don't call me, I don't care ... unless you want more. What would you do to that girl if she shows up to lunch in a skirt?

Would you put your hand on my knee to feel the smooth satiny stocking, run up my thigh to the clasp where the garter meets the lace, further still until you find the round curve of my ass, around to the slip of damp fabric which is all that stands between you and the rest of me?

What will you do then? Are your fingers itching to find out how wet I am? Will you slide in and make me sigh and shudder with the lovely feeling of penetration, then go back to work smelling of me? Or will you back off and wait for the next time when you can have more?

Ask me, I'll give it to you.