The Dare

He dared me.
Underneath me, inside me, eyes mere slits, he dares me to make him come.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’m not gonna, I won’t come again, you can’t make me.” His mouth is something that is almost a smirk.
His words land in my belly, sink down, I immediately take him on, grinding down on him, harder, deeper. Daring him not to come.
I raise up, until he is barely in me, just the tip of his cock. Looking down, I am perfectly still.
He turns his head, smiles a Mona Lisa smile. “I dare ya.”
I slam down onto him, his dick jerks as I raise myself up, to slam back down, once, twice, three times. He does indeed come, we both do. He unloads in me, hot and wet, as my pussy squeezes, clamping down, answering his challenge.
“Dare me?,” I ask him. “Wanna dare me again?”
“Yes, I do,” he answers, and I know this is the man for me.

BJ @ CRW

It’s not a busy airport.
Not like JFK or LAX. Its small airport in a small-ish city. A city large enough to have an airport, but only an airport with small planes. So, it’s not like we were on display for the whole world to see.
And it had been so long. To simply look at him was a turn on, to stand next to him, smell him, was driving me insane. I had dropped off my passenger, he was going through security and waiting to board, out of my sight, past the point of my assistance.
And, really, its not a busy airport.
Its not like there are multiple terminals and runways, there is not the steady stream of people you expect at an airport. It was easy to spot him, we stood, just talking, occasionally reaching out to touch the other’s face or hand. A couple of kisses, because we couldn’t, never could, resist. We hadn’t really planned anything, there was just a small, very small, window of opportunity to see each other, and we took advantage of the chance. Even if it was just a few minutes, when I was dropping someone off at the airport. Why wouldn’t we?
I mean, its not like its a busy airport.
So, when he pulled me close to him, standing in short-term parking, I didn’t bother looking around to see who could see us. When he pressed himself into me, I welcomed it, a charge ran from my pelvis outward when I felt his erection, considered it there, waiting for me. I didn’t bother holding myself in check when his tongue entered my mouth, no, I opened wide, inviting further invasion, climb into me through my mouth. I found myself sucking his tongue, conscious thought and decorum leaving my brain.
Why not? Its a rather un-busy airport.
But, as is always the case with this man and me, we wanted more, more than just standing next to my car, kissing. He wanted his hand in my bra, I wanted to taste his skin. “Let’s sit in your car, can we?” he asks. “I need to touch you.” This made me nuts, caused my nipples to pop up, my twat to gush, his admission of need. Because I was feeling the same, desire so strong it was becoming impossible to deny. Surely, sitting in my compact car will be alright.
After all, its not a busy airport.
So we sat in my car, reaching over the gearshift between us. We made out like teenagers, although we both have children past their teens. He reached over, unbuttoned my blouse, slipped his hand down, cupping my breast. I can hear nothing, then, the sound of a jet engine, the whine raising in tone, then the sound of it moving along the runway, preparing for takeoff. He pulls my bra down, puts his mouth over my nipple, a spear of sensation darts from his mouth directly to my pussy. The plane takes off, the high pitched whine fading away, then silence. There is not another flight scheduled for a while.
Because its not a busy airport.
As is always the case when I am with this man, and indeed sometimes when I am not, I found myself completely consumed, I wanted him, it drove out every other thought. We kissed, harder and harder, and then I realized I had come up out of my seat, and was on top of him, there in the passenger seat of my car. “I . . . wow, I need to take a minute, I suppose, chill the hell out.” I crawl back behind the wheel, taking deep breaths. I leaned toward him, kissing him, softly, trying to avoid a full court press, but then I am immediately drawn back to the need to have him, right there, in my car, in short-term parking. I pulled him toward me, kissing his mouth, his throat, my hands under his shirt, over his jeans, his hard-on irresistible. He unzipped his pants, and I got to put my hand on his dick, the very dick I had thought about every day, had in fact fantasized about, hard as a rock.
But I’m sure no one noticed, as it is not a busy airport.
I think, am almost sure, I moaned, made some sound, a gasp maybe, “Please . . . “ I say, not even sure what I am asking for, only that I want want want. “Okay,” he said, and I don’t know if he knew what he as agreeing to either. But I know what I want as soon as he says the word, that gorgeous dick in my mouth.
I pulled it free of his underwear, stopping briefly to look, the sight of it takes my breath. I put my mouth over it, thinking to myself it would only be for a second, just a taste. I had remembering it, the feel of him in my mouth, and I just went on instinct, almost feral. I had no plan, didn’t really think think it would last longer than an instant, after all, we were in public, at an airport.
Although its not a busy airport.
Once I got him in my mouth, however, I found it impossible to stop. It was so purely sexual, so primal, sucking him, hearing the sounds he was making, knowing how it felt, knowing he was under my control, having that dick, right there, after thinking of it for so many weeks, was more than I could sample and then walk away. The more I had of it, the more I wanted. It was if I had been starving and was shown an all you can eat buffet. I just wanted, could not get enough. I wanted to consume him, or more specifically, I wanted to consume his dick. I wanted to take bites of it, of him.
I wanted to swallow him whole.
And I knew we didn’t have a lot of time. We both had commitments, I had dropped off my passenger, he had come to the airport on his way to work, people were waiting for both of us. Neither of us had any legitimate reason to be staying here, in my car, at the airport.
Even if it isn’t a busy airport.
So, when I didn’t stop, he didn’t either. As the announcement blasted that the next flight was boarding, he came. And came and came. With what could be described as almost disbelief, that this could happen, a grown man getting sucked off in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, in the middle of a parking lot. I however, was not surprised, not as much as he was. I was just glad, turned on. I am greedy for this man, especially his sex. His dick. Eating him is just that — I want to eat him up, his cock, his cum, when he gave it to me that day at the airport, I swallowed it as quickly as he shot it out, no thought, pure instinct. Like it fed me, it was mine, he was mine, I was taking this with me, strengthening a bond of some kind. I knew he had never gotten a blow job at an airport.
Especially not this one, there’s not much going on here. After all, its not a busy airport.

Come to Me

Come to me.
Put your hands on me, your mouth. Make me breathe hard, make me sweat, just a little. Do things that can only be done when no one can see. Run your fingers up the side of my thigh, raise my skirt.
Put your hands in my hair, shove your tongue down my throat. Taste my skin. Whisper outrageous things. Push me against the wall and kiss me, hard, feel the pulse in my throat with your lips.
Keep doing these things long after you should stop.
Take me somewhere private, where we aren’t concerned about how loud we are, or scandalous, where I can taste the palm of your hand, pull you to me with my leg, where no one knows we shouldn’t be behaving this way.
And when our clothes are pulled away, when our eyes are closed so we can concentrate on feeling this, then lose control, sink into me and gasp and moan, until we both stop thinking, until we lay panting, wordless.
Leave your scent on my body.

Summer Road Trip, Part II

PART II – 1
“You’re right, they are really ripe, sweet,” Demitri told her, smiling. “Delicious.”
They were coming toward an old town, or what was left of one. Clapboard houses with windows missing, faded curtains blowing out into wind, a boarded up gas station, ESSO almost visible on the rusted sign, a diner FOR SALE OR LEASE had been been neither sold nor leased, but vandalized. Even the spray paint had faded, though, as if the effort of that violation had proven too much for the paint, it had just abandoned the town along with its residents.
Demitri pulled the car into the parking lot of the diner, avoiding the piles of beer bottles, remains of small fires and fast food picnics. He didn’t ask Halia if she wanted to stop, or where she wanted to get out. He got out of the car, walked around and opened her door.
“You’d better put your shoes on, there’s glass and stuff everywhere,” he told her.
“What, why are we stopping here? I thought we were going on to the motel.” She slipped her feet into her sandals, tied the laces around her ankles.
He reached out, and she took his hand, more like a footman helping out a duchess than lovers. They walked around to the back of the diner, out of sight of the few cars that might be driving past. He said nothing, offered no explanation, just took her hand and led her, not quickly, but as if this had been the plan all along, going around back of an abandoned diner in the middle of nowhere.
Behind the building, the grass had gone to seed, green tassels against their legs. There was nothing to be seen, no people or stray dogs. The wind was the only thing behind the diner, blowing Halia’s dress around so that it surrounded them both.
Demitri turned to her, gently pushed her against the building and pulled her hands above her head. He traced her arms, down to shoulders, until his hands held her face. Halia closed her eyes, but he was having none of it.
“Look at me, open your eyes and see me,” he told her.
She did, they looked at each other, neither blinking. They did not move, not closer together, not further apart. They simply stood, each taking stock of the other. Halia smelled him, sweat and road dirt and beer, her mouth stained, her breathing ragged. He kissed her, once, twice, deeper, his hands were on her neck, her throat, reaching down the side of her leg to pull up her skirt, all the while they were kissing, the sweetest kisses, those kisses that do nothing more than that, taste sweet.
Soft, she thought, the wind is soft, his mouth is soft, this day and this place, this is softness. I will feel this always, this is what a cloud feels like, a sigh, meringue.
Demitri’s fingers curled around the hem of Halia’s dress, pulling the fabric up, cupping her ass, pulling her thigh up, pushing himself against her as his tongue traced a line from her mouth to her collarbone, tasting the salt on the skin of her shoulder.
“Aahhh,” a sound like release from her throat.
In one movement, Demitri unbuttoned his pants and kicked them aside. He reached underneath Halia, lifting her, wrapping her legs around him, sinking himself into her, pushing against the building, pushing pushing pushing, until he was there, all the way, as far into her as he could go. They did not move, her ankles locked together behind the small of his back, clutching him within her. Eyes squeezed tight, they breathed, held it, memorizing the sensation of their bodies coming together in the hot air, sweat running down them, the grit of the road on their skin and in their hair. They both knew it would never be this way again, this was the moment, the sliver of time that would cut into and scar them, leave a bond as strong as a welder’s seam.
Later, laying in bed with the motel air conditioning doing all it could to cool them, Demitri and Halia slept, each dreaming separately and collectively of cherries and the smell of hot asphalt and sweat slick bodies sliding together.
“The goes on forever.” Robert Earl Keen

Summer Road Trip, part I

One of the hottest days of the year. The kind of day that demanded air conditioning, the sun was demonic, the air no relief, it simply moved the heat. But Halia refused to put the top up, wouldn’t let him, even when the radio said it was 100 degrees.
They had started the road trip on the interstate, 70 miles an hour, 80, 85. But, at a gas station/ice cream stand/boot shop/all you can eat buffet, they realized the trip was becoming just a contest of how fast they could travel. And that wasn’t what it was supposed to be.
It was supposed to be a Road Trip, get in the car and go, enjoy the journey, see something different. Play the radio and visit tourist traps, stay at single story motels and keep beers in a cooler in the back seat – live it up.
So they had moved on to two lane highways, no particular destination. The World’s Largest Lint Ball, Fastest Turtle Race, they stopped as often as they wanted, to do what they wanted, and took off their watches, turned off their phones.
Their trips always started with a coin toss, the beach or the mountains, north or south, fresh or salt water. This year, it had been Montana or Florida. Heads, Florida.
“Hey, since we’re stopped, lets put the top up, and turn on the air,” he suggested, although he had asked and been refused for the last 75 miles.
“Don’t be a pussy,” she told him. “With the top down, the air is blowing, how hot can you be? And I’m the one whose hair is in knots, so stop whining.”
As he filled the tank, she walked around the table made of plywood that held assorted produce, cantaloupes and peaches, the warm fruit fragrant in the humid air. There were grapes that were more raisins, and some strawberries that were well past their prime. As he pulled out his wallet to pay for the gas (No credit cards, Cash Only) a man walked out of the cinderblock building and set a box down on the table. It contained cherries, still covered in dew.
“These was just picked this mornin’,” the old man told them. “Its past time for cherries, but these was what was left after the first harvest, and some boys waited and pick ‘em, for me.”
She picked up as many cherries as two hands would hold and put them on the scale that hung on the awning over the table.
“How much are they, a pound,” she asked, adding another handful.
“Eh, I dunno, don’t usually sell cherries,” the old mans eyes narrowed, as if he were negotiating a deal with a diplomat. “Fi’ dollars a pound?”
“That’s three pounds, Demitri, pay the man,” she told him as the old man put the fruit in a basket.
She carried the fruit to a spigot on the side of the building and rinsed it, put her wet hands on the back of her neck and into her hair to cool her off, water dripping between her breasts, visible through the sundress she was wearing, the wind blowing it around her legs. She left a trail of water in the dirt.
Back in the car, she turned sideways in the seat as he drove (seat belt were optional on Summer Road Trip) and put her feet in his lap. She put the basket of fruit in her lap and pulled out a single cherry, letting it dangle from the stem.
“Look how ripe they are.”
He was still smarting from the price. “Just look purple to me.”
“No, they are the perfect purple-red, maroon. No, redder, wine, they are wine colored.”
“Well, I don’t think I want any, gonna have a beer in a minute. You go ahead and enjoy them.”
And he saw that she was enjoying them. He watched as he shifted gears. Her hair was blowing in her face as she ate, she had to tie it back behind her head. There was a method, he noticed, of eating cherries being employed here. Not any willy-nilly snacking, this was serious business.
Halia began by picking up the cherry by the stem, letting it dangle for a moment, shaking the water off. Put it in her mouth, and let her tongue curl around it to cup it.
Here, the procedure of eating the cherry did not go as one would think, if one were to contemplate how to eat a cherry. If you did consider how to eat a cherry, once it is in the mouth, the thing to do would be to close your teeth in front of it, and pull the stem out. Scrape the fruit from the pit, spit the pit out, done.
But the methodology was different for this woman sitting with her feet in his lap, eating cherries during Summer Road Trip with the wind whipping around their heads, Linda Ronstadt lecturing that they were no good. Demitri watched her and realized there was a purposefulness to the way she ate the cherries, the way she pushed her sunglasses up on her head so she he could see her eyes, looking at him, as she did this.
She picked up a cherry, popped it into her mouth, he imagined he could hear the tiny ‘P’ sound as she sucked in it, although that was impossible. She smiled, and he could see her white teeth in front of the dark fruit, her fingers still holding the stem. Then her lips closed around the stem, pursed together as if for a kiss. She bit into the fruit, a tiny drop of juice dribbled out of her mouth, down her chin, she did not wipe it away. He watched the sides of her cheeks sink in every so slightly, as she applied suction to the cherry. Then, slick as the proverbial whistle, she pulled the stem, with the pit still attached, out of her mouth. She held it out to him for just a second, evidence of something, testimony to what? She threw it over her shoulder, chewing and smiling. Then she put the basket in the floor, got onto her knees in the seat and leaned over the gearshift.
She got close enough to him that he could hear her whisper over the wind and the radio, her mouth stained, her breath sweet.
“Want to taste how sweet they are?” She slipped her mouth over his, sucked his tongue into her mouth. She turned her head, and somehow laid her tongue flat against his, sucking it. She tasted sweet and felt like a whirlpool, like she could simply pull all of him into her mouth, and he would go willingly, gladly, to wherever her mouth would take him.

Halftime

He was younger, it made him both more and less attractive.
More attractive because he was stronger, leaner, more inclined to act on impulse. Less attractive because it was bigger gamble, what if he was coming on to her because he came on to every woman he came into contact with? The odds of rejection were much greater, but the rewards could be greater as well.
They had met at work, had lunch en masse with people from the office. They had communicated through their company email accounts when they needed to say something work related, until he started working in the same department.
She received a email from his private email address. She looked up from her monitor, he gave her a brief smile. The email had been funny, about a woman at the desk next to hers. She replied from her private account.
This continued for a couple of weeks, then progressed to instant messages, mainly jokes, talking about people at work. But the messages became progressively more personal, then flirty. He would comment on a particularly short skirt she was wearing, she would talk about the exploits he must be having as a young single man.
Then their communication became unmistakeably sexual.
He kept saying he was serious, letting her know he was interested in more than simply talking dirty on the internet. She, of course, acted as if he were talking about something completely unheard of, that there was no way he would want her, that she was way too old for this type of thing, it was insane. She was a middle age soccer mom, he was a single man with a gorgeous smile and free weekends.
He asked what she was doing this particular weekend. She was spending Friday evening at the soccer field. He wanted to know if she would be alone, and she explained yes, her husband was working, and she would be in the bleachers by herself.
Now he stood on the side of the field, seeking her face among the crowd. She felt him looking at her, he caught her eye for just a moment, no more. She looked away, then back at him, nodding once, quickly, then it was if she didn’t know him at all. He walked away, toward the parking lot.
The weather was, as is usual for Spring, iffy at best. It had started off chilly, but warmed up throughout the day. By the time the soccer game started, it was 70 degrees, with a warm wind blowing across the field.
She had put on a long skirt when she dressed for work, and didn’t make it home in time to change, so she had just taken off a couple of layers – the sweater she had worn over the sleeveless blouse and her tights. As she walked away from the other soccer moms and dads, the breeze lifted her skirt, she instinctively pushed it down, over her knees, catching the back behind her, cupping the fabric to her ass while holding it in the front.
Until she saw him, standing by her van. Then she let it go, letting the wind render her somewhat indecent, for a soccer mom on a Friday afternoon. She unlocked the doors from 10 feet away, didn’t speak as she slid into the drivers seat and he climbed in the back.
She started the van, and drove across the lot, behind the gym. A few cars were parked out there, overflow from the soccer parking. Still silent, she pulled the car into a parking slot, turned off the ignition and climbed over nylon bags of cleats and shin guards, to where he was in the back.
He smiled as she crawled through the interior of the van, sitting in the middle of the rear bench seat.
“Whats the score?” he asked her.
“Soccer moms are in a good position to score a goal,” she said, laughing at her own horrible joke.
“You sure about this? In the parking lot?” He was amazed at her nerve.
She gathered her skirt in both hands, placed a knee on each side of his thighs, and sat astride him. She could feel his hardness through his jeans. She let go of the folds of her skirt and reached down to unbutton his pants, he caught his breath.
“Are we in that big a hurry?”
“Yeah, halftime only lasts 15 minutes,” she explained. He was a novice, didn’t know any of the rules of the game.
He lifted his hips off the seat, causing her head to bump the ceiling of the van as she slipped his jeans down.
Some parents with younger children, whose game was finished, walked past outside. She realized if they looked closely, the family would be able to see through the tint on the back window of the van.
So when he put his hands under her blouse and unhooked her bra, she told him to leave it on.
“Don’t take my top off,” she said, and he left it buttoned, just cupped her breasts under the fabric where his thumbs found her nipples, hard and smooth as pea gravels. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back, just feeling this.
A shout from the parking lot brought them both back to reality. She slipped off his lap to sit beside him on the bench and he instinctively turned, his mouth finding the hollow between her shoulder and her neck, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh. The wetness he found there surprised him.
“The windows,” she said, trying to explain that people walking past might be able to look into the van. But her words came out as air, a whisper. He kissed her mouth, then pulled away.
“If you lay back, no one can see you,” he said.
She laid down on the seat while he knelt in the floor of the van, his hand still between her legs. She put her hand on top of his, pushing their fingers into her. They both gasped, opened their eyes, looked into the others’ face.
“You are crazy,” he told her.
“Crazy horny,” she replied.
She raised her hand up to his face, putting her wet fingers into his mouth.
He licked them and, moaning, brought his face down her body, pulling the skirt up to her waist. He put a hand on the back of her thigh, pulled it up, spreading her legs. She cried out as he opened her with his fingers, stopping for a moment, then letting his tongue trace every crevice of her pussy, as if he was trying to memorize the taste, the texture, like he wanted to know it, own it, take the juices away on his hands and face.
She knew what she wanted, she wanted him on top of her, fucking her. She wanted him deep inside her, hard, harder.
But he wouldn’t stop licking her, maddeningly slowly, even as they listened to families in the parking lot, even as halftime ticked away, even as she told him what she wanted.
“C’mon,” she whispered, pushing her hips up off the seat, “just . . . you know you want to. Come up here, come fuck me.”
“I will,” he said, and continued eating her.
When her orgasm shook her she put her hand over her own mouth, smothering the shout she found erupting from her throat. As her voice subsided to a whimper. he did pull his face from her, positioning himself between her legs, heedless of whether the parents or kids walking past could see.
They were both beyond caring.
He cried out as he finally entered her, shoved into her as she wrapped her legs around him, she reached down and pushed his ass, wanting him to fill her up completely.

And he did, fast, hard, as if he were trying to grind her down into the fabric of the seat. He gave up control, let himself come, and was surprised by the intensity of it. He had waited weeks for the encounter, and was not disappointed.
“I haven’t cum that hard since I was 16 years old,” he told her, sliding into the floor of the van.
“Good, remember that,” she said, pushing her skirt down. “Next home game is Saturday.”

Beg

He groaned, not a sound one hears very often.
A moan maybe, or a grunt or a sigh. But an honest-to-god groan, that is something that comes from way down in the gut, it is usually an audible product of frustration, or someone returning to consciousness. In this case, it was frustration, pure and simple. Frustration and desire bordering on need.
It had started, more or less, as just something to do. She had seen him near the bar, the only man in the place with something behind the eyes, no visible tattooes, no t-shirt testifying to his wit, or ability to purchase a witty t-shirt. He was attractive, slender, almost slight, but his looks weren’t what captured her attention.
It was his manner, his demeanor. He carried himself in a way that belied a certain confidence, almost arrogant, approachable but by no means needy. He was loose, smiling and laughing, but with a guardedness, as if he were unwilling to let people know with any certainty whether he was laughing with or at them.
He got her attention immediately.
Now he stood against the wall as she reached behind her and pulled his hands up over his head, holding his arms in place by pinning his wrists against the brick wall.
He opened his eyes and looked directly into hers, which were half-closed. She found it difficult to speak, she could hear herself breathing, panting almost. For an instant, she was afraid she would lose control of the situation, of him. She took a second to breathe, to think.
“Damn, you sure don’t waste any time,” he said. “Don’t have to wonder, no mixed signals, huh?”
“Yeah, well I can be a bit, uh, compulsive,” she told him. “I see what I want, I know what I want to do, why bullshit around?”
She released his arms and slipped her hands under his jacket, down onto his jeans, felt the bulge jump at her touch. Pulling his collar away from his neck, she ran her tongue from his collarbone up to his ear, whispering almost too softly to be heard.
“See that table over there?,” she asked him. “I could go over there and bend down over it, pull my skirt up . . .”
That was when he groaned.
But she made no move toward the table, simply unbuttoned his jeans and laid her hand on him, just below his navel. It was proving difficult to concentrate, she kept losing her train of thought, imagining him behind her, pushing her skirt up . . .
Her plan began growing form the moment she noticed him. She made eye contact, he smiled at her, but didn’t hold her gaze for any length. But he did glance at her a few seconds later, and then she knew, knew she would have him, take possession, assume control.
Make him beg.
But now her plan was running off the tracks, she was beginning to question whether she was even in control, not something she was used to. She was always on top of things, aware of every angle of every situation, her mind always in charge.
So his groan should have signified that things were going as planned, that he was losing it, would soon ask for more. Then she would have him ask again, until he begged.
But, although he groaned, he didn’t plead, didn’t even suggest. Just kissed her again, put one hand on the small of her back to press himself into her, the other hand on the side of her thigh, inching her skirt up. She felt her face getting hot, her panties would have been soaked if she hadn’t taken them off in the ladies room before approaching him.
“Yeah, the table would be cool,” he said as he caught the hem of her skirt, his fingers finally, finally making contact with her skin. “Or we could just do it here, against the wall. You could just wrap your legs around me, I could fuck you up against this wall right now, wouldn’t have to go over to that table. Ya wanna do that?”
“Oh, ye – “ She realized she had almost said yes, had almost told him what she wanted, not the other way around.
She had almost begged.
She also found her hands were in his pants, both of them grabbing his ass, feeling the muscles harden as he ground himself against her. She had to think, had to slow down, take a second and get a grip.
“The question is, what do you want to do?” she asked him, becoming more impatient.
This man, this smooth son of a bitch, was quite the challenge, she thought. But, she had challenged herself before, and had always met these challenges, these men always wanted her with a drive beyond her own. She could take them or leave them, that was always, always understood. She could walk away, they were the ones who asked, pleaded.
Begged.
“I think its obvious what I want,” he told her, and she noticed his breath was coming hard, ragged. He swallowed, opened his eyes wide. “We both want the same thing. Wasn’t that what you said, you knew what you wanted, just went after it?”
He brought his hand around and slid it between her legs. She gasped as his fingers entered her, slick, wet, she felt herself tighten against those fingers, clutching them within her.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, putting his mouth on hers and pushing his tongue inside. She could tell he was imagining putting his tongue where his hand was, she was imagining that as well. His fingers seemed to want to feel more of her, after delving deep inside, he brought his hand around to grab her ass, leaving a trail of her wetness around the top of her thigh as he pressed himself between her legs.
“You, do you . . . uh, well?” she asked him, barely, thinking maybe just having him ask, just once, may be enough. Just this time, she would fuck him if he would simply ask, just say please, he wouldn’t have to beg, exactly.
“I want,” he began to say, before losing his train of thought or his breath, or both. He paused, swallowed hard, started again. “I want to take you over to that table, bend you over it, and shove my tongue so far into you that you can’t breathe. I want to feel you come on my fingers before I fuck you, that’s what I want.”
She almost lost it, almost explained that that was indeed what she wanted as well.
But that didn’t count, that was a statement, not even a request, there wasn’t even a ‘please’ in there. Then he did the unimaginable, the unheard of, he asked her a question that had never been put to her, much less one she had ever answered.
“What do you want?”
‘More,’ she thought, ‘more, as much as I can get.’
But what she said was, “How badly do you want . . . those things? What are you willing to do, to say?”
“I’m willing . . . uh . . .” his voice deserted him when she bit his neck, shoved her hand down the front of his jeans.
“Just ask for it, that’s all, and we can do anything you want,” she whispered, her knees threatening to give out.
He gasped at her touch, but opened his eyes.
“Look at me,” he told her, she did. His face did not show any of the chaos his body was engaged in, she made hers do so as well.
“What, I’m looking at you, what?”
“You ask.”
Her hand closed around his dick, he lost his train of thought. He was so hard it surprised her, she couldn’t stop her mind from imagining this inside her, shoved, slammed, all of it, filling her up.
It suddenly became obvious he was calling her bluff, that although he wanted it as much as she did, he would not beg tonight, as she would not.
“Let’s just say . . “ she started her compromise.
“Yeah, that we both . . .” his sentence trailed off as he carried her over to the wobbly table, turned her around. She reached out and grabbed the far edge of the surface, raising her ass up, feeling the air against her skin.
“We’ll call this one a draw,” she told him as he fell to his knees, opening her pussy before plunging his tongue into the center, then out to feel her inside with his finger as he licked her clit. She came immediately, shouting without words, unaware she was loud enough to be heard.
“Yeah, next time we’ll declare a loser,” he said, shoving himself where his fingers had been. “But tonight, we both win.”

Seducing you by Text Message

Little pieces, tiny bites of me, a couple of lines at a time – this is how I must do this. Get your attention, show you who I am, what I want, how I think. One text at a time.
You cannot see me, or hear me. You can’t watch thoughts play across my face as I talk, won’t hear hidden meaning in my words, don’t know when I catch my breath or close my eyes and smile.
No way I can make you want me by wearing perfume or shaking my hair loose. You won’t feel me open your hand to taste your palm. I can’t put my mouth on the hollow of your neck, breathe your name while your hands reach under my skirt, fingers sliding up my thigh.
I can’t speak softly so that you have to lean in to hear my voice, get close enough to smell my skin. I can’t hold your gaze for just a minute too long to be polite, your hand too long to be friendly, your arm too close to be mistaken.
Instead of showing you how soft a kiss can be, I have to tell you. Instead of putting my hands on you to feel you grow hard, I have to ask you if you are. I have to tell you how wet I am, I can’t push your fingers into me so you will know.
You are too far away to taste the sweat on my lip or feel me gasp. I cannot put my tongue in your mouth, suck your lip, pull you down on top of me.
I can’t get in your pants, just in your phone.
Pity.

Let Me Make You an Offer You Can’t Refuse

She thought it rhetorical, not even a question warranting consideration, not worth asking. Surely he was kidding, no way he was really asking this.
“Can I just eat you? Will you allow me that?”
Are ya kidding me? Seriously?
He tells her he wants nothing more than this: to put his mouth onto and into her, to taste her, to satisfy her, make her come. He says he would ask for nothing else, he just wants to do that, use his mouth to claim her, make her his. He wants her to become unable to refuse him, wants her to be dependent on this, on him, he needs her needing him.
“I want you addicted to me, as I am addicted to you.”
Pretty powerful words. An offer you can’t refuse. Who would want to? Just the question, the request, the statement of how badly he wanted to do this, that was a hook, caught her, drew her in. To be in his presence, knowing what he wanted to do, knowing he wanted to bind her to him with an act so intimate, but that required nothing of her other than to share of herself, just to look at him and know this, overwhelmed her. That was a connection, a bond, in and of itself, that they shared something so private, so sexual, a thought that produced images she couldn’t banish from her mind or her pussy.
He wanted to kneel before her, he said, as if he were in front of an altar, like he was worshipping her, paying homage to her twat, offering up prayers to her pussy.
He promised her satisfaction, told her she would come on him, that he wanted her smell and taste, wanted to take all that she was into his mouth, wanted to swallow her, have her inside him, even if he was never inside her.
He described where he would touch her with his hands, how he would put his mouth on her, how his tongue would slip into the cleft of her, find her clit, swirl inside her and back out. He told her how he would explore her, said he wanted to get to know her pussy better than she knew it herself.
He was asking for permission to do this, he said he would beg, please, just this, he said. Please, please let me eat you, and I will ask nothing more. Come to me, let me feel you come, let me drink this, he asked.

“Well, if you must . . .”

Better When You Want It

When you want it

Because you are better when you want it.

You buy wine, wear shorter skirts, listen to saxophones with your eyes closed.
When you want it, you breathe deeper, say you can smell me.

So I will not do what you have done to me – trace me with your tongue as if to memorize my pussy. I won’t tell you how different you taste after you have come.

When you want it, you catch your breath when you slip your fingers inside, moan when I tighten around them.

So I will not lick you, will not take you to the edge, juices on my face and hands, just to make you stay suspended, right there, begging for it, please letmecomepleaseplease.

When you want it, you put your hands into yourself, smear that wetness on your nipples for me to lick off. When you want it, you make me come with your fingers so you can watch it on my face.

So I will not suck your clit, will not marvel at how big and hard it gets, how beautiful your cunt is when its shiny. I will not make you come.

Because you are better when you want it.