only a fantasy

It's just a fantasy, but sometimes she thinks about it with such clarity that her body is sure it is happening. She can lie there, perfectly still, just breathing against the blankets, her thoughts becoming a movie-scape, then a near reality, and the pulse in her body ripples deeply into her cunt. After a long stretch of this experience, her hands finally find their way to that space between her legs and she climaxes, hard and breathless, in only a few seconds.

The plank of wood is circular, large, and can spin in a horizontal fashion, around and around slowly. There are several with her, wanting this same thing, this abandon and surrender and hours of lust. They are each wrapped in several cuts of fabric, the pieces overlapping in strategic places to allow easy parting and access. Eyes are covered with cloth too. They lie on their backs, far enough away from each other that they don't touch, but close enough to hear breaths when they get heavy. Their legs are bent at the knee with the feet tied three feet a part at the edge of the wheel, bottoms scooted to the edge as well. Available and soon exposed. They are mystery, blindness, presents.

After they are in place, the others come in, and stand around the wheel. The game works like this: The wheel is spun around. When it stops, the person standing has free reign with the person lying in front of them for 10 minutes until it is spun again. The first hour, feet, legs, thighs, warmth and hardness are revealed beyond the layers of fabric. The second, bellies, chests, nipples, hands, arms, neck. The third, mouths. Anything can be used: dildo, vibrator, food, hands, mouth, cock, fingernails, flowers, switches, breath, pleasure or torment. Male and females are mixed. It's chance and thrill.

And so it is this that she imagines, those that are light and exquisite and make her skin feel like silken tingles, those that are rough like a humping animal, those that want to see how much her cunt will stretch open for them as they place an object in and then another until the gasp in her throat almost chokes her, those that leave marks that whisper of rose petals but feel like stings, those that rub their cunts against her toes, those that press and rub against her side and breasts, and those that eventually filll her mouth with their length or wet flesh.

They are focused on what gives them pleasure, but she receives endless - because their pleasure depends upon them rubbing, feeling, plunging, teasing, fucking. She imagines orgasming countless times, thinks she can't handle another, and yet it comes too because she is in no position to move away, or protest, or stop it.

When she - the girl lying in the dim bedroom - does finally allow herself release, it feels like the dozenth or twentieth and she is like a rag, a clump of shed heat. It is then, on this day, that he walks in. She has to laugh, eyes dancing a little sheepishly. She asks him if he wants to know what she was thinking about. He lies near her, breathing in her skin, as she teases with illusive details and then specific moments. It makes her body tingle, and she feels his hardness press to her thigh.

She tells him with a grin that she's too tired, but he can have her breasts. And so, he undresses and straddles her, rubbing his cock against breasts and nipples, making the sensations in her own body build for another round. She remembers reading women complaining about this. She's different - it completely does her in, with her breasts like open exposed nerve endings being plunged into, a delightful fuck massage. When he comes, the warmth splatters against her neck and down her collar bone, and she wants someone or something back inside of her.

The fantasy satisfies them both.

side of the road

Certainly slow seduction, sipped drinks, and massaged foreplay have a place, an elegance and lure, a sweetness.

Sometimes, though, she needs this:

She can't wait a second longer. At some point after leaving the house and before arriving at their destination, her mind has wandered and she thinks about her whole body being filled and complete and ravished - mouth, hands, cleavage, and the two below. The cloth of her panties dampens and the tingled ache is making her uncomfortable. She tells him to stop, and he isn't one to deny such whims. They pull the car over, tinted windows a shadow curtain to blur their delight from others passing by.

They end up in the back seat, somehow, with her on top. Her back is to his front because he likes seeing the curve of her ass move up and down frantically in the search of thrill. Today, she doesn't care about views or soft touches or any foreplay. She wants fingernails, force, and a good, quick, hard fuck. She wants to feel the movement in and out, the thrust vibrate and tug up to her clitoris, the stretch and raw dash to climax.

When they arrive at the party, a few minutes late, her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright. Her walk is easy, her hips swaying a little more lazily, and others can't help but glance with interest.

*

Another short one after all - hope you still enjoy. :) xo.

collapse of moments

Our evening begins like this: Chat that hops back and forth like a melody, fingers weaving together or sneaking a touch here, here, or there. Whispers, laughs, the usual.

Our evening ends like this: I am leaning forward, knees flirting with the edge of the bed, breasts and forearms rubbing against blankets. You are standing behind me, hands on my hips, or sometimes all the way to my neck, my body plunging forward and then back again.

The start and finish blur together, melting the memories of the in-between. Maybe it had substance, or maybe it was empty space, but you and I are both feeling quite a bit complete.

*

Note: A longer story coming later in the week. :) xo.