I was never this girl before.
I was not the popular girl in school, the one who's name was forever mentioned in conjunction with prom queen, homecoming queen or court-warming princess. The popular boys paid me scant attention. Blonde and statuesque passed me by.
I'm used to being ignored, passed over, assumptions drawn. I'm 34 but could pass for 25. I have freckles. I'm diminutive. My curls are flouncy, my complexion palid.
Yet, I'm the girl in the backseat writhing under twisting fingers, face flushed, breathing erractic, cresting the third of many orgasms. I'm the one tied to the bed, a dark-headed hedonist between my legs sucking and grinding my clit as I fight my bonds with the urge to bury my fingers in his hair and pull.
In the office, I am bold, assertive, battling those assumptions that have haunted me for many years. I'm usually not the prettiest girl in the board room. But in the hotel room later, it's the dark-eyed C.O.O. that forces me to my knees to suck his cock.
My breasts are my own. My dimpled thighs are testament to my love of chocolate. The faded striae on my sides are a reminder of the child I carried. They are part of the bigger picture of me -- the girl who became the closet porn star, who attracts the lacivious looks from married men with one flounce of that ridiculously curly hair. That same girl who barely gets a glance from others is the same who likes a dick in the ass, three fingers in her cunt and a sharp twist on her nipples.
And where are those other girls now? The prom queen? The court-warming princess? At home, alone, waiting for their husband who is working late -- or rather, the husband who is working my g-spot with dripping fingers to stroke one last fluttering orgasm before he has to wash away my scent and speed back to her.
I don't know how I became this girl, this lust-filled vixen who consumes fucking like air. But I hope she stays for a while longer. Or at least long enough to get my fill of memories to carry me through those long nights when the desire fades.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Pre-occupation
His voice slides like liquid erotica in my ear. He purrs, calls me his kitten. He laughs low, amazingly sexy. I want him badly. He lives hundreds of miles away.
We've been chatting online, what he likes, what I like. We have very similar opinions on dress up, positions, technique. I want to be touched, when I see him the first time. I don't want shy, getting-to-know you handshakes. I want his hands on me, sliding up my skirt, grabbing my ass or just at the small of my back leading me through the hall.
I crave his tongue, that same honey tongue that rolls from my headset down my spine to my wet pussy. I close my eyes, slide my fingers into that wetness and imagine him there. He has never heard me cum for him even though I've done it many times.
When I'm out in the brightness of the real world, away from the siren ping of his IM or the patient wait for his phone call, I wonder if others can feel my desire. I'm so turned on, it's palpable. I'm vibrating with want.
At the deli, dark hair and dark eyes watch me from the table in the corner. He nods in my direction, I wink in response. Does he sense my need? As I place my order, he slides up behind me, brushing my arm as he leans around to grab napkins. He's close enough to smell my perfume, whispers "excuse me."
I could if I wanted, turn around, grab his gaze to hold him there. Strike up a converstion that could lead to many other things. I've done it before. It's worked in the past.
But my mind is preoccupied by his accent, how he says my name and when I'll hear him say it again.
We've been chatting online, what he likes, what I like. We have very similar opinions on dress up, positions, technique. I want to be touched, when I see him the first time. I don't want shy, getting-to-know you handshakes. I want his hands on me, sliding up my skirt, grabbing my ass or just at the small of my back leading me through the hall.
I crave his tongue, that same honey tongue that rolls from my headset down my spine to my wet pussy. I close my eyes, slide my fingers into that wetness and imagine him there. He has never heard me cum for him even though I've done it many times.
When I'm out in the brightness of the real world, away from the siren ping of his IM or the patient wait for his phone call, I wonder if others can feel my desire. I'm so turned on, it's palpable. I'm vibrating with want.
At the deli, dark hair and dark eyes watch me from the table in the corner. He nods in my direction, I wink in response. Does he sense my need? As I place my order, he slides up behind me, brushing my arm as he leans around to grab napkins. He's close enough to smell my perfume, whispers "excuse me."
I could if I wanted, turn around, grab his gaze to hold him there. Strike up a converstion that could lead to many other things. I've done it before. It's worked in the past.
But my mind is preoccupied by his accent, how he says my name and when I'll hear him say it again.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Limits
He's pushing my limits, testing me. He likes many of the same things I do -- being watched, pleasure mixed with pain, messy, wet encounters in the backseat of the car.
He takes these ideals one step further.
"Would you let someone watch us, in the same room?"
"Someone like who, exactly? It's not like your wife is up for a viewing."
"What if I could find someone? What if I already have?"
I admit my intrigue.
"For example...?"
"Well," he says, "Maybe I already know of some guys in this area who work from home and would be willing to let us use his bed for the price of watching."
I'm quiet for a minute. Still under his gaze.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do." He leans forward, brushing his lips in my ear. "You want him to watch you get fucked like a dirty cum slut. You want him to want you, just as much as I want you. But he can't have you, can he? Because for that time, you'll be mine."
He takes these ideals one step further.
"Would you let someone watch us, in the same room?"
"Someone like who, exactly? It's not like your wife is up for a viewing."
"What if I could find someone? What if I already have?"
I admit my intrigue.
"For example...?"
"Well," he says, "Maybe I already know of some guys in this area who work from home and would be willing to let us use his bed for the price of watching."
I'm quiet for a minute. Still under his gaze.
"I don't know."
"Yes you do." He leans forward, brushing his lips in my ear. "You want him to watch you get fucked like a dirty cum slut. You want him to want you, just as much as I want you. But he can't have you, can he? Because for that time, you'll be mine."
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
You and he, and me
You don't know my name, and I hope you never will. But I know yours, and other things as well.
I know what you like, and don't. I know how often or how little you suck cock. I know you like missionary style and have never had a dick in your ass. I know you won't watch porn, and have no interest in a threesome.
I know, because he told me.
And I know that he likes my loud moans, my heavy breathing, the way I twist under his fingers begging him not to stop. He likes to be in control, contort me to fit his whims, test my flexibility and endurance, not to mention my carefully-controlled gag reflex. He likes to meet me in public, knowing that I'm not wearing any panties under my skirt.
He's fucked me in his car, in the same seat you sit on when you go to the store. He's fucked me on your couch where you watch your favorite shows. He's fucked me on the stairs you walk up at night, on the kitchen counter where you made dinner the night before.
He loves a wet pussy -- the smell, taste, slickness on his fingers, the grip on his cock. He worships pussy, will do anything to make it quiver and clench with orgasms. He has tasted me so many times, he can summon the flavor at will.
He's taken me to lunch, fingered me under the table while the other diners sit obliviously carrying on their dull conversations about nothing. He made me cum into his cupped hand and then wiped my wetness against his napkin. He used those same finger to feed me crackers dipped in something sweet.
He has rented low-class hotel rooms with cash so he could fuck me all afternoon, ignoring your calls on his cell phone. Sometimes he answers, his fingers still firmly entrenched in my cunt, or my mouth swallowing his dick like a greedy whore. While you chatted about baseball practice and dinner options, I sucked him with long, slow strokes, bringing him closer to orgasm. He hangs up, throws the phone on the floor to grab handfuls of my hair and fuck my mouth, spurting all that pent up sex down my throat.
In many ways, I know him better than you. I know him in that intimate way that only lovers enjoy. I don't think of you often, if ever. I have no interest in you, only him. I should feel guilty, but those feelings have past. I know he doesn't love me, and if given a choice, you are the one he would pick. I don't feel guilty because if it wasn't me, it would be someone else with him. Someone else fucking him the way you never do. You had the opportunity to be this girl and you've gone another way.
But deep down, he wishes you were more like me. In fact, if you were, he wouldn't be here at all. It would be someone else's husband sucking my clit, smelling like me when he comes home. And your husband would be fucking you.
Except you're not like me. You're somebody else. And tonight, I'm going to fuck him until he doesn't think about the difference between you and me any more.
I know what you like, and don't. I know how often or how little you suck cock. I know you like missionary style and have never had a dick in your ass. I know you won't watch porn, and have no interest in a threesome.
I know, because he told me.
And I know that he likes my loud moans, my heavy breathing, the way I twist under his fingers begging him not to stop. He likes to be in control, contort me to fit his whims, test my flexibility and endurance, not to mention my carefully-controlled gag reflex. He likes to meet me in public, knowing that I'm not wearing any panties under my skirt.
He's fucked me in his car, in the same seat you sit on when you go to the store. He's fucked me on your couch where you watch your favorite shows. He's fucked me on the stairs you walk up at night, on the kitchen counter where you made dinner the night before.
He loves a wet pussy -- the smell, taste, slickness on his fingers, the grip on his cock. He worships pussy, will do anything to make it quiver and clench with orgasms. He has tasted me so many times, he can summon the flavor at will.
He's taken me to lunch, fingered me under the table while the other diners sit obliviously carrying on their dull conversations about nothing. He made me cum into his cupped hand and then wiped my wetness against his napkin. He used those same finger to feed me crackers dipped in something sweet.
He has rented low-class hotel rooms with cash so he could fuck me all afternoon, ignoring your calls on his cell phone. Sometimes he answers, his fingers still firmly entrenched in my cunt, or my mouth swallowing his dick like a greedy whore. While you chatted about baseball practice and dinner options, I sucked him with long, slow strokes, bringing him closer to orgasm. He hangs up, throws the phone on the floor to grab handfuls of my hair and fuck my mouth, spurting all that pent up sex down my throat.
In many ways, I know him better than you. I know him in that intimate way that only lovers enjoy. I don't think of you often, if ever. I have no interest in you, only him. I should feel guilty, but those feelings have past. I know he doesn't love me, and if given a choice, you are the one he would pick. I don't feel guilty because if it wasn't me, it would be someone else with him. Someone else fucking him the way you never do. You had the opportunity to be this girl and you've gone another way.
But deep down, he wishes you were more like me. In fact, if you were, he wouldn't be here at all. It would be someone else's husband sucking my clit, smelling like me when he comes home. And your husband would be fucking you.
Except you're not like me. You're somebody else. And tonight, I'm going to fuck him until he doesn't think about the difference between you and me any more.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Query
A small missive in my e-mail box. I found it while I was away visiting family:
M,
Are you home yet?
D
Mein Docktor is a busy fellow. I haven't seen him in months, many months, although we've chatted occassionally. His schedule is nearly impossible. One near miss resulted in deep kissing and some heavy petting before I was ushered out the door with soaked panties and a deep need for more.
I replied today,
D,
I'm home. When are we fucking?
M
Just now,
M,
Tomorrow. 5:30. Be prepared to be on your knees.
D.
My pussy will be so grateful!
M,
Are you home yet?
D
Mein Docktor is a busy fellow. I haven't seen him in months, many months, although we've chatted occassionally. His schedule is nearly impossible. One near miss resulted in deep kissing and some heavy petting before I was ushered out the door with soaked panties and a deep need for more.
I replied today,
D,
I'm home. When are we fucking?
M
Just now,
M,
Tomorrow. 5:30. Be prepared to be on your knees.
D.
My pussy will be so grateful!
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
The difference between you and me
There lies a subtle difference between women who like sex, and women like me.
I don't like sex. I relish it. I've been known to lie for it, beg for it. I'll wear ill-fitting lingerie, apply spicy hot lotion to my nipples, search for the perfect pink dog collar and subject myself to face-down denegration in the happy pursuit of the almighty fuck.
I had this discussion with a long-distance lover today. I tried to explain why someone like me takes extreme pleasure in sex when so many women don't. I'm built the same way, the same triggers and turn ons. The same plump clit and stiff nipples. But for me, sex is transcendental in a way that other women seem to miss. My pleasure is really secondary to my lovers. I think that's the key, I get off the more he gets off.
I like to do anything that turns you on. Your excitement will amp my excitement. The more turned on you get, the more turned on I get. I want you to be nearly drooling with desire. That's my idea of good foreplay. If it takes a dog collar to get you there, then I'm in. I want you to want me sooo bad, you can barely contain yourself.
I think that's the real difference between women like me and others. I am invested in the sexual experience. I want you to cum, I want your excitement, your lust, your perverted thoughts. I want you to look at me like I'm a bowl of ice cream that you can't wait to lick and suck. I want to see that in your face.
Other women look at sex like a chore. They might it enjoy it a little, but it's more about filling your needs than theirs so they are not fully invested. Well I need and you need, and I want you to need ME!
I don't like sex. I relish it. I've been known to lie for it, beg for it. I'll wear ill-fitting lingerie, apply spicy hot lotion to my nipples, search for the perfect pink dog collar and subject myself to face-down denegration in the happy pursuit of the almighty fuck.
I had this discussion with a long-distance lover today. I tried to explain why someone like me takes extreme pleasure in sex when so many women don't. I'm built the same way, the same triggers and turn ons. The same plump clit and stiff nipples. But for me, sex is transcendental in a way that other women seem to miss. My pleasure is really secondary to my lovers. I think that's the key, I get off the more he gets off.
I like to do anything that turns you on. Your excitement will amp my excitement. The more turned on you get, the more turned on I get. I want you to be nearly drooling with desire. That's my idea of good foreplay. If it takes a dog collar to get you there, then I'm in. I want you to want me sooo bad, you can barely contain yourself.
I think that's the real difference between women like me and others. I am invested in the sexual experience. I want you to cum, I want your excitement, your lust, your perverted thoughts. I want you to look at me like I'm a bowl of ice cream that you can't wait to lick and suck. I want to see that in your face.
Other women look at sex like a chore. They might it enjoy it a little, but it's more about filling your needs than theirs so they are not fully invested. Well I need and you need, and I want you to need ME!
I think that about sums it up.
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