“I Digress.”
We could lay beside each other:
A uniform complement.
White blouse, red tartan skirt:
Brilliant color subdued in the light of a dancing flame:
A flame of a solitary bedside candle.
We would hold hands:
Interlacing fingers, and looking, deep into each other’s eyes.
Yes, I would remember those eyes.
You might lounge on your side:
I would lay flat prostrate on my back.
You like it like that.
With a free hand, you would stroke the inner thigh of me:
With interest:
Sending shivers through the entire body:
Nipples harden and ache.
I could stroke your hair back out of your face:
Running delicate fingers over its cheek:
Past the ear:
Anchoring your silky bangs there:
Falling fingers over the nape:
Such a slender line to the neck:
Allowing the touch, to witness my arousal of you:
Dropping down in continuous movement:
Along the forearm:
Imploring consideration:
Fully:
Of what is to happen.
My legs would insinuate a parting slightly outside of express:
Control:
Your eyes conspire a twinkle:
In the yellow hue thrown out by the light of the candle’s sun.
The glance downward through my middle:
I saw it in you:
It was seen:
As your fingers found their way up:
Into my too short tartan excuse of a skirt.
Your gaze slowly returning:
Docking:
Back:
Into the fixed stare upon your face.
Your fingers reach:
The hot:
Wet:
Bulge in the middle of my panties.
Pupils dilate:
Lips swell and redden around me:
Without struggle:
Effortlessly:
In an easy sort of way.
In final concert:
Pandering at the door of my teats:
Apologizing the delay:
Following their lead:
Catching-up:
In the most probable of ways.
The lower jaw droops open:
Revealing:
My heart in my mouth:
And mine sigh:
Of hot breath:
Betray:
The escaping spirit:
Of:
Its inner desire.
You smile:
Gently filling me:
With security:
Confidence and hunger:
With terror on its cuff:
Two thighs open wider.
I grasp your forearm tightly.
I allow you:
To lift:
The gusset:
Of:
My soaking panties:
Up:
And over:
My hot:
Wet:
Shaved mount.
Tuck it down:
Neatly:
Out of the way:
As I knew you always would.
Between:
The side of my vulva:
And my coral colored groin:
Contrasted subtly:
Against:
The sandy hue of my expansive thigh.
My legs:
Shiver and part:
Even more:
Your eyes:
Dance:
In excited panic:
Whilst:
Glistening with joy:
As they do unto a child:
Ushered through Santa’s cave alone:
By tear-dropped parents:
Waiting there:
Hands cupped:
At the entrance.
Snow:
Thawing from their boots:
Memories:
Melting from their hearts:
In commemoration of the magical event.
I dig my nails into your arm. My head revolves backward on the pillow; my eyes close slowly, then return to yours.
My hand slithers down into your wrist, its thumb at the center of your palm.
You fold all but two fingers back.
Your bosom:
Heaves:
Faster as your breath quickens in:
Anticipation.
You release:
Full control:
Of:
The limb:
To me.
My clout-lips:
Still:
Clammed tight together:
By the natural glue of their internal stickiness.
But I:
Feel:
The tingle of a warm, spring-fountain:
Of:
Honey-cinnamon-flow, driveling out from down below:
Me.
Running:
Slowly:
Out of my red velvet cave:
Like hot lava, streaming through the valley of my buttocks:
Wetting:
My:
Dark mysterious hole readying:
It for:
Possible action.
Our souls:
Couple together:
Bound:
By invisible tentacles:
Radiating:
Out from:
Behind the eyes:
Entering:
Through the dark:
Glassy portal.
The iris:
Sensing:
Intrinsically:
All gaziantep escort reklamları of the emotion and desire of the other.
By-passing a need to evaluate.
Laying redundant the necessity to quantify.
Setting obsolete — all logic, reason and rationale.
Tapping-in, directly at the source, touching the very essence of the other.
Feeling:
It.
Knowing:
It.
Raw:
At the very center:
At the very tip:
Of the conical vortex; a place where “Time” itself is arrested, and Space becomes infinitesimally small.
It is the Singularity:
The home of the soul, and there is, paradoxically, room for two there — only.
I squeeze our interwoven hands tight.
I direct the limb to the upper most cleft of my labia; some 5 inches south of my sweat filled navel; pooling under my blouse.
Guided fingertips touch-down, where my vulva lips begin on me.
I squirm and moan, my eyelids flutter and close. When they open again, moments later, I see your tongue protruding out from parted lips.
Fine strands of saliva drool from the tip, into the darkness of the bed between us.
I direct you fingers.
Meandering them down, slowly, into the trough of my labia.
Into the fault-line of my vent; the puffy lips separating the two sides of me; the continental plates of me, drifting apart when excited, as they do, and shutting fast when filled to the brim and satiated.
Stiff-fingered digits breaking the seal; parting the lips; tearing open the organic adhesion holding them together.
We both take a breath and hold it, bated.
A slushy, viscous, sound breaks the lurid tension of the moment, as the fingers overcome the inertia of my vulva-lips adhesion, and togetherness.
In an instant, my pork-pie lips unzip — from top to bottom.
Unfurling their red, hot, sultry, dripping, labia wings; not unlike a spinnaker unleashed at the behest of a threatening doldrums — running before the wind.
Unfolded, they turn magenta red under pressure of a flooding blood-gush; like the wings of a post-pupating Red Admiral, emerging from its cell of metamorphic incarceration: Entering the world as the Imago, painfully unwrapping its equipment.
The candle’s vertical tear-drop flame quivers against an assault of a wayward breeze.
It brings along with it the remittance at full quantity; in undiluted quality, the buzz of heavy pheromone, dispelled into the stilled air upon the unzipping of my glistening wet-frilly labial package: As the musky strain reaches us…
A re-calibration of our heart-beats occur; one of us willingly sacrificing — giving-up a beat of life — in the service of the greater good, and for the love of the – other.
The fingers run down; down from the top of my open burning lips; through the hot creamy wetness of my vulva.
Our eyes locked in gaze and shock and glee.
The push.
I hold you hand in mine, two fingers left sticking out.
I center the tips of them on the warm steamy entrance to my red-velvet cave.
There is a pause; a hesitation.
A glimmer of a smile breaks across your lovely face, and you give me an almost imperceptible nod.
I take a gasp of air, and ram your stiff fingers hard into me, all the way to the very hilt!
Fingers deep, oh–hh yes — deep inside — inside the raging inferno of me; my wide open hole pouts, and cries with unadulterated pleasure, and wanton desire: Its thick honey-tasting tears coating their lovers.
I thrust your fingers into my hole in an almost vicious, greedy way. You gasp with the thrill of it all.
.
I writhe and squirm in the throes of pure ecstasy.
Our lips; so, so–oo close, that I feel…
The heat of your breath flowing over my face, like warm scented oils of the Orient:
Raging through my mind, marinating my desire; lubricating my senses.
We breath in such a way.
We breath into each other; in perfect unison.
I pull your dripping creamy fingers out of me…
Fetching them up between us…
Painting my lips, with thick, taffy-vanilla, scented viscous fluid – dripping, ye–s, dripping – from your fingers now.
My wet tongue running over a well-formed perimeter of lips.
My mouth’s reddened compound-gates parted; my wet muscle flicking like a rawhide whip – serpentine – as it writhes; cruel in the air.
Darting in and out like the forked tongue of a King Cobra, sampling floating molecules of scent floating on the breeze; searching for a hint, a subtle indication of — sincerity — or perhaps just, temporary sincerity — ye–s, that will do.
I push your pungent sticky fingers, slow–ly, deep into your shocking mouth.
You lick and suck them, staring, astonished, into my eyes.
I slowly lick my lips, and let your hand drop out.
We kiss, hard and long and deep.
Our tongues thrashing about in each other‘s mouth. Wriggling, and wrestling over each other’s.
We suck hard, fighting to drink the available saliva.
I get most of it into my mouth, but share half with you, as we swallow our mouth’s love-juices, eagerly, together.
I grab hold of your hair, roughly; with both hands now.
Directing it down into my middle.
I make you revolve around on the bed and straddle over me.
My legs open wide, as wide as I can ever manage.
I lift my dripping-wet, red-hot, stinking, open-vent up for you.
Simultaneously dragging your face down into me.
Digging my nails deep into your scalp.
The swollen lips of my flowing labia dock upon your trembling mouth.
I feel your wildly flicking tongue insistently sultry on me.
All Hell breaks loose…!
My body tenses.
My spine arches abruptly with muted cracking and popping sounds of displaced vertebra: Dislocated discs poke through the flesh like the spines of a prehistoric reptile, pushed out of place under the immense tension and compression of the arc; fueled by sensually-infused torso muscles.
My hands wrap yanks of your long golden hair around them.
I drag your head about like a Arab equestrian tugging at the halter roughly, letting his spirited pure-bred stallion know just who really is in control.
I rip at your hair, and hear strands upon strands snapping off. I did my fucking talons deep into your scalp, and shove your face hard down between my open thighs.
My hips grinding and revolving, gyrating my soaking-wet vulva into your face.
My dripping vent swelling and opening wide; spreading creamy juices over your blushing cheeks; wetting your hair, wetting your chin, wetting your ears — wetting you everywhere.
You settle into the straddle over my face.
Your gusset stretched to bursting point.
Its stitching pushed to the limit of its durability, in the futile attempt to contain the voluminous folds of leaking labia that you secretly sport; within its cradle of holding.
My eyes focus on the dark, wet, stain surrounding a central lighter patch of the panty gusset.
A beige colored spot; centered over the gaping hole of your bubbling, frothing, vaginal tube – the structure of which fumes silently away in the bulging gusset of your panties. I am wary, and afraid, of it…but, irresistibly drawn in, as helplessly, as a mere moth duped by the blind belief, that the flame’s photon remittance is as benevolent as that of the life giving light of the sun.
I have no defense against such power and glory.
The compelling stench of the blemish drawing me closer and closer into it: Trapped by a pheromone-empowered-gravitational-pull, equaling that in strength, of a gigantic cosmic black-hole itself — strong enough to keep the very stars of our own particular solar-system, from flying apart into the chaos of a random, unregulated, universe.
I lay there, held static, between the pull of the cosmos, and my internal will.
As I struggle, with the eternal question, whether to give-in to my animal instincts, or to take the higher-road into a life-long pursuit of chased mores: A life with the uncertain promise of potential enlightenment, I found myself, calm of mind, but thundering my hairy pussy hard into the face of my best friend, as I tore at her head with my sharp $120 dollar false nails, and ripped her cheap, blond hair-do, out by the roots!
The pheromone gravity wore me down.
I neared the stain of her day’s dried-gooey-deposit…
I laid down into the thorny bed of the pussy’s rose-lined, only, hammock.
Repelling the current wetness of the moment; a deposit, no doubt: Dropped from the weeping lips of – not uncommon – thighs; wetted in the allowance of casual sexual turn-on’s; during periods of the day – the little Bitch…!
I catch a subtle whiff of her scent.
The scent of her damp streaming love-hole hovering only inches away — wide open — right there; up in my face.
The pungent earthy fragrance ingrained into her soiled, over-ripe, panty-cunt-craddle.
A tell-tale testament of her sensual adulterous day.
The foxy little vixen of a bitch…OoooooW!
I can smell the wearing of them on her!
I dig my nails in deeper and harder into her head; ramming my driveling mound mercilessly — severely — into her philandering chops.
The dampness, and the heat, of her imprisoned gash, held sweating in the day-old gusset, re-constitutes the dried concentrate absorbed there, and I… I… I am, subsequently, driven wild!
I instinctively attack! Deftly biting into the supporting fabric of the panties that hold the prize; gnashing, tearing, with razor-sharp teeth; snapping, snarling and ripping at the containment of the cunt’s underpinning.
I have to get at the wet, dripping, “She-Bunn”! Grrrrrrrrrrr, Arrrrrrgh, Grrrrr, Grrrrrr…!
Finally, foaming at the mouth, like a wild, rabid, animal, I ravage through the middle of the panties.
The severed gusset twwan–ngs away in both directions at once, and her quim-lips explode into my face, like a net-full of squid, squalling across the deck of a grateful fisherman’s sloop. The spill is large, wet and slippery.
“It will take a lot of cleaning up.” I thought.
As the driveling, creamy, labia ferociously opens up, shooting down from above the underneath of her with brutal feminine voracity, like the attacking lunge of the preying python striking at its mark; jaw unhinged, mouth fully agape; all red, and pink, and dripping wet; rushing ever closer; closing the distance; reducing the gap between its stunned meal, and sheer hunger: A lightening blush of crimson, with a cavernous, dark, humid, unfathomable hole waiting, menacingly, at it center.
It shocked me!
I froze for a moment, like a vacationer, freeze-framed, holding that glossy magazine in the aisle seat, as the oxygen-masks bounce-out from the loft above; deployed by futile safety measures of a falling aircraft in distress: Suspended in action: solidified in utter disbelief of the juxtaposition between the previous instant of holiday bliss, and the now, rushing reality of quite sure disaster.
I struggle to recover.
I open my mouth – wide – and receive a cake-hole full of the warm, sticky, labial delivery.
Once the sloppy-load is sucked fully into my hungry mouth, I ram my face into the rest of her workings.
The tip of my nose penetrating her dark mysterious hole back there; my nostrils, sniffing furiously at her peppery fragrant perineum, only hastily wiped following several visits to the bathroom to do bong-bong throughout the long day!
I thrust my wriggling, eel-like, velvet tongue into the smooth, quilted, walls of her love-tunnel, so deep that my teeth cut into the center string under my tongue.
There in the dim light of the flickering candle, we lay tight in our inverted embrace, drinking; lapping; sucking; grinding; writhing; screaming; pleading; gasping; imploring — and finally — coming!
We came to orgasm together…
Totally satiated, exhausted – and happy – we fall asleep, that way.
Just like that, right there; right there in the 69 position; breathing in each others love scents — all — night — long…
Tomorrow’s a new day.
All of this is in the past — now…
…Forward Ho…!
Apparently…heehee…J