coquetterie

I blame you. This situation in which I find myself rests squarely upon your shoulders. Perhaps, I ought to say it rests upon your mouth, your tongue, your fingers and your voice. All of them share in this.

My condition. My need.

I loathe that I ache. I loathe that I must rely upon myself to satiate these needs, this condition. Intolerable. Clearly, you belong with me. I demand you slay these dragons of mine: lust and desire. To do otherwise borders on unchivalrous and dangerous.

Hiding. Away. Incommunicado. Six hours of sleep. Six hours of fitful rest after multiple orgasms yet I remain cocooned amongst the blankets, thinking of you. Wishing you here only to find again that it fails.

The expensive blinds block out the morning light. Whirring above me, the ceiling fan provides all the white noise necessary. Upon emerging from the dark stillness of sleep, the first bolt which flashed through me: desire. Immediately, I took notice of my state: aroused. Honestly, more than aroused. Slick and wet. Sopping wet.

Desire coiled within me, slowly unfurling and spreading. Soon, I writhed upon the soft, cotton sheets. Desire snaked to every pore. Every fiber of my being on alert, aware and needy.

Without modesty or hesitation, my hands slide over the flat of my belly. Two fingers slip between the plump lips finding the already aroused bud and stroke. Slowly my fingers rotate in circles. My juices ooze between my fingers wetting them and the scent of sex reaches my nose.

Gripped tighter in this web of need and desire, my fingers rotate faster, press harder. Short bursts of air with low, soft moans punctuate the air. Curled into the blankets, my free hand grips them, nails certainly white from the pressure.

More guttural noises. Am I the one responsible? Yes. Said in a long, drawn out manner as a sigh. Curling inside of me, tension. Desire transforms into something more, dormant pleasure. Then suddenly, my body tightens. Muscles clench, I seize up as pleasure explodes through my body with such force that shock waves rush through my limbs.

My fingers continue their deft movements, coaxing waves of pleasure to slide along my spine and limbs. My movements cease, my body trembling lightly unable to take more. I rest cocooned, wishing for you, your fingers and your mouth. I wish to use you, selfishly, for my pleasure.

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Inspiration can be found here.

…Her head turning to the side and our lips pressed in another kiss - and we drank each other in, a thirst sated, a desire yet to be quenched.

Unquenched thirst for each other ran through us. Even though shudders of fulfilled desire still thrummed through our bodies, our tongues danced as if dowsing rods in search of water. They twitched and bobbed, swirled and stroked. Murmurs of pleasure moved through each of us.

Slowly, I turned, stretched out fully atop him. My unfettered breasts rubbed against his chest. The sticky culmination of our desires rubbed into each other. They remained a hot, slick, gooey reminder of the passion we just shared.

His arms curved around my body, slowly sliding down the curve of my back towards the lush roundness of my bottom. Deftly, his long, roughened fingers slid beneath the band of my sheer panties which rode low on my hips. His mouth pulled away from mine. As I looked into his eyes, pupils dilated to catch the small slivers of light in the darkened room, I noticed his kiss-swollen lips.

I watched those luscious curves as they moved, forming the husky, deep words, “I think we can dispatch of these.” And, with that, he pushed my panties down over the soft, feminine curves of my hips. I pushed myself up and we maneuvered awkwardly together until the sheer, wet annoyance fell silently to the floor.

With a grin rivaling the Cheshire Cat, I stretched, purring my delight and contentment. My forearms rested on either side of his head. A soft sigh escaped my lips as I felt his fingers slip along my bottom, squeezing it forcefully. I gasped as his hands suddenly moved to my thighs, pushing them wider apart, bringing me closer to him.

Beneath me, I felt his desire swelling growing again, even as I saw more than just a hint of a shadow along his jaw. With a sudden tug, he pulled my bottom down, so that my wet pussy rested atop of his cock. Using my desire against me, he pulled me along his shaft, teasing the both of us until moans of pleasure erupted.

My nipples hardened and brushed against his chest with teasing strokes. My hair fell around us, a thick chocolate curtain keeping our surroundings out. My hands feathered into his hair, forcing his head still, not letting it move. My mouth peppered kisses along his jaw to his earlobe which I nipped and tugged. Trapping it between my teeth, I cooed into his ear.

My fingers dug into his scalp as his mouth found the sensitive spot on the side of my neck. His teeth bit down roughly, hard and I gasped, my lashes fluttering down over my eyes, sending my world into complete darkness. A half gasp, a half moan as the words rushed out of my mouth, “Boudoir! Maintenant!”

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My dreams, of late, are a filled with military styled intrigues. Today, I was on the run. I wasn’t sure from what. I just knew that I needed to hide, to keep hidden.

I hid in a house that was empty. Neighbors away for the holidays. I found a blackberry loaded with pictures of grandchildren of a retired general. I do not know anyone with that high achieving service record. In a nod towards the power of television commercials, there was a blond lab, like Marley, in a picture, too.

+ + +

Between the crisp, cool sheets at night, underneath the whirling ceiling fan, my mind races as my body quiets. Littering the floor around my bed, several half-emptied suitcases rest, as if unwilling to release their contents. The ennui and banality of unpacking keeps me from this chore. The new, wooden hangers dangle, waiting in the closet leafless tree-limbs awaiting the spring.

A few books, new and old, litter the bed top and bedside tables. I’ve been passing my free time catching up. I’m reading through my collection, enjoying them, deciding their fate. Some must stay, others must go. What makes a good book? It’s all up to the reader isn’t it?

My bed remains a confection of girlish delight. Pink, white and sage. Colors of a young romantic. Decidedly not the bedding of a debauched thirty-something. It’s time to retire that bedding and I shall, later this spring.

In the interim, I continue to make good use of the thick down comforter, floral quilt and sweet, pastel sheets. As i lay beneath the fast whirring, chopper blade sounding ceiling fan, I allow my hands to wander. I feel the soft cotton of my light t-shirt and the thicker, warn cotton of the yoga pants in which I sleep.

The soft cotton yields easily to my touch. Bunching above my breasts, my nipples pucker immediately at the onslaught of cold air. Little goosebumps raise on my belly. My fingers and palms sooth them away, then I capture my nipples between chilled fingertips. A soft moan puffs out into the air as I start to squirm in bed.

Gentle pinches and tugs, give way to harder, pulling and nails digging more deeply into my flesh. From arousal, my breasts swell. Images flitter through my brain, nothing concrete. Images of passionate couplings, rutting and fucking, men and women taking charge, guiding and using their partners for pleasure.

As I shift, my cunt is saturated. I can feel wetness leaking slowly. I grind my thighs together, enjoying the sensations, yet wanting more. Instead of bothering to remove my yoga pants, I leave them on. Now, I’m too hurried to come, too hurried for pleasure.

My right had slips beneath my yoga pants It slips over the soft skin of my belly and delves between my legs. Full, puffy lips part upon invasion by two fingers. Juice coats my fingers as I stroke and search for my clit, finding it with a sweet gasp of pleasure. Rubbing carelessly, my over-long nails bight into my flesh. Pleasure with a hint of pain.

My fingers stroke faster and harder. My gasps and held back moans are the only sounds in the room save for the whirring blades above the bed. My thighs part wider, the more intense the sensations swirling inside my head. The yoga pants trap my hand as they stretch with my position. Even though they have some give, they still tease by restraining movements.

My fingers stroke and provoke. They glide and slide. And suddenly, my body arches and convulses. My belly tightens and my back stretches involuntarily. Shivers and shudders, twitches and moans, I feel heat suffuse my cheeks as the air rushes from my lungs in a sharp blast.

As the convulsions slow, my two wet fingers push into my cunt. The heel of my hand grinds and pushes roughly against my clit. My fingers plunge and recede relentlessly. This relentless self-fucking combined with rough clitoral stimulation send a blinding paroxysm of pleasure rushing through me.

Intense bursts of pleasure, violent coiling of muscles and and stretching of others as my body retakes control and submits to pleasure. Allowing the pleasure to have control, my mind feels like a spectator to this pleasure, watching detached, instead of being the epicenter.

As I pull my drenched fingers away, a fleeting coherent thought fills my mind. The pity that you aren’t here for me to wipe this moisture onto your lips, so I can kiss you into obeisance.

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Clients are funny creatures. To me, they manifest themselves as an endless source for amusement and wonder. After some calls, I ponder, “Why the fuck would the enjoy that sort of fantasy?”

A repetitive and fun client, I’ll call him Davidus, calls to relive the same fantasy, ad nauseam. Davidus seeks to relive the humiliation he faced at the hands of the popular girls and boys in middle school.

Now, these aren’t just any popular girls and boys. Oh, no! The girl is a bouncy blonde, who cheers for the local Pop-warner football team. The boy is her boyfriend, the star player, whom everyone can’t wait to see on the local high school team. Davidus, on the other hand, revisits his middle school role as social misfit, A/V club geek [as well as probable library assistant] and all around socially awkward teenager.

The fantasy I weave for him begins with me morphing into the blonde. I become the embodiment of bitchiness, pettiness and teenage petulance. I lure in Davidus with false promises that he doesn’t see through. I extract things from him whether it’s completed homework or tangible items, such as jeans of boots. He has a fetish for women wearing them together.

Then once I obtain the desired item, I exploit him. Perhaps, I embarrass him in front of the student body, beating him up in the hall way, showing what a weak, pathetic geek he is. Or, perhaps I make him service my boyfriend, laughing and taunting him. This goes on until he hangs up on me. That’s the only indicator that he’s reached his pleasure pinnacle.

Another aspect of his fantasy, he enjoys humiliation from his culture. He is Jewish. And, although I haven’t seen him and rely solely on his word, has large ears, a large nose and is chunky/overweight. So, in my sweetest-yet-most-vicious voice, I call him Pinnochio, Dumbo, putz and so-on. The so-on being other horrible things.

What I don’t understand, why he seeks to relive this torment repeatedly? Why it inherited sexual overtones? Why this provides such a release for him? And, oddly enough, other clients seek the similar treatment in connection with their culture.

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Dreams. Fantasies. Escape plans.

We all have them. It’s natural. When we want to diverge from our stressed-out existence, we drift into this nether-world; this world of shadows, dreams and escapes. They act as a natural anti-anxiety medicine. For a few minutes or hours, you escape your worries into a carefree land.

My fantasies range from elaborately dressed and choreographed costumes dramas set in impossible locals to what I perceive as the embodiment of stripped-down, basic carnal lust. Both evoke ideas, plots and plans that revolve around needs being satisfied. Right now, I lean towards a costume drama.

I miss the formality of dressing from my childhood. I remember the hats, white gloves, shined black patent-leather shoes worn to look presentable. I wish I had experienced the art of dressing from two and half centuries ago.

Even though I know it was not meant to be a sensual experience, it evokes those feelings in me. I crave the feeling of a corset being fitted around my form. The thought of supple yet rough hands brushing against my skin as the ribbon is laced up.

Two pretty, young, lady’s maids assisting me into the corset. Big eyes fill their faces and curls drip from beneath their caps and the flush of youth stains their cheeks. They cosset me. They assist my bath, they poured the oil into the hot, steaming water. They assist me in and out, wrapping me in a large towel and dry me.

Wrapped in a dressing gown, they brush and dry my hair. I smell of garden flowers as I watch large flakes of snow drift past the window. They pull gowns from the armoire for my review. I select one and then direct the selection of lingerie and accoutrements. I slide my legs into stockings; they tie the be-ribboned garters.

Layers of clothing, made of stiff, luxurious fabrics wrap around me. Their hands touch flashes of flesh. These light, exacting touches send shivers through me. They hold my hands as I slide my feet into my shoes.

Holding a powderpuff in their hands. They dust a fine layer of powder over the expanse of decolletage exposed in the deep cut of the dress. A fringe of lace decorates the necklace, serving only to draw the eye’s attention to the ample curves displayed.

The corset nips my waist in, contrasting the lush curves of my bosom, by appearing unnaturally small in this dress. The skirt brushes against the floor, rustling as I move slowly, unaccustomed to the weight of the dress. My hair has been teased into curls and piled atop my head.

A long, lone, chocolaty curl unwinds along the creamy skin of my neck and then rests against my bosom. It draws attention to my neck, wrapped with a wide ribbon decorated with a cameo. Earrings that sparkle and shimmer in the light adorn my ears, whilst gloves hide the flesh of my hands.

Finally, a wide-brimmed hat is perched at a jaunty angle on my upswept hair. Long, bejeweled hat pins secure it into place. A confection of ribbon, flowers and feathers. It serves to highlight my features: my dark eyes and hair, pretty button of plum mouth.

Inside this amazing costume, I’d seethe. The little touches served only to stoke the fires of my desire higher. I need. I want. I ache. Yet, as these feelings toss around, I know what I want. And, I am not willing to settle.

I want a darkly dressed man. Not just any man, though. I want to see the leer in his gaze and the smirk upon his lips. I want him to think that he can read my thoughts and, perhaps, he can.

I want him to seduce me with words and actions. Perhaps, beyond the perfunctory greeting, he doesn’t touch me at all until our kiss. A kiss that finalizes the negotiations in the seduction.

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Cupped firmly in my hand, my fingers smooth over the soft-fuzz covering the skin. Staring intently at it, my mouth waters, hungers for it’s sweet taste. Teasingly, my thumb rubs back and forth over the firm skin.

My pink tongue slides from my mouth and laps lightly, once, at the resistant flesh. Leaving a slick, glistening spot, I know where to aim.

My lips are pursed in a delightlful manner. Not a pout yet not a pucker for a kiss, my lips, naturally plum, with a small beauty mark in the lower left quadrant, remain posed at the ready. Using my fingers, I pull my prey closer until I can press a small peck against the skin.

I kiss the pre-identified area again. This time, my lips part slightly and I feel the fuzz on the firm, fragrant skin. My eyes close, the target in my mind’s eye, I kiss again. My teeth lightly scrape the skin, a little coquettish taunt. The taunt firm enough to wonder if I might bruise the flesh.

Harder. Stronger. This next kiss is both. My teeth scrape the skin and taste the flesh. My tongue laps at the moistness, sticky and sweet. Moaning in delight as the taste bursts on my tongue, my eyes open.

The last peach of the season, ripened to perfection, is always the sweetest.

Now playing Mikabomb: Sweat Peach: The Fake Fake Sound of Mikabomb [3:09]

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If you had asked me 10 or more years ago what I thought a relationship ought to look like, I would have succinctly indicated that a relationship involves two partners that love each other.

Today, I’m leaning towards disagreeing with my aforementioned statement. I think a viable case can be made for polyamory. Or, in more layman’s terms, the case can be made for multiple loves.

Since I’m writing about it here, you can guess that my idea for multiple loves is not strictly traditional, if there even is such a thing. For some time, I have pondered this idea and even discussed it with a client or two, perhaps three.

My idea is simple, really. My primary partner, the one to whom I might be bound in some sort of legal state, would be a submissive. Although, not just any submissive. I’d want him to have several kinks in common with me; I’d want him to be a good fit, like a glove.

As I mentioned, his interests need to dovetail (where did that saying come from?) mine: bondage, humiliation, tease and denial, chastity and cuckoldry. Ancillary interests would be feet and shoes, arts and literature, films and music, cleaning and making-me-happy.

For all intents and purposes, to the outside world, we would appear as a normal couple. We’d have our ups and downs. We’d have our tiffs; someone would slink off and sulk and someone would get her way. We would cuddle on the couch watching films or the game. We’d snog; We’d make out. These, however, would serve as tease and denial for him.

In our relationship, he would soon learn that he does not get to orgasm. He’d be kept chaste either through immense development of self control or man-made devices. Or, undoubtedly, a combination of both would be employed. He would be assigned tasks to complete, chores to do. His life would revolve around making me happy.

I, in turn, would see to his needs. Clearly, he has a deep need to submit. Resolved. (Really, it’s like putting a tick into a check box.) Another desire he has, that is not so clearly articulated is his fantasy, no his desire, to be a cuckold. He craves to wear the horns.

Because our desires mesh so well, I’d take a lover. I would pour my passion, sexual needs and desires into this relationship with this secondary partner. We’d gallivant around, wining, dining and fucking. We’d go on dates and, generally speaking, amuse ourselves lustily.

We’d fuck in the marital bed that my primary partner does not sleep in. If he was lucky, he might be allowed to listen to us fucking. If he was even luckier, he might bear first hand witness to our lusty desires. I’d force him to watch as I was fucked by another man. All the while, moaning and whimpering about what a good fuck he is; how much I adore his touch; how much I crave his touch when I sit with my primary partner, cuddling on the sofa.

The idea of my primary partner whimpering and moaning would fan the flames of my desires. And, the humiliation for him of watching another man with me, undoubtedly, would cause arousal. Which, knowing him, would cause him to beg and plead for release. Only if he had been very, very good and if this event coincided with his release schedule, would he be allowed it.

You see, the primary partner would only be allowed so many orgasms per year. Indeed, over time, these releases would grow less and less frequent. Also, I would find a way to turn the orgasm from a pleasureful event to one that is merely for milking, not for pleasure. Imagine the horror of being so aroused that you are begging for an orgasm, only to be milked in such a way that relief wasn’t truly granted.

I could go into many more details about all this. Although, I’m afraid that I might put some readers off and I would truly hate to do that. As you can see, though, I want my cake and cupcakes, too. (Chocolate cake with chocolate icing please, for both.)

Now playing Ours: The Worst Things Beautiful: Mercy… Dancing for the Death of an Imaginary Enemy [4:21]

Technorati Tags: fantasy, polyamory, multiple loves, cuckolding, wearing the horns, cuckoldry, primary partner, seconardy partner

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I can tell you the last time I purchased perfume. Actually, I didn’t purchase it. I selected it. I received it as a gift. Christmas 2003, the luscious scent of Burberry’s Brit engulfed me. I received the perfume, shower gel and body lotion. I used every last drop.

Shall we fast forward five years? In the interim, since the Brit ran out, I haven’t bought any perfume. Yes, I’ve indulged my passion for shower gels, lotions, potions and unguents. Right now, I smell of exotic coconut. I’ve written about how it [coconut] reminds me of summer.

What I don’t think that I have written about is how scents play such an important role. We all want to smell delicious. More importantly, we want to smell delicious as we devour and are devoured by our partners. We want to invoke scentual memories and create new ones. Indeed, after being with me smelling this sweetly, this summery, I want my lover to think of me the next time the scent of coconut assails him. Then, I want all those memories of our last time together to rush into his brain, turn him on and make him crave me.

There are times when, like yesterday, when I prefer to end my day with a long hot shower. I take my time and use up nearly all of the hot water. I emerge from the shower to thick clouds of steam and the scent of exotic coconut. Indeed, the bathroom is so sticky and sweet, when opening the door and allowing the cool blast of air in, I shiver, even though I’m wrapped in towels and a thick, terry bathrobe.

I dry off and towel my hair to remove excess moisture. I pull on a pair of be-ribboned, lacy pink and black boy-shorts style knickers and an old, worn pink t-shirt. I push the excess pillows off the bed as I sprawl on my stomach at the same I reach for my book, half-unfinished, resting at the far corner. Laying on my stomach, knees bent and feet in the air with ankles crossed, I pull a pillow beneath me. I use it to prop myself up so that I can read the book.

Engrossed in the book, my mind wanders into the realms of fantasy. I think of what it would be like to be in your bed, waiting for you to arrive home from somewhere or something. Waiting for you, knowing that perhaps we might be slightly more than lovers by this point. So engrossed in the book, I wouldn’t hear the key turn in the lock, hear you call my name when you noticed my purse or your foot steps as you moved through the flat looking for me.

Imagine the happy surprise at finding me, stretched out across the bed. Imagine how I would look, cheeky panties riding up. The long, smooth lengths of my legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed. My body a flat line until reaching my upper torso propped upon the pillows. My face scrubbed clean of make-up. Only a side view visible in the mirror adjacent to the bed and my long dark hair trailing in a long line down my back, over the soft pink cotton of my t-shirt.

I often think that you would stand there, framed in the doorway for moments which would turn into minutes, drinking me in. Your mind calculating and cataloging the ways in which you might wish to defile me. You know, as soon as you apply pressure to the bed, I’ll be aware of your presence. What do to? How to go about it?

You smile as you see the white cords snaking from my ears to my iPhone. You laugh softly to yourself, now realizing why I didn’t hear your entry. You wonder what might be playing and what I am reading that has me so engrossed. A new tune pops up and I reach out and flick my finger, sending it to the next song.

Carefully, you watch. When I decide to straighten my legs, you move into action. You stalk to the bed; you slide onto it and straddle me in one quick movement. I shriek with surprise and sputter your name as I pull the ear buds from my ears by the white cords.

Embarrassed at how oblivious I was, I try to turn, making and effort to mark my spot in the book. In a soothing tone, you tell me to relax and to enjoy. You encourage me to continue reading. Bending forward, you place your nose against my neck and I hear, and feel, you inhale deeply. Your hands work at my shoulders starting to kneed the muscles, forcing them to relax.

Your hands move across my shoulders and up along my neck. Your work the muscles, forcing me to slowly loosen up, relaxing under your touch. Your finger tips slide into my still-damp locks and you work away at my scalp. My lips curve into a slightly pouty moue of displeasure as you pause to push up your sleeves.

Then your fingers return. They move over the relaxed tissues of my shoulders, down to my upper back and somewhat tenderized shoulder blades. You continue to work lower and lower, until I feel your finger tips brushing over the hint of skin where my t-shirt meets my knickers. At this point, I can feel your cock rubbing against me through the layers of your clothes. And, you have been peppering my neck and cheek with soft kisses. Words meant to tease have ignited the passion between us.

I’ve give up the pretense of reading. I’ve put my book down. A smile curves my lips as I hear you tell me how fucking edible I smell for the fourth, or is it fifth time now? Looking over into the mirror, I keep my gaze focused there until you meet mine, I reply, “Then why don’t you eat me?”

Now playing The Airborne Toxic Event: Sometime Around Midnight: The Airborne Toxic Event [5:04]

Technorati Tags: life, fantasy, perfume, exotic coconut, scentual pleasures, reading

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Mondays are dreadful. Actually, any day that stresses a return to work from frolic is dreadful. In that vein, I decided that in order to make Mondays (or any other day) more palatable they need to begin like this.

Wrapped in the arms of my lover, his body behind mine, one of his legs rests between mine. I want to feel his breath against my neck as I occasionally rise from the depths of slumber only to succumb again to Hypnos’s embrace.

Isleep on my side, with my head resting on the crisp pillow case, on hand curled beneath my cheek. Slowly, my lover wakes, pulling himself from a deep sleep brought on by hours of teasing and fucking combined. Grumbling, I shift from my side to my back, dark hair spilling over the pillow in waves, framing my face as I miss the warmth of his embrace.

The duvet dips low, revealing the curves of my breasts, the long swan-like column of my neck dotted with a small bruise at the joint of my shoulder and neck. Sliding lower, your gaze watches the rise and fall of my chest, then dips trying to find my hips beneath the bunched up thickness of the duvet.

From my knees to my toes, my feet remain uncovered by the duvet. I shift again. My legs askew. From your vantage point next to me, you reach out your hand and let a finger trace along the exposed skin of my knee and calf. My response is immediate. A small snuffle then a shift in my position.

Drifting higher, past my knee and to the soft flesh of my lower thigh, your finger continues to trace over my skin. Emboldened, your finger moves higher, over my upper thigh.

You push and pull the duvet from my body, baring it to your gaze in the morning light that filters in. You watch the reaction as my body feels the first swirls of cooler air. My nipples tighten into raspberries atop caramel aureole resting upon creamy breasts.

Without hesitation, you slide between my parted thighs, slight blushes of bruises remaining on them from our impassioned coupling. I squirm as you push my thighs wider and you settle between them. In my dream state, I feel the first soft kisses you place against my abdomen.

Sighing softly, I shift enough so that I feel your shoulder nudging one of thighs. One hand is drawn up by my head, the other extended into your empty space on the bed. Your assault of kisses continues, moving slowly lower and peppered with tiny nibbles and licks.

Snaking lower, your tongue finds it’s way to the folds of my lips. A few swipes and I’m restless, realizing that this might not be a dream. Using your fingers, you deftly part my lips and at the same your tongue slides up between them until it nudges against my clit.

You nudge it. You lap it. You tease it.

Slick and wet your tongue works around my clit. I groan softly and my eyes flutter open. My hands slide to your head and push you deeper into my cunt. Your tongue and mouth work in conjunction with your fingers parting my lips. My hips buck up against your mouth, pushing and offering my cunt to your tongue.

My fingers dig into your scalp. I guide your head as my hips grind against your face. Bodying moving, arching and undulating from pure instinct, my moans move from sweet gasps to more primal, urgent, guttural sounds of need.

My body tightens and you feel the tremors begin. I shake uncontrollably as the waves of orgasm rock through me. You continue your ministrations pushing me to orgasm on your face over and over.

After the tremors subside, you slide up my body pressing yours into mine and your lips meet mine in a kiss. You murmur good morning against my lips and I can taste myself on them and on your tongue as it duels with mine.

Now playing Old 97’s: Dance With Me: Blame It on Gravity [2:39]

Technorati Tags: life, mondays, oral wake-up

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Hurricanes churn away in the Carribbean and in the Atlantic. I like the cooler temps and the breeze thanks to Hanna as she hugs the coastline. Grey clouds clutter the sky and rain falls occassionally this afternoon.  My mind drifts from the storms chugging along to other, darker, topics.

Rarely do I consider my work environment. Today, jealousy gnaws at my stomach. I want to work in an office and have water-cooler gossip chats. I want to be able to spy on you beneath my lowered, sable lashes when time conspires to throw us together.

I want you to invite me in. I want to be a guest in your office space. I want to smile knowingly at the doorman, stride to the elevator and, perhaps, make small talk and flirt with the other passengers. Upon reaching your floor, I want to step out and immediately turn heads. A tall, striking brunette with glossy red lips, dark eyes and fair skin wrapped in a knee-length red trench coat is bound to do that. 

From the pool of men and women, I’ll select one. My attention focuses and I smile; well worth the cost of years of orthodonture . Smitten by beauty and kindness. Turning my attention to the harried assistant/receptionist/secretary (What do we call them, the title seems in flux?) , I ask for you and give my name, adding smartly, “I’m expected.”

Instead of sitting as directed, I stand. The up-turned collar of my jacket brushing against the back of my neck. Over long bangs slide on an angle across my forhead. My long, coffee-bean colored hair caught high in a pony-tail. Curls and waves drift from the matching colored elsatic keeping it prisoner.  

My eyes scan over the cubes, they make up the pit of the floor. The periphery lined with box after box of offices. Those with more seniority, experience and higher salaries have a window view of the city. Those with more seniority than those of the pit, overlook the pit.

I scan the far wall, my lips stretching wider as I enjoy the view of you slipping from your office, shrugging into your suit jacket. The blinds to the window in the door are drawn, your name decorates a name plate next to the door. Your gaze catches mine and keeps it as you cross through the pit, the shortest distance to me. A few colleagues attempt to flag you down. Your attention diverts to them then to me and returns to them in time for me to catch a knowing look passing between you.

As you reach me, your composure remains strictly professional. Your eyes, however, tell another tale.  The pupils dialate and your gaze seems to smolder as it puruses my form. The jacket, along the creamy skin of my calves to my feet clad in matched red and black heels. A black bag dangles in one hand.

A firm handshake seals our greeting. You motion for me to step forward and come with you. Standing on your right, I feel your palm at my waist guiding my through the room towards your office. You share high-level details of the transactions occuring. To everyone else, it appears that I am a client being shown to your office. Only we know that I am here unannounced.

You open the door to your office and usher me in. The door clicks shut and we are already in each other’s arms. Thanks to Monsieur Louboutin and his heels that I wear; I stand as tall as you, able to stare into your eyes. Your fingers fumble with the lock on the door as our lips meet in a passionate kiss. My arms twine around your neck whilst yours slither around my waist and then down to cup my ass through the jacket.

When we finally part, gasping for air, you jam a button on the phone and direct your assistant/secretary/duenna to take messages, telling everyone that you will be occupied at least until lunch. During this brief conversation, my mouth started to trail along your neck: kissing, licking, sucking and nibbling.  My mouth finds yours as the conversation ends, and my tongue plunges into your mouth.

Coffee. Pastry. That’s how you taste.

Peppermint. Chocolate. That’s how I taste. 

Before long, as our tongues duel, your hands find the tie of my jacket and un-knot it. My hands move to your waist, freeing your belt, unfastening your your trousers. My hands made quick work of your jacket, tossing it over the top of your desk. One my hand slides into your opened trousers, beneath your boxer-briefs and grabs your cock. Moaning into your mouth, I feel it pulse against my palm.

The buttons to my jacket undone, you push it back and reveal what I have on beneath. A very tightly cinched corset wraps around my torso, lifting the full, mounds of my breasts, creating breath-taking decolletage. A pair of frothy, boy shorts wrap around my curvaceous hips. Row upon row of soft lace decorates them s, half covering, half exposing the lush curves of my ass. Trying at once to look demure and innocent, failing marvelously. 

Hearing and feeling your growl against my neck, just beneath my earlobe, you roughly terrorize the tender flesh. I push your pants and boxers down, and tug your shirt up. I moan for you sit in the armless chair, half pushing you into it. I follow you, straddling your lap. My hands cup your cheeks and pull you closer to me for another kiss as your hand delves into my lacy, black panties. I feel your lips smile as you feel how wet I am for you.

You swallow my moan and then I tell you to pull them aside. I take your cock, rise up slightly and then guide myself onto it. My eyes close and I slide down the length of you, moaning softly. Your fingers bite deliciously into my hips. Your mouth peppers my exposed flesh with kisses.

I ride you, grinding against you. Your hips thrust up to meet my movements. Our movements frenzied and wild. Animalistic fucking. In. Your. Office. Teeth scrape and bite at the available flesh. We arch into each other and swallow the sounds of our pleasure so not as to alert the pit or your duenna. Shuddering and shaking, I cum. You thrust through my orgasm.

You grit your teeth and you look strained. My body stiffens again, my face registering the shock as another powerful orgasm ignites waves of shuddering and shaking. With a low groan, you thrust a few times, cumming inside of me, wave after wave.

We sag against each other and the chair, panting and trying to catch our breath. We kiss softly, you still inside of me. Remaining like that, we rest and regroup. 

With a chagrined look to the clock, I rise and start to reassemble myself. I pat my hair into place, shrug into the jacket and tie the belt at my waist after you assist me with the buttons. I sit in the adjacent chair and watch as you pull your trousers and boxers up, adjust your once-crisp white shirt and then fasten your trousers. You shrug into your jacket and unlock the door.

Before we leave your office, you kiss me thoroughly and I feel my knees weaken.  The door opens and it’s all professionalism once again. We maintain the facade of civilized chat as we move through the pit towards the elevators. As we wait at the bank of elevators, you lean down and whisper into my ear, “Meet me in an hour for drinks and lunch. Do not change. Do not go home. I want you wet with our juices as we tease each other through that meal. After that, we shall finish what you started here…”

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