Day 5-
I woke up this morning to a note, "Prince Charming" she calls me lady, I am no Prince. I am no scoundrel, but a prince, or any other virtuous figurehead embodiment of a man I'm not that either. I'm an artist, which means something different to everyone, but to me, and to me perhaps exclusively, it means I am a person who sees the same world around him as anyone else, I just see it's subtler tones, it's lights and shadows, it's finer brush strokes and the tool marks that define even the littlest attributes of everyone in it. All without judgment. or correction, without as much judgment as most, even an artist cannot entirely escape his humanity. I am an appreciator, and a mimic, a raconteur and a manipulator for good or ill, and sometimes. yes sometimes I'm a Lover.
Last night I was a lover, and last night I did love her. I took her from out of that chair and with my hands around her torso, lifted her and placed her squarely on my lap. Without missing a beat her legs wrapped round my own like two creeping vines cultivated by an instinctual desire for symbiosis. Her breath was rushed and labored as though a weight were pressing on her chest, I worried for a moment that she was in pain, distressed in some way as her head began to nod forward until the center of her scalp leaned against my forehead. But just then with incredible intensity she expelled all the air from her lungs and forcefully refilled her chest with precious breath as she lifted her head again to reveal a zealous severity in her eyes. And at that she all but swallowed me, attacking my face violently with an onslaught of kisses bites and forceful head falls that had the precise result she intended. I was hers, I returned the strength of her blows with a few of my own, less arbitrary, but still with a violent fervor playing at anger. There was no anger though, my good fucking god in heaven there was nothing more than pure animal "fuck, oh fuck, goddamn, FUCK!!!! We haveto fuck".
That shirt, that fucking shirt, that perfect fucking shirt, I tore that shirt from off her rigid little body and exposed two perfect breasts hidden under that perfect shirt, perfection being a matter of perspective, it's my contention that the most perfect breasts are the ones you happen to be holding at the time. Still, beyond that rule, these were magnificent, two rounded orbs like risen dough with a delicate shift in tone at the rim of her areolas, and the two peaks standing firm and piercing my still tee-shirt enshrouded chest. My nipples curiously in the excitement had become just as firm. And so too consequently had my prick.
Such a tiny thing, I lifted her body directly into the air to arrange those breasts in front of my now very much eager mouth. I pained her with teasing wisps, hints of bites and butterfly kisses where she wriggled and cried for the gnashing of my teeth and abandon of gentility. She swayed in my arms thrashed until I turned my eyes up to her to smile, acknowledging that I knew what she wanted and was only withholding for sake of my own amusement. Then god bless the vixen, she balled up her fists and hammered into my biceps with a painful impact I wouldn't have imagined possible from a pixie. It hurt so much I had to bring her down, had to almost dropping her back onto my lap where she resumed offensively kissing my already bludgeoned lips, and made motion toward my arms. I stopped her briefly only to remove my rubber gloves and acknowledged the resumption of progress with a universal "game-on" nod. She grabbed my comically large arms with two minim hands and with those hands placed my own on her chest. She forced my hands to press and mold her flesh as though it were the kneading of a hominal dough, and I obliged. This was not a dainty Lilliputian to be treated with kid gloves, she was a force an equal to be respected in battle and bed.
I grew fed up with the remaining denim that kept her ass from hands, I had only seen a bit of that ass when her back was to me and her low rises allowed me, and the rest of the world, a view of the on-ramp to her southern quarters. I spread my legs and let her stand for a moment between them while my fingers worked their magic on the frustratingly tricky button closure of her jeans. She began to strip me of my shirt while she waited for me to rid her of her last piece of cover, the last bit of protection between the world and her complete and total physical exposure. In that moment I felt so honored and connected to her, that she would trust me enough to stand before me so exposed, and know she had nothing to fear, be it self consciousness or fear of any sort. I loved her that very moment, and when her body was finally naked in my hands I raised those hands to allow her to complete the removal of my shirt and then stood slowly before her to remove my own denims to stand naked with her. To share in her exposure, her vulnerability, her trust.
More to come. I'll rest on these memories for now.
I woke up this morning to a note, "Prince Charming" she calls me lady, I am no Prince. I am no scoundrel, but a prince, or any other virtuous figurehead embodiment of a man I'm not that either. I'm an artist, which means something different to everyone, but to me, and to me perhaps exclusively, it means I am a person who sees the same world around him as anyone else, I just see it's subtler tones, it's lights and shadows, it's finer brush strokes and the tool marks that define even the littlest attributes of everyone in it. All without judgment. or correction, without as much judgment as most, even an artist cannot entirely escape his humanity. I am an appreciator, and a mimic, a raconteur and a manipulator for good or ill, and sometimes. yes sometimes I'm a Lover.
Last night I was a lover, and last night I did love her. I took her from out of that chair and with my hands around her torso, lifted her and placed her squarely on my lap. Without missing a beat her legs wrapped round my own like two creeping vines cultivated by an instinctual desire for symbiosis. Her breath was rushed and labored as though a weight were pressing on her chest, I worried for a moment that she was in pain, distressed in some way as her head began to nod forward until the center of her scalp leaned against my forehead. But just then with incredible intensity she expelled all the air from her lungs and forcefully refilled her chest with precious breath as she lifted her head again to reveal a zealous severity in her eyes. And at that she all but swallowed me, attacking my face violently with an onslaught of kisses bites and forceful head falls that had the precise result she intended. I was hers, I returned the strength of her blows with a few of my own, less arbitrary, but still with a violent fervor playing at anger. There was no anger though, my good fucking god in heaven there was nothing more than pure animal "fuck, oh fuck, goddamn, FUCK!!!! We haveto fuck".
That shirt, that fucking shirt, that perfect fucking shirt, I tore that shirt from off her rigid little body and exposed two perfect breasts hidden under that perfect shirt, perfection being a matter of perspective, it's my contention that the most perfect breasts are the ones you happen to be holding at the time. Still, beyond that rule, these were magnificent, two rounded orbs like risen dough with a delicate shift in tone at the rim of her areolas, and the two peaks standing firm and piercing my still tee-shirt enshrouded chest. My nipples curiously in the excitement had become just as firm. And so too consequently had my prick.
Such a tiny thing, I lifted her body directly into the air to arrange those breasts in front of my now very much eager mouth. I pained her with teasing wisps, hints of bites and butterfly kisses where she wriggled and cried for the gnashing of my teeth and abandon of gentility. She swayed in my arms thrashed until I turned my eyes up to her to smile, acknowledging that I knew what she wanted and was only withholding for sake of my own amusement. Then god bless the vixen, she balled up her fists and hammered into my biceps with a painful impact I wouldn't have imagined possible from a pixie. It hurt so much I had to bring her down, had to almost dropping her back onto my lap where she resumed offensively kissing my already bludgeoned lips, and made motion toward my arms. I stopped her briefly only to remove my rubber gloves and acknowledged the resumption of progress with a universal "game-on" nod. She grabbed my comically large arms with two minim hands and with those hands placed my own on her chest. She forced my hands to press and mold her flesh as though it were the kneading of a hominal dough, and I obliged. This was not a dainty Lilliputian to be treated with kid gloves, she was a force an equal to be respected in battle and bed.
I grew fed up with the remaining denim that kept her ass from hands, I had only seen a bit of that ass when her back was to me and her low rises allowed me, and the rest of the world, a view of the on-ramp to her southern quarters. I spread my legs and let her stand for a moment between them while my fingers worked their magic on the frustratingly tricky button closure of her jeans. She began to strip me of my shirt while she waited for me to rid her of her last piece of cover, the last bit of protection between the world and her complete and total physical exposure. In that moment I felt so honored and connected to her, that she would trust me enough to stand before me so exposed, and know she had nothing to fear, be it self consciousness or fear of any sort. I loved her that very moment, and when her body was finally naked in my hands I raised those hands to allow her to complete the removal of my shirt and then stood slowly before her to remove my own denims to stand naked with her. To share in her exposure, her vulnerability, her trust.
More to come. I'll rest on these memories for now.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
velvet_petal:
I even see a place for them within that heated scene of yor next to last paragraph. Imagine the beauty, passion, and surrender that would have been found had you been wearing tater mitts instead of rubber gloves.
junnie:
WOW! That is quite something. Hope you are well.