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| Just a personal place to trip the mental light fantastic or curse the ether. |
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Long Ride
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Posted:Jan 4, 2009 11:45 am
Last Updated:Oct 6, 2010 5:03 pm
5024 Views
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I just finished a 12 hour trek from warm climates down South and as I'm returning home the long stretch fashions a fantasy in my mind so I call you at my next rest interval. You're willing and ready as your desires have been denied for some time.
I pull up in your yard and I'm taut and intensified by the high speed endurance test of my journey. It's cold and rainy, but my body and bike are hot and insulated by the leather and helmet encapsulating me from head to toe.
Your standing in the door frame in nothing but one of my dress shirts you pulled out of the hamper because it had my essence in the weave and the hint of my fading cologne you adore. The shirt is large, but it barely covers your erotic jewels because it's raised by your full breasts heaving with anticipation and the curvaceous shape of your hips and hind quarters which causes the shirt to give short purchase on a sinfully deadly body for which it was never meant. You know that pisses me off and enthralls me at the same time. I'll never get the impression of those nipples out of the fabric and there goes another hand tailored custom piece that ends up in your fucking inventory that I'll never see again except in a wad at your ankles or in tattered shreds if I can't control myself. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre.
Even though it's cold your body temperature causes you to ignore caution. You step outside to meet me. The foliage and semi-remoteness of your home gives ample illusion of privacy for all those but the most intrusive neighbors, but it's not sound proof.
You know the deal. There aren't words and there's no respite for the rage in our loins. I remove nothing not even the helmet. I sweep you off your feet in one fluid motion with the energy supplied by my anger and lust. I place you on the saddle of my bike facing backwards. The heat from the engine wafts up around your body keeping you warm. I remove the binders strapping my dry bag to the tail and secure each of your wrists to opposite ends of the grips. I reach into a cargo pocket and snap open a long razor sharp blade I keep for "just so" purposes. Your body tenses and you hold your breath slightly. I slice buttons off one by one until the shirt falls open and to the sides. Your back is arched and your ample breasts are offered heavenwards as the cold air causes the pierced rubies at the pinnacles to become dense and spiked. Every touch of the gold bars bells extending through them sends electric shocks through your nervous system causing your clitoris to stand on end in anticipation.
You're fully exposed and your clean shaven swollen lips steam in the cold mist.
I straddle the bike’s saddle in riding position and unzip my jacket and pants. My fully engorged cock almost launches out of my leather pants and I slide first the marble hard head and then the steel solid shaft slowly and easily into your hot moist cunt. I use the knife to cut my spandex shirt through the middle and cast the blade aside as I cover your body with mine to provide you with warmth and I feel the cold metal nipple piercings against my chest. I started thrusting deep into you with unrestrained force. You gasp and squeal with pain and pleasure as you wrap your legs around my back. I reach forward and flick the engine starter and the powerful motor roars to life as the bike torques with the initial horsepower.
You stare with burning intensity into a black visor. You can't see my face, but you know I'm wearing a sadistic grin and I'm watching the persona of madness spread across yours with each wave of ecstasy from the orgasms induced with the repeated hilt limiting thrusts of my cock as the head pounds into the bottom of your womb and I twist the throttle for the reverberation of the vibrations the motor transmits through your spine and into your nerve endings heightening and electrifying the sensations. Your exposed clit is rubbing against the smooth leather and it's drumming away at your libido's core.
You can't control the tide of orgasms sweeping through you and you strain against the bindings as they bite slightly into your wrists. Another sensation among the many that weaves into a symphony of mind numbing pleasure like a powerful narcotic of eroticism. I finally can hold back no longer and I explode with several final thrusts burying white hot jets of cum into your body emptying me completely of my stored burden. You have soaked my saddle and leather and soon my contribution is running down your tanned thighs.
I collapse upon you and we're drained momentarily. Spent and satiated. I remove my helmet and balaclava and throw them to the ground as I drop my head into your breasts and start suckling your nipples and then caressing your pouting lips and mouth. I release your wrists and you run your fingers through my tousled hair as we bask in the afterglow.
"Welcome home" you whisper in my ear and I whisper back, "You're cleaning my bike."
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Feeding the Beastess.
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Posted:Dec 11, 2008 3:38 pm
Last Updated:Oct 6, 2010 5:03 pm
4488 Views
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My soul would gladly languish in the dungeon of the depths of your dark eyes as the essence of my lust lay dashed, broken and dying upon the red silk petals that are your lips and the rubies at the pinnacles of your heart. Please accept my sacrifice to the nefarious goddess within you that reigns o'er your amorous nature.
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five things you don't know to love about me
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Posted:Nov 22, 2008 8:47 pm
Last Updated:Oct 6, 2010 5:03 pm
4503 Views
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the slow intense burn of an unrecognized passion; the steady warm sticky ooze of intense unrelenting undiscovered romance; the sudden sparking stinging electric snap and sizzle of barely bridled unseen lust; the painstaking arrhythmical heartbeat of unrequited love; the sharp hunger pangs of longing in the empty stomach of the heart.
the unrequited me created by the oblivious you
the only way the tortured survive is by learning to love the rope as it bites into the ankles and wrists hence, each day, they learn to love the torturer
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2
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When my muse strikes
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Posted:Nov 20, 2008 8:04 pm
Last Updated:Oct 6, 2010 5:03 pm
4621 Views
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You call me one afternoon. Raging hormones have you lusting beyond reasonable control. I'm getting off work in a half hour. I drive straight from work and arrive on your door step where you greet me in an over sized t-shirt. Just long enough that it only stops just above your shaven and swollen pussy that you've been rubbing for the last hour. Your erect nipples are causing the shirt to rise ever so slightly. I loosen my hand made Italian silk tie, but don't have time to take off my suit jacket before you pull me in by the same tie. You don't give a shit how much it cost. Material things can be replaced. Wanton lust tapping the artesian well of love is irreplaceable.
You back up against the sofa which faces away from the still open door for support and arch your back over the crown. The leather feels nicely warm and natural against your bare ass. You draw my head down between your thighs guiding me by your choke hold on the tie. I bury my face in your hot and moist flesh and ravish your pelvis with a strong and sensual tongue until your head starts swimming and you're not sure if you're losing consciousness and how much time is elapsing or if it's just standing still. You pull my face into yours and look deep into my eyes in the only moment in which humans truly since the change in evolutionary development with the knowledge that we can communicate by pure thought and shared pheromone intoxication. You smash my lips into yours and our tongues lash into each other’s mouths like great fighting serpents each intent on gaining the greater purchase.
We taste, absorb and wantonly feast. You draw my essence and soul into yours so rapidly and forcefully that I can only imaginatively compare it to the astrophysical force of a black hole. You fucking beautiful succubus. I gladly abandon my soul. So engrossed, I would gladly seal my allegiance with Mephistopheles to be in this moment forever.
Our sexes start throbbing like simpatico beacons programmed to fulfill a singular communicative purpose. I abandon any since of aesthetics. Damn the romantic images. The primal hypothalamus takes over and I tear at my belt allowing my pants to drop to my ankles unconscious of the Poindexter stereotype I'm undoubtedly perpetuating. I can enter you with guidance or resistance. Oh the hot welcome moist enveloping body that is your sex that could only have been purposively designed by a Greek goddess only for me in this moment in this eon.
Frantically at first we thrust at each other as if adversaries trying to inflict irreparable damage, but I grasp your shoulders with strong sinewy hands around the base of your neck and the top of your chest. I physically reign in your unmanageable lust and you’re forced to steady yourself on top of the leather back with both hands to prevent catastrophe as I now purposely and forcibly thrust deeply into your body.
We could predictably and conventionally switch into various sensual positions remembered from mental images glimpsed from the Karma Sutra or well perused iconic American porn films that fill our video libraries, but we don’t’ need to be so trite. We’re in the moment. This only and forever moment. Never to be again in exactly this way or time and space and we’re both achieving what our bodies and primal instincts are begging for.
We’re nearing the sun and soon we are bathed in the permeating and forever molecularly changing emulsion of its invisible radiated power. We convulse over and over again. Our essences are one for a split second of the universe and we are indistinguishable. Every muscle, every sinew, every corpuscle of our bodies pulsate and tense. Every synapse of our brains fire and sizzle with intense voltage and I feel more as the physical man than I have ever or will ever feel for that inimitable moment. I am Adam incarnate and you are Eve a chalice of life as you except my gushing tribute.
I collapse into you and catch you at the same time as we slowly slide down the back couch to the floor in a heap of pathetic humanity once again. Sweating, gasping, running our hands lightly over each other’s faces and bodies in an unconscious attempt to confirm reality tangibly. We are not imaginary.
The UPS guy is standing silhouetted in the door frame. Mouth agape and slightly overwhelmed. “I’ll (pause)(realization of awkwardness) just set this down here then, shall I?” Spin on the heels, rapid retreat.
I reach above my head, throw the door closed, and return my attention to your lips.
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