Life imitating art.

C’mon, Baby.

“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.

“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever.  I don’t want to stop.”  His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.

I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his.  This didn’t even feel real.

Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real.  Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real.  Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real.  Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.

“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.

“I wish you could, too.”

He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby.  His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder.  I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.

He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails.  I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.

I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him.  Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day.  No one is ever interested in my day.  But Peter is.

And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle.  When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height.  We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs.  Oh, Peter.

Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night.  No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all.  Eat your heart out, perfumers. 

We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms.  Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.

No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.

And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.

 

 

February Photofest
Masturbation Monday

I will only fuck one neighbor.

Noodle’s account of our debauched Friday has been met with a lot of interest regarding Downstairs Neighbor.  Apparently, a lot of you pictured an impotent figure, so to speak.  None of you imagined him to be a sexual contender; he was either gay or unattractive in your minds.

Well, the truth is, he’s fetching.

Where The Neighbor is manly, yet boyish in his features, Downstairs Neighbor is all rough and manly.  DN is 6′ flat-footed, but is rarely out of his cowboy boots so he towers at 6’2″ over The Neighbor.  They both have broad shoulders and dark hair, but DN sports a beard where TN a 5 o’clock shadow.  TN clips his hair in a tight crew and DN shaves it close to offset his balding.  DN wears heavy metal band T-shirts and plaid and TN wears whatever it is I make him buy for himself — an easy, quirky style.  DN shares a larger than average cock with TN, as well.

These two men would never be friends if it weren’t for me.  They’re from opposite ends of the universe.  DN is closer to a conservative/libertarian type, TN is liberal/centrist; DN smokes a pack a day, TN works out every day; DN prowls the local bars and music venues snapping pics and roaming like a wolf several nights a week, TN is holed up in his office playing video games alone.  We’ve talked about the unlikelihood of their friendship.  They know it, I know it, and none of us really care.  We get along because of our intelligence and intellects and shared love of booze, laughter, and conversation.  TN and I have been interrupted by DN countless times with his booming laugh and doorway-filling presence.  It’s equal parts irritating and endearing.

In fact, as Noodle, TN and I headed to my room on Friday he asked if we should lock my front door in case DN barged in on us.  I assured him he wouldn’t do that, but that’s exactly what he did.  DN told me later as we all laughed about his surprise entrance, “You shoulda seen my face, Hy!  I had my hand up to knock on the door, but then was all, ‘Fuck it!  I know it’s open!’ So I pushed it open and no one was inside and then I hear, ‘Ohh!  Ohhh!   Ohhhhhh!’ ” his falsetto is high-pitched and ridiculous and I cringed at his interpretation of me in rapture.   He continued,  “And then I hear ‘slap, slap, slap!’  Of course I just went in the kitchen to make myself a drink!”

And that’s DN.  He’s loud as fuck, doesn’t give a whit about his health, writes feverishly in his spare time, is a photographer, works too much, and gives big, massive, glorious  bear hugs with kisses on the forehead.

We aren’t together — and never have been — because when I met him I was adamant about not shitting where I eat.  Ha!  Oh, the irony!  That was part of the reason I kept TN and my affair a secret from him: I didn’t want to hurt his feelings that this kid could get in my bed, but he couldn’t.

We did make out the night we met, briefly, while the other boy I’d invited up waited in the kitchen for me to finish.  I ignored his text the following morning, “If you ever need a savage fuck come down to #322.”  I said, “Thanks, but no thanks, we’re neighbors and I can’t do that,” and he let it go at that and we’ve been friends ever since.

He’s a master observer, but I don’t think that he’d fare much better than TN is right now when he was 28.  Today he’s got the benefit of being 32 and suffering through some loss and he’s generally a more emotional person that TN is.  He cries when his heart gets broken, but he’s been abysmal in his relationship attempts,  shying away from anyone who’s actually interested in him and hiding behind his work schedule.

I’m happy that he and Noodle hit it off.  I can’t think of two people I’d rather see have amazing sex than those two.  I never imagined it’d be with each other, but I am singularly thrilled that they both got sweaty and released lots of fluids on and in each other.  DN likes to say he’s a “sexual camel” and doesn’t need sex.  I think he’s a goddamned liar, but whatever.  Noodle took care of that anyway.

Downstairs Neighbor didn’t have the desire or gumption to pursue me when I said no to him like The Neighbor did and, ultimately, that’s why I never picked up with him.  I respect him for that on the one hand, but it also says a lot about him on the other.  TN and I are two peas in a pod, complimentary in every way, yet comfortable and snug.  He wanted me and came and got it.  DN didn’t.

You can think I’m crazy for preferring TN over DN, but there’s no accounting for the magic that happens when you meet your match and DN was never that man for me.

Besides, I’m a warm and fuzzy socialist-type and DN’s basically a misanthrope.  I can’t be fucking someone who wants to get rid of the welfare system.   I’d lose my bleeding heart liberal card.

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.