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2007-01-02
You are inside my head, you know. I can hardly walk away from this damn computer without thinking about you there, on the other side of your screen, looking at my words that come from this secret part of me. You are in there with the words, playing catch, knocking them out of the park, being enchanted. I love that you’ve accepted the invitation to come into my head, and you’re reading my stuff.
This part of me has always been guarded. It’s been hard to let you in.
I imagine you there, opening my page, finding my latest contribution. What will you think? Will it make your pussy drip with anticipation? Will your hand find its way between those soft thighs? I imagine your face lighting up with pleasure, maybe you arch up from the chair to stretch out a little. . . . it’s been a long day. Do you unfasten the button at the top of your pants? I like to think that sometimes you might as you venture into another jaunt of my imagination.
Yep. I think about it on and off all day. What will I post next? Will I find the perfect picture? Can I think of a zinger to advertise in my Blast? Will I catch YOUR eye?
I love that you have found me because of my stories.
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. . I know you men are reading too, but I’m directing this one at a certain Chick. I have to say that it’s not been hard for me in my life to enchant men. I mean, after all, I’m a slut and men like sluts. No big surprise there.
The magic has been in whether or not I could attract females. And as you know, females can be finicky. Working in the same office with women is the trickiest thing in the world. Today, everyone’s all fine and good, but tomorrow, slip and say the wrong thing, and I could be bitch-slapped. So forgive me, my Dear, for saying this, but the whole idea of YOU coming here for a little moment of your day, or on the weekend after the kids have found something to do and you have a few alone minutes. . . it totally captures me to think that you might take that stolen moment to find my words here. .
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What a compliment! It strokes my ego, massages my psyche.
So as I write this, I imagine you there, with your hand on the mouse, scrolling down. . . What really keys me up is to think that maybe sometime, maybe not at exactly this moment, but at any moment late at night, you might lie there in the dark, thinking of something I wrote today, and your hand might slip between your thighs, and your might take pause to ease it down between the folds and find what’s there and think about my story and whatever captured you. Do you bring your finger to your mouth and lick that slickness off? Do you get your finger sloppy wet inside your mouth and put it back directly on your clit and find that special smooth spot you like so much? (I like the top left part of my clit. What about you? Would you ever tell me, even if you thought about it?) Do you rub it sloppy-lazy when you start, and a little more persistently if you decide to finish? Or do you get yourself into a lather and tell yourself HE’LL be home soon, might as well keep it at a dull roar and HE can finish you tonight? (I do that too!)
So guesds what I’m doing while I’m writing this? I’ve been so fraeking horny all day long. I came home to the computr fresh from the shower, wrpped in a white towel. The towel fell when I sat down, draping the cmputer chair in terry. I can sit here and dabblre with words on the screen while I rub on my clit, getting the jucies flowing, smelling the soft smell of me rising up frm my hand. Ah, the sweet smell of pussy, fresh from the shower!
I’d better stop that, I can’t even type!
I want to feel you inside of me so badly! I sit with my legs wide. If you could see through your monitor into my computer screen right now, I’d be putting on quite the show! Can you imagine? If I slide a finger inside my vagina right now, pull it back out, glistening. Want to suck it off? I wish you were here to do it for me.
Slurp!
(It was delicious!) It’s hrd to type.
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I have to keep backspcing to correct, to insert forgoten letters, to find the ALL CAP key. I want to have you here, sinking against me. I would kneel down between your legs, open you up and breathe deeply. I want to smell your scent for real. Can you imagine me there? My face planted firmly between your legs, my tongue probing your softness. . .
Would you hold my head where you want me to spend my time? Will I hear your breath catch, or are you a moaner? Will I feel a pull on the back of my head if I hit it just right? I can imagine my tongue lingering at the back of your vagina, then lapping all the way upwards, nice and slow. A big lapping tongue, pushing against all the ripples and valleys, a very flat and broad tongue. . . . I want to eat you alive! I lap and I lap, feeling you wriggle with delight. Do you moan? Do you say what you want? Do you tell me what to do? Or do you just take it, and quiver, imagining my next move, alive with expectation? I peel the lips of your labia back and pop! There’s that impish clit! Begging for attention.
I focus there, whipping my tongue from side to side, feeling you squirm.
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I have all the time in the world. I start tapping out the secret percussion. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Oh! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop. DAMN, Girl! Who taught you that?” I hear at last.
My tongue draws into a sharp hyphen of energy, “Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta” I think as I tap out the rhythm against that pink bulb. I feel you shift underneath me, and imagine your hands clenched hard. I keep going, relentless. (If you think I’m going to give you any mercy now, you’ve got to be kidding!) I brace. I want to hear you scream. The energy builds. Your thighs quiver against my ears.
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“Sheeeeeiiiiiiiiit! Dddddaaaamn! Oh Gaaaawd. ”
I back off for a second, then I hold you hard where I want you and go in for the kill. I press my fingers down from the top against where your g-spot is and I come up from inside and stroke against that spongy lifesaver in there. I know I changed up the pace, and it’s going to take a minute, but I keep stroking it, just two fingers inside of you, motioning like I want you to come here. I do want you to cum here, but I can be patient. My breath is coming out all hot and ragged against you, so I pucker my lips and blow out a cold, focused stream, right against your sex. I stroke and stroke and stroke there, and I lap your pussy with a big flat tongue a few times. Mix it up a little. Then back to the stroking, stroking, stroking. Cum for me, cum for me, cum for me, I beg.
“Keep going. . . keep going. .
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. . I’m allllllmoooossst therrrrree!”
Your hands clasp the top of my head, pinning me to your cunny, and a gush of warm spray hits my face. I keep licking and stroking, now a third finger inside, finding its way. . . You tense, then you jolt, and your cum splashes out in a rush, all in my face, my nose, my hair. It tastes so wonderful, I lap it off of you, sweet relief rushing through you in waves.
Come on, Pretty Girl. You can do it.
I stroke your pussy with persistence, and you arch your back and cry out one more time.
“Oh! OOOOOOoh! Aaannngh! Oh!”
You moan and thrash. I smooth clenching muscles and dry away droplets of water. I hardly want to take my hands away. I wait as the orgasm subsides.
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I’m sure I could do that again. . .
* * *
“You always make me feel so relaxed. ” You tell me later. Then you giggle. You couldn’t wipe the smile off my face to save the world.
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