Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Girl walks into a bar

I was at one my favorite D.C. watering holes recently, wearing a skirt that just kept riding up on my thighs and a jacket cut specifically to hide my firearm. A man sidles up, sits next to me and starts talking. He's short -- maybe my height -- with tight curly gray hair and a receding hairline. A big open face with black bushy eyebrows. An off-the-rack suit. He's in town on business: A lawyer for an auto-parts maker in Akron.

So we talk. Back in Akron he's got two kids who hate him and a wife who doesn't understand him. They haven't had sex in a year and she only likes the missionary position. People will tell you the damnedest things when they're drunk, needy and want to get laid. Did I tell you that I was wearing sheer black stockings and garters? I like the feel. They make me feel sexy, the lace against my skin, the open space between stockings and panties, the feeling of ever-present naughtiness.

What do you do, he asks? I usually give my standard, "I work for the government," and let people think I'm a secretary at the Agriculture Department...whatever. This time I say, "I'm a dancer." I watch his eyes. I add, "I strip."

His eyes grow wide. "Do you like it?" He gulps his drink. "It's okay," I say.

I have this overriding whimsy to follow up and say, "I fuck for money." I am feeling edgy and horny and ready to get into trouble. He senses it. I wonder what he looks like naked. Short and squat with a paunch and a too-hairy chest and skinny middle-aged-man legs. He turns red and I look down to see his cock bulging down the left leg of his trousers. This one's hung: It looks about nine inches but not thick; all the same circumference as it runs down his leg, not tapering or flaring toward the head.

I want to say, "I fuck for money" and see what he says. He'll ask if I'm a cop and I'll say no, which is technically true, I am not local law enforcement. When he asks about money, I'll say a thousand for an hour, and we'll go back to his hotel room where he's living out of a battered Midwestern suitcase, and I'll see how much of that long dick he can get inside me. I'll do everything his boring little fat wife won't do. These thoughts have be drenched down below. I can smell myself. I know he can, too.

Unfortunately, I can quote the statutes I'll be breaking, so after awhile I finish my drink and leave. Back home, I slowly strip down to everything but my stockings, lie in bed with only the city lights flowing into the room. I come the second I touch my clit. Later, I think: Maybe he was a cop. Wouldn't that have been a hoot...until I was fired.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

And now, his punishment...

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Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Complications

I wish I could give you boys (and curious girls) a porno style ending to the Wendy saga, but real life doesn't work out that way.

After I brought her off, we went in my bedroom and I held her. She really seemed to love that. It's something many men just can't bring themselves to do. At some point, I took her hand and placed it on my breast while I kissed her. Then I put her hand down between my legs. My pussy was sopping wet, and she started to gently finger me while we kissed. I was shaking with arousal, stroking her hair, trying to ease her head in the direction of my crotch.

Suddenly, she jumps up and runs to the bathroom, barely shutting the door. I hear her throwing up, then the flushing of the toilet. We'd each had about one bottle of red wine between us. When she came back out, she looked green around the gills and staggered out to the living room. By the time I got there, she was dressing.

"I just can't, Linda," she said. "It's just not me. We can't ever do this again."

"Okay." I felt pussy juice running down my thigh. In a few minutes, the door closed and Wendy was gone. Another lover who will deny something ever happened between us. Sigh...I loved bringing her off and giving her some sensual lovemaking. She seemed like she needed it. I went back to bed, used my imagination and got myself off. Definitely not as much fun when you're flying solo. But I had Wendy's wonderful scent still on my face.

The next morning my headache was added to by a call from my sister, Amber.

"Justin raped me last night," she said. I wanted to say, How long has it been since you've fucked your husband? But I didn't. I just responded sympathetically and waited.

"He made me do things," Amber said. "He sodomized me!"

My headache was going away in a hurry. There's always been a bit of the voyeur in me. Did he fuck her in the ass or just make her suck him off -- with Amber one wouldn't know. Until she said, "I can barely walk. I don't know if I should go to the doctor..."

I asked her if she was bleeding. She said no. Ah, that neighborhood of Sodom.

"I think you'll be fine," I said. "But you and Justin need to get counseling."

"I've asked him to talk to Pastor Bob."

Great. Pastor Bob sounds like the name of a pedophile hiding inside a judgmental little prick who would tell Justin sex is only justified for making babies, but I'm a cynic. I asked where she was, and she said at home. Where was Justin? In the next room.

"Maybe you need to take (I named my nephews) and go be with mom and dad until things call down."

"I don't want to do that," Amber said. "I just don't know why he's always after me for, you know... It makes me feel so dirty. I just don't want to...I just don't know why he can't keep his hands off me, act like an adult and not an animal?"

I think: Well, maybe because he's a normal horny guy and you're a beautiful young woman -- definitely prettier than me, and with big boobs. It's not that I'm totally unsympathetic -- Justin's dick would definitely hurt getting sis's anal cherry.

Then, "When he...you know...as he was finishing with me...when he..."

"When he came?"

"When he came," she said. "When he came, he called our your name. He screamed and called out your name!"

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Girl love

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