I have a fantasy about a married man, Part 2.

I’m all about follow-up posts apparently this week.  Part 1 is here.  And who knew this would be more than a 2-parter?  Not me, certainly.  Enjoy!

He pushes the door open and I walk through, making sure to brush my breasts against him as I pass.  The room has two beds and a clean, modern look. I casually toss my purse on a chair and pull the curtains open.  The city sparkles below, the river curls lazily on its back as if inviting me to do the same.

He has kept pace with me and as I stand gazing out the window and kick my shoes off a beat later he is pressed behind me with his hands cupping both breasts.  I throw my head back and expose my throat to his mouth.  He nibbles my ear and traces his teeth along the chords of my neck, kneading my breasts, puffing deep-throated grunts along my skin.

I feel the bulge of his erection on my bottom and I press back more.  He bites me and I moan.  His hands slip beneath the thin cotton and free each heavy breast.  I moan louder.

He presses us both closer to the window until I must catch myself on the glass.  I hear him fumble with his britches and then his rod is caught in the folds of my dress between my legs.  I spread my feet just a little.

He falls forward on me and I brace myself under his weight.  He hikes up my skirt and finds my hot flesh, inflamed for him, dripping.  His fingers gently part the folds and dip inside, his cock is still safely tangled in fabric.

“Jesus Christ, you’re wet, Hy.  I thought you made this shit up.”

“No.  I never make it up.  It’s real.  And it’s for you,” I manage to answer.  His fingers begin a brutal rhythm and I start to shake a little.  His cupped hand is filled with my ejaculate and my dress suddenly feels like burlap, my hand prints have become sweaty smears on the glass.

Apollo seems to feel similarly about my dress and pulls it up and over my head in one motion.  He’s still fully clothed.  When he enters my pulsing slash, we haven’t yet kissed.

He pushes in slowly and an inch more when his pelvis reaches my buttocks.  I pant gently letting that filled-up feeling wash over me and tingle up over my shoulders and down to my fingertips.  He begins to move, his hands tight on my waist.

“Apollo – ” I start to say.

“Hy, don’t speak.  Not a word.”

I shut my mouth and begin to whimper as his pace increases and I hear his breathing become labored.  I wish we were on a lower level so a passerby might see me pressed against the cool glass wall, but find my view of his reflection a pleasant consolation prize.  He’s gazing down at me, his face transfixed with pleasure.  I rock back and pivot my hips just a little.  I feel him swell inside.

His balls swing and smack my vulva with each pump and I reach back and gently pull on them.  I have one shoulder pressed against the glass and the awkward position heightens my arousal.  I can’t move.

He pulls out and pulls me up to my full height.  He begins to dip down to take my mouth with his, but kisses my jaw instead.  My hand is wrapped around his wet cock.  He runs his hands up my body, pinching my nipples hard as he passes them, to rest his hands on my shoulders.  He gives a warm squeeze, then I feel pressure.

I lower to my knees and his bobbing meat glistens in the sun streaming through the window behind me.  I lick the head and taste my cunt.  I grab the base and impale my face on him, begin to move, do my thing.  He involuntarily pushes his hips forward and groans.  I lap and slurp and stroke like my life depends on it.  Like sucking his cock will turn back time, fill my bank accounts with money, solve world hunger.

He is lost to my ministrations.  My pussy cries happily, my juices running down my thighs as I taste precum and feel him grown then recede and grow again beneath my tongue and lips.  I press my finger to his perineum, slide it back to his anus.  It constricts and he thrusts almost angrily at my face with his hips.  I push a little further, just the tip and his thighs are like brick walls on either side of my face.  He begins to tremble.

He’s close, I know it.  I want so badly to taste his seed, to feel his beautiful, thick cock spurt into the back of my throat.  To look at him with his cum glistening on my lips, my face flushed with exertion.  I want this so badly.  I dive down harder and concentrate.  This is going to happen. My pussy pulses, little mews escape my throat, tears begin to run down my face and then he roughly breaks us apart, grabs me by the arms and throws me roughly down on the bed and undresses as he climbs up over me.

I have a fantasy about a married man, Part 1.

My first foray into fiction. I hope you like it. Sincerely, Ms. Hyacinth Jones

We’d been emailing for months under a specter of anonymity, I to protect my professional persona, him his marriage. We only knew each other as Hyacinth and Apollo, except I knew what his cock looked like, thick and marvelous, and he knew my body’s curves and swells.

Though, once in a fit of emboldened activity, I sent him a photo of me with my black-painted fingertips in my open mouth, shirt hiked up, breasts exposed and half of my face cloaked in thick black frames. I was tasting my pussy in the photo that morning. He had not chosen to be so exposed.

And so it was I nervously sat in a hot little coffee shop, surrounded by college students trying to out-cool each other, looking for a man of average height, broad shoulders, and wearing cargo shorts.

I’d dressed carefully that morning. Taken care to shave my legs close and my tender labia. My pubic hair covered my mound with a faint dark blonde dusting. My dress, a kick back to the glory days of disco had slashes of color diagonal on my heavy, braless breasts with a strategically – lo, fortuitous – white stripe across my left nipple. I pulled my shoulders back as I saw a man fitting his description fill the doorway. I hoped he could see the outline of my dark nipple.

Walking towards me, this man seems to be in slow-motion. I can’t hear the indie rock anymore, only the blood roaring in my ears. I can’t seem to breathe and I think my heart may leap out of my chest.

“Hy?” the man asks, his handsome face splitting into a wide grin.

“Hi, Apollo. Yes, it’s me.”

I stand up and slide out of the booth to greet him, bending more at the waist than necessary. Flat-footed I am face to face with his lithe physique. He stoops down a little to embrace me. I can hear him inhale as his warm arms wrap clear around me forcing our pelvises to touch as we squeeze together.

I become even more breathless. His body so hard to my softness. His lean virility hard to ignore.

“Here, sit next to me,” I motion to one side of the booth. He obliges and I slide in after.

We ignore the fact that we’re in an establishment that serves food and instead share my icy water glass. Our thighs are pressed from knee to hip together, our arms cannot avoid near constant contact either as we acquaint ourselves. Skin to skin, voice to voice, eyes to eyes.

He says something about the blue of my eyes. He couldn’t tell what color they were from the picture I’d sent him all those months ago, he says. He thinks they’re beautiful. But, he adds, not as beautiful as they’ll be later. I hold his gaze. Two seconds, 5, 10. Breathe.

The fact that we are here, together, blows my fucking mind. He’s shared intimate details of his life with me over the course of our correspondence and I with him. He knows what a libertine I am and he accepts it, craves it in a partner. I know his insatiable drive to bury himself in women, to find that kernel of connection that can only be created through the most intimate act of being peeled wide open with another soul.

We talk about everything and nothing. Our dissolute lives, our reflections, the properties of good coffee, the pros and cons of cuddling, the taste of semen and pussy, the smell of redwoods.

I fight my seizures of bashfulness valiantly, but when he compliments my breasts and how he looks forward to sucking on them I am lost. I turn red and cover my face with my hands. He says it’s charming. I assure him it doesn’t feel that way.

“Let’s get out of here then,” he suggests. “My hotel isn’t far. I requested a turn-down. The mess from the orgy last night should be cleaned up by now.”

I laugh and am grateful for his deftness.

He’d walked from campus, so we jump in my car. I feel strange somehow with a car seat in the back. Mothers don’t do this kind of thing, I think for a split second, but quickly push that thought aside. That kid was made by doing just this, after all.

He jokingly bitches about the traffic in my home town, about its utter lack of logic. I giggle. I used to get lost on access roads and under-pass U-turns the entire first year I lived here. Not to mention the fact that most major streets have 3 different names and pronunciations. It’s fucking stupid. I feel more relaxed than I’d ever hoped.

In minutes we’re at the hotel. I am thrilled. There are few things I like more than going to a hotel to meet a man with the sole purpose to fuck. I feel dirty and wonderful. My pussy gets wet for moments like this the second I enter the foyer. I pulse on the elevator ride. This day was no different, except he was with me gently bumping into me or casually guiding me with a light touch to remind me viscerally of whom I was coming to meet.

He pulls out his key-card outside room 914 and as he turns down the handle he looks at me and says, “Get ready, Hy. I’m going to fuck the good girl right out of you.”

Part 2.