I work hard. I build things and paint things and get dirty. Sawdust caked on skin smeared with brown and white and black (mostly) that must wear off and be cut out of my hair.
Tempted by Zestos on Ponce driving the big white van and I caught you looking, making no camouflage for your interest in my joy in an awful very non-eco-friendly styrofoam bowl and a thin and bendy really, really red spoon So unlikely to find a smile in Atlanta traffic, but yours was hungry.
Let's block up the road.
I hope I remember to put it in park so the van doesn't leave when I'm turned sideways out the open door one leg over your shoulder to indent a sneaker treadmark on your back, the other braced against the driver's side window frame while you answer my question and spread me wide open. "What goes through your mind when you see a white girl dripping butter scotch sundae down her chin?"
Lap with your full tongue. I want you to suck slow bruises to the surface of my pussy with your mouth. Raw nerves on vibrate. Only soothed when I lay across the ravine between the seats and hang on so you can share in bliss. Slowly enjoy the sticky sliding all the way in and almost all the way out. Take your time, I don't think our fellow travelers are calling the cops -- being entertained on a bright afternoon. You can get transfixed on the gentle rhythm of the light catching on the wet from my snatch as it glistens on your own hard dark...
No? Not what you were thinking?
Tell me. Did it have more to do with stuff dripping on my chin?
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Plaza de Toros
How many times will you tell me that you're hung like a bull before I demand proof? Will my challenge make you see red?
This won't be a time for tenderness or coaxing. If you're going to parade out your prized bull, you will need to exhibit it's verility and fierceness right out of the gate. You'll need to know that I'll expect my pants resting on my shoes and your toro charging before I get a decent eye on it.
If you're as big as you claim, I'll know. Push me over the work table and plow deep. I'll want to gasp.
How long before others question that you're in my area. How long before others question that you are in my area. They won't call attention to it, either too embarrassed ...or embarrassed that they find it hot and sticky: exploding firey metal shrapnel and bodies at a railroad crossing. Silent: they cannot look away.
Grab the flesh at my hips with rough hands digging. Pull me back to meet you with such force that I'll have finger print bruises on my stretch marks.
Across the warehouse, others plunge a hand inside pants to silently take sides.
I'll reach back and take the reigns -- you by your sack -- slow your stabbing while you ache to finish. This Matador is not defenseless. You'll ask please before slowly returning. My wrist rubs my clit as I lead you in and back. Pleasure comes in the sawdust.
This won't be a time for tenderness or coaxing. If you're going to parade out your prized bull, you will need to exhibit it's verility and fierceness right out of the gate. You'll need to know that I'll expect my pants resting on my shoes and your toro charging before I get a decent eye on it.
If you're as big as you claim, I'll know. Push me over the work table and plow deep. I'll want to gasp.
How long before others question that you're in my area. How long before others question that you are in my area. They won't call attention to it, either too embarrassed ...or embarrassed that they find it hot and sticky: exploding firey metal shrapnel and bodies at a railroad crossing. Silent: they cannot look away.
Grab the flesh at my hips with rough hands digging. Pull me back to meet you with such force that I'll have finger print bruises on my stretch marks.
Across the warehouse, others plunge a hand inside pants to silently take sides.
I'll reach back and take the reigns -- you by your sack -- slow your stabbing while you ache to finish. This Matador is not defenseless. You'll ask please before slowly returning. My wrist rubs my clit as I lead you in and back. Pleasure comes in the sawdust.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Community Theatre
I like to see the strain of you pitching a tent. I like to think of the all-of-the-sudden need for more room that is your erect cock inside your jeans. Give it some air. Let me watch.
In our brains are tales of hairy palms or warnings of blindness ("You'll shoot your eye out.") and we are each fed the lies that about the sanctity of every sperm. The shame you feel is normal. Embarrassed. Wrong. Naughty. Dirty. Rude. Excited.
Something about the movement is mesmerizing. No bedroom eyes. Mine are wide open for this display. The way you hold it yourself -- not even the most experienced lover can know precisely how firm a grip to use. Up and back, sometimes over the head. What are you thinking? Probably different with me watching than when you're alone.
A rhythm. In your mind, sometimes this is a mouth or fucking, but right now, you are alone with your hand and my laser beam stare. What kinds of things would you do if I weren't on the first row? Some things too personal for an audience? Up and back, fist encircling more tightly. Up and back again. Until: ...delight.
I won't drag this out with a standing ovation calling for bows and throwing roses. I'll find a sock and leave you to mop up.
In our brains are tales of hairy palms or warnings of blindness ("You'll shoot your eye out.") and we are each fed the lies that about the sanctity of every sperm. The shame you feel is normal. Embarrassed. Wrong. Naughty. Dirty. Rude. Excited.
Something about the movement is mesmerizing. No bedroom eyes. Mine are wide open for this display. The way you hold it yourself -- not even the most experienced lover can know precisely how firm a grip to use. Up and back, sometimes over the head. What are you thinking? Probably different with me watching than when you're alone.
A rhythm. In your mind, sometimes this is a mouth or fucking, but right now, you are alone with your hand and my laser beam stare. What kinds of things would you do if I weren't on the first row? Some things too personal for an audience? Up and back, fist encircling more tightly. Up and back again. Until: ...delight.
I won't drag this out with a standing ovation calling for bows and throwing roses. I'll find a sock and leave you to mop up.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Company's Coming -- I Have Manners
I don't mind if you think on my husband. He's swell. Just so long as you keep in mind that you're a guest here. And as a guest here, you'll be treated well. I have manners.
In the small kitchen around the table we'll be merry and I won't mind if you notice his eye crinkles. I love them. And I won't mind if you wonder how distinguished he is elsewhere. When you touch his arm when he makes you laugh, I'll rightfully raise my eyebrows, but then encourage you to continue with a sideways smile.
The next giggle snort brings more seriousness as you lay your hand on his shoulder and squeeze. My lover is shy and politely declines your offer. Your hand remains. And instead of a shoulder, travels down his chest. You both look to me quizzically. Funny. I feel exhilarated with the decision.
I'm up and behind my husband removing his shirt and pinching his nipples a little while you gently run your hands over the hair on his chest. You stand and hike your skirt a little to make sitting on his knees easier and did you take off your sweater? Or did I? Anyway. Nice tits. I know how nice it feels when he touches them. Sucks your nipples as you twist around to meet his mouth.
I am sitting on my feet on the tile between your legs and his pushing your skirt higher, my hands heavy on your thighs. Urge you to standing so that we can take off clothing and continue. My husband's attention to slide inside you as you ease back down. Wet. I taste you both as you move up and down. My tongue in the soft crevices and firm rhythmic exchange of your enjoyment. I reach up and pull at your nipples to tease their easy bounce. Until I sense the familiarity that is coming. Encourage your exercise to the end and then lick his throbbing spent cock after you can leave him. I kiss him on the mouth and share the tastes I've experienced.
I offer coffee and dessert. We should have friends over more often.
The next giggle snort brings more seriousness as you lay your hand on his shoulder and squeeze. My lover is shy and politely declines your offer. Your hand remains. And instead of a shoulder, travels down his chest. You both look to me quizzically. Funny. I feel exhilarated with the decision.
I'm up and behind my husband removing his shirt and pinching his nipples a little while you gently run your hands over the hair on his chest. You stand and hike your skirt a little to make sitting on his knees easier and did you take off your sweater? Or did I? Anyway. Nice tits. I know how nice it feels when he touches them. Sucks your nipples as you twist around to meet his mouth.
I am sitting on my feet on the tile between your legs and his pushing your skirt higher, my hands heavy on your thighs. Urge you to standing so that we can take off clothing and continue. My husband's attention to slide inside you as you ease back down. Wet. I taste you both as you move up and down. My tongue in the soft crevices and firm rhythmic exchange of your enjoyment. I reach up and pull at your nipples to tease their easy bounce. Until I sense the familiarity that is coming. Encourage your exercise to the end and then lick his throbbing spent cock after you can leave him. I kiss him on the mouth and share the tastes I've experienced.
I offer coffee and dessert. We should have friends over more often.
Trucker's Interest
I don't know why truckers find me interesting. But I notice they look while I'm sitting in my commute. I'm not especially ...special. Older than ideal and ...fleshy. Maybe it's because I'm noticing that they're noticing that they notice. I don't know. But it happens.
What if, one day, I decided to change lanes in the heavy creeping traffic. I'd flash my hazards to say thank you. But then I'm just in front, he can't see to make eye contact from behind my little car. Over to the right one lane. And I'd do it again. Until the only other option is the gore. And what if I signaled to pull off the road? And he followed.
I'd get out of my car and walk back to the passenger's side of his rig and get in. Not take the seat, but pull him to me and straddle his legs facing him. I'd want him to not be shy. He wasn't when he said hello. Have my shirt off and nipple in his teeth and hands on our first touch. Warm in the cooled morning. He'd lay me over on the driver's seat and slide my jeans off without undoing them. Face down in my pussy immediately when it's bare. Lick my clit. With his full tongue. Lap at my cunt. Enjoy it. Slip a finger in to see what it's like before we make the most of our little time in the cab of his truck.
Pull me up and turn me over. Rough hands on my skin. Rough hands pulling at his belt. My hands braced against the driver's door where the window is open. And he fucks me. My tits bounce heavily and I wonder about the other people along their well worn paths. Listening to ridiculously manufactured Biblical and political rants purchased in bulk and other things that stupid people think are funny while I'm listening to thick swollen skin and grunting. My own. Can the DOT see from their ever monitoring cameras as I push him back and turn to finish him off in my mouth? Are my shoes still on? How did that happen?
Is this a 511 emergency? My clothes go back on hurriedly, but definitely more slowly than when they were removed. My walk back to my car is not one of shame but of quick triumph before returning the reality of the day, the remainder--extreme in monotony.
What if, one day, I decided to change lanes in the heavy creeping traffic. I'd flash my hazards to say thank you. But then I'm just in front, he can't see to make eye contact from behind my little car. Over to the right one lane. And I'd do it again. Until the only other option is the gore. And what if I signaled to pull off the road? And he followed.
I'd get out of my car and walk back to the passenger's side of his rig and get in. Not take the seat, but pull him to me and straddle his legs facing him. I'd want him to not be shy. He wasn't when he said hello. Have my shirt off and nipple in his teeth and hands on our first touch. Warm in the cooled morning. He'd lay me over on the driver's seat and slide my jeans off without undoing them. Face down in my pussy immediately when it's bare. Lick my clit. With his full tongue. Lap at my cunt. Enjoy it. Slip a finger in to see what it's like before we make the most of our little time in the cab of his truck.
Pull me up and turn me over. Rough hands on my skin. Rough hands pulling at his belt. My hands braced against the driver's door where the window is open. And he fucks me. My tits bounce heavily and I wonder about the other people along their well worn paths. Listening to ridiculously manufactured Biblical and political rants purchased in bulk and other things that stupid people think are funny while I'm listening to thick swollen skin and grunting. My own. Can the DOT see from their ever monitoring cameras as I push him back and turn to finish him off in my mouth? Are my shoes still on? How did that happen?
Is this a 511 emergency? My clothes go back on hurriedly, but definitely more slowly than when they were removed. My walk back to my car is not one of shame but of quick triumph before returning the reality of the day, the remainder--extreme in monotony.