fuck


It isn’t an everyday feeling. It’s not even one that you can guarantee a person will ever have in their life. So how do I justify having felt it more than once? Am I super-special or just damn fucking lucky?

And how does a person quantify the feeling of complete and under comfort in the presence of another. The one where you feel as though you’ve known them for a thousand years. Where you gaze at them with warmth and affection, until they put their hand on your thigh and then your gaze turns to one of smoldering longing.

This is comfort born not of familiarity but of chemistry and mutual like-age. Incorporating NRE with unbridled lust, and a propensity to constantly feel the skin of the other beneath your fingertips. Where a finger run softly across your back turns your knees to mush, and you thank the deity of your choice that you are sitting down, as you know that were you not, you’d be in a crumpled heap on the floor.

And then later, as you tingle all over from their touch, and  try desperately to catch your breath after a protracted and deeply satisfying gush of an orgasm, you realise that you have to bid them farewell soon — but you know you’ll see them again. And again. Soon.

Ain’t nothing better.

 

The first moments of 2011 were spent naked, panting and kissing. Traditionally, in other words.

The new year thing was by-the-by — it was a tryst much longed for by all parties concerned, and the new year was another excuse to get together and get naked. And you all know only too well how I loves to get naked.

There is a myth that with age, the sex drive wanes. This is simply not true. Separating us chronologically are 17 years, although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Or to fuck him, come to that.

He calls me “jailbait”. I’m 42.

In terms of experience, we pretty much match each other, thanks to my often wistfully remembered slutfest. And then every so often I surprise him. Or he surprises me.

Yesterday was my turn to be surprised. A confirmed kinkster, although he refers to himself as “conservative”, he took vanilla and spiced it up to a level beyond anything that had gone before. He gave me an all-over body massage that rendered me speechless. I murmured as much, from within my stupor-like haze, and he giggled.

“Good to know. So if I ever want to shut you up, I now know what to do.”

I would have fired back one of my trademark smartass comments, but I truthfully didn’t care. If it meant that I got to experience this fantastic and sensuous hand rub again, I’d gladly remain silent.

At one point he lay down on top of me. I was face down, and so was he — but he held off from the obvious poke-and-prod-with-cock scenario — he’s classy like that.

“Is this what you mean by a full body massage?” I whispered into the comforter.

“Kinda.”

At which point he flipped me over, and grabbed me by the cunt.

*************************

We spent today apart — family commitments, prior engagements and so on. Yet all day long I could feel his touch on me. His fingers between my thighs. His cock in my cunt. His breath on the back of my neck. His legs entwined with mine. It was like an indelible print — it kept me in a permanent daze all day. Thank god for multi-tasking, or I’d not have achieved anything since this morning that didn’t involve sitting and staring blankly into space.

All in all, a most auspicious start to the new year.

I raise a glass to you all — to the new year, to new challenges, to new experiences and new forms of fun. May 2011 be a great year for all of you.

Love,
Juno x

I can see the future.

The image is not as clear-cut as one might hope, but is less blurry than one might fear.

I see the past clearer, but that’s a given — the past is a reflection of what has been, and is, as so we well know, 20:20.

In the past, I see the comforting strong arms holding her passionately, kissing her as her knees buckle, preventing her from slumping to the floor in a delirious heap.

In the past, I see her, half-naked and half-delirious, legs akimbo, head thrown back, writhing in ecstasy. I hear the guttural sounds of unadulterated and pure joy escape her lips as his tongue and teeth work  their magic on her. I see her shudder to a thundering climax that seems to last for hours – and then another, almost concurrent, shakes her into further frenzy.

In the past I see his lips meet hers, and hear them murmur to each other through passionate kisses. Not words per se, but sounds of acquiescence and wonder, or warmth and affection, of sensuality and desire.

Looking forward, the images are not so sharp, but they are very real.

I see two figures, sans clothing. She is restrained, arms secured firmly to the side. He is poised above her, teasing her body with feathery licks and nips wherever he pleases. He has her at his mercy, or so it would seem, much to the delight of them both.

I see him straighten, and the reposition himself to thrust into her — but he stops with only an inch of cock inside her yearning cunt. Their eyes meet and each holds the others’ gaze, each willing the other to break first — he for her to beg, her for him to fuck her, hard… just as they both know they want him to. Eventually, she cracks.

“Fuck me.”

“What? Say again.”

“Fuck me.”

“Do what? Why? Tell me.”

“Fuck me. Now. FUCK ME NOW.”

“Tell me why.”

“You want it.”

“And?”

“I want it.”

“And?”

“You need to be inside me.”

“And?”

“I need you inside me.”

“Magic word?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please … you know what!”

“No. Say it. Tell me. Articulate.”

“Please fuck me.”

“That’s a start. Give me more.”

“Please slide your cock inside me.”

“More.”

“Please fuck me before I explode with frustrated desire. Please… just, for the love of god, just please fuck me now.”

“Because?”

“Because I need you inside me. Because you arouse me beyond belief. Because I want us to meld. Because… I can’t focus anymore… goddamit — please!”

It is there that the future dissipates. The vision swims and swirls before my eyes, and I cannot see what happens next.

Will he fuck her, slam himself into her, make her scream with ecstasy?

I prophesize that he will.

Beguilingly and bewilderingly polite. This was my first impression.

A soft-spoken and courteous person by nature, Adam’s initial inquiries about me were very cordial, and carefully structured. In addition to the fact that English was not his mother tongue, which i could tell was restricting him slightly in how he expressed himself, he was obviously also uncomfortable in expressing his desires verbally. And, apparently, unused to dirty talk or profanity.

Or so I thought.

Maybe it’s a xenophobic trait within me that should be stamped out like a burning scrap of paper. But the northern European accent that colored his English so prettily invoked a very polite and well-mannered attitude and impression… which was hard to gel with the disgracefully depraved way in which I like to cavort.

Suffice it to say that I presume way too much.

For this particular blind date, pictures had been exchanged. By the handful. We’d recognized each other immediately from aforementioned photos, through the steam of a Saquella espresso machine in the corner of a seductively warm cafe on a blustery cold and wintry evening. The lights outside along the sea front danced brightly, giving a false impression of cheeriness, but there was nothing cheery about the biting wind outside. We had, however, done our best to banish any last vestige of cold by both ordering wine — red for him, mulled with a stick of fresh cinnamon for me. We looked at each other, and smiled… and I was wondering how to broach a subject somewhat less conventional than the severity of the weather, when he took my hand and placed it on his thigh.

No words really necessary after all. Especially not when i ran my finger deliberately slowly over the growing bulge on his inner thigh.

I’m wet just at the thought of it, as I write.

He leaned into me and whispered politely “I need to fuck you, the sooner, the better. Can we go?”

The next few minutes were a blur of giggles, and bill-paying, and urgency, and hands clasped tightly, and half-walking, half-running to his place, only a short block away from the cafe. Formalities that had seemed to worryingly important had all but been dispensed with as we collapsed through the door, and into each other.

At first, we hugged and held each other very close, our hands roaming, and divesting each other of our accumulated layer of clothing. Once we were suitably scantily attired, he paused, and took my chin in his hand, lifting my face to kiss him.

Dear god, but he could kiss. My knees nearly buckled.

The passion intensified, and not breaking from the kiss, he managed to remove my remaining articles of clothing. Lacy panties in a puddle on the floor, where they had fallen after he’d given them a sharp, commanding tug. Matching lacy bra strewn halfway across the room, where I’d find it much, much later, decorating a very good reproduction of Guernica. All i wore were knee high socks, and tall, black, leather cowboy boots, which despite their heel, brought me not very close to his height at all (he had to bend to kiss me, but he didn’t seem to mind).

So i was naked but for the boots, which put me in mind of another occasion, and he was barefoot, in jeans, with a button fly with which I’d been struggling until he began kissing me. Once he’d started the kiss, it distracted me enough that I’d kind of concentrated just on that.

His giant-like gentleness was short-lived. He finally broke from my lips, and somehow twirled me in a circle until i was held tight with his arm, but bent over it, with my side against his muscular but softly fuzzy stomach. He almost lifted me in order to get me into position, nudging my arms up and onto the desk, where i rested, facing down, leaning on my forearms and elbows. He slowly stroked my back with his hands; long, relaxing strokes that discombobulated me so much that when he landed me a massive blow to the buttocks, i jumped.

“Stay still,” he commanded, still very polite, but unarguably firm.

I do what I’m told, me.

I felt the warmth of his body as he leaned over me, his cock nudging against my ass, as his hands explored me. He left one hand stroking my body, holding it inches from the surface of the desk, and used the other to draw an imaginary line from my cunt to the end of my ass. All the way, in one slick and slippery stroke.

I gasped. His fingers were strong and probing, and still cold from the inclement weather outside. I wasn’t complaining.

Slowly, deliberately slowly, he started to stimulate me, his whole hand probing, touching, encircling and teasing. This was a touch unlike any I’d previously encountered, and the heady feeling with which it left me had me reeling. In a good way. In moments he brought me to a surprisingly thundersome climax, leaving me wet, spent and thoroughly slippery. As i leaned on my forearms and panted to get my breath back, I heard the crackle of a foil wrapper, then the unzipping of his jeans, followed by the soft sound of denim hitting carpet.

Then politeness left the building once and for all. He grabbed me, hard, but not ungently, spread my legs apart, and held me still with my face on the table; then swiftly, smoothly entered me with a single thrust and no fumbling. His cock felt like solid steel as it entered me and he made sure i could feel how hard he wanted, or needed to fuck me.

“Spread those legs more, baby… yes!” As he pumped.. and pumped.

He grunted, I moaned.

He sweated, drops of moisture falling onto my back. One hand twisted in my hair, pulling it but not yanking my head. Thrust. Fuck. Pump. Push.

“God yes. Yes. Fuck me. Fill me. Yes.”

Harder. Faster. Harder still… faster still…

He grunted his intentions like a mantra.

“Fuck that cunt, that soft sweet cunt, going to fuck it harder than it’s ever been fucked. Fill your cunt. Yes? You want that, baby? Yes?”

In my head, I drifted away on a cloud of spaced-out bliss; the physical not matching the mental. I was in full physical submission, restrained by his strong hand, and his deliberately thrusting body; yet my body gladly accepted, even welcomed the hard furious fucking it was receiving.

Somewhere far away, I heard myself wail… softly at first but growing gradually stronger and more shrill. I could sense the pink light of orgasm approaching as he kept pounding my g-spot until i gushed, my mind afloat in ecstasy, my cunt awash with girlie-cum. It didn’t stop him. Rather, it increased the intensity of his fucking and the depth of each push into me. I felt my body slide forward across the desk, skater-like on a film of sweat. Astonishing really, since such a short while ago I’d felt so cold i couldn’t stand still, and now i was perspiring.

Since i was now sated, regrouping after the orgasm, i could concentrate on his pleasure more fully. I pushed back onto him, using my sweat-aided leverage. I tried to do my kegels as he fucked me, only succeeding some of the time since he was by now pumping hard and very fast.

“Yessss!” With a shout, he came, holding me tightly by the shoulder and hair.

Not quite so polite, after all. But a pleasure to know.