Tuesday, June 16, 2009


It was during one of our relaxed, dinner-and-a-DVD dates when, not long after we had smoked some excellent Jamaican herb, she started to pass by me in the hallway. I was coming out of the bedroom for some reason or other, and she was walking from the studio toward the kitchen. I have a long bookcase unit against the south wall of the hallway, filled with treasures about anthropology, history, mythology, sexuality, mysticism. An autographed, out-of-print hardcover from Stewart Farrar. The Egyptian Book of the Dead. Freemasonic texts published almost one hundred years ago.

It's very difficult for two people, when using the hall at the same time, to avoid coming against each other. Framed photographs, and an original work and personal gift from artist Cindy Sudano, on the opposing wall require some caution. What a fitting place to have serendipitously pulled Dean, who in both look and spirit always made me think of the ladies of some ancient, Mediterranean city, aside for some passionate kissing.

It could have been a simple peck. It could have been a light brush of my hand against the small of her back as she strode by. It began as a tender grasp of one another when our hips brushed together, my arm coiling around her small waist as I bowed my head between her neck and shoulderblade to kiss her there. We began facing opposite directions and holding one another as if in mid-tango. And then we stopped.

Passion is a power that I love to feel overwhelm me, and I worship that cascading, utterly carefree moment when all other consciousness is suddenly, irretrievably cast aside and all that matters is the yearning and the pursuit to satisfy the yearning.

Dean brought her arm to my back and pulled me closer while, at the same time, my right hand slid to her thigh and tugged it firmly against my leg. We conjoined in the hallway under the bright stares of the pot lighting, beacons that glared white and warmed our clothes and skin. Our lips met hungrily, our mouths parting with faint gasps as our heads moved in slow circles. The moistness of her lips inflamed me, and my grip to her thigh became more insistent, our bellies pressing against one another. She ran fingers throough my long locks and grunted sexily, quietly, as the energy began to shift and I became slightly more forceful, demanding.

We said nothing to each other. Her eyes pleaded to me. Gently but firmly, I grasped a fistful of her short and curly hair between my fingers, twisted her head to the side, and pulled her mouth hard against my own. She parted her mouth open with a stunned awareness, her eyes tightly shut, and my lips crushed against hers with possession. No gentle embracing, no coy maneovres, no subtle gestures would this be.

She was mine.

I stood my bearing, my heavy steeltoes firm against the floor as I prepared to manhandle her body weight. My left hand suddenly swung to her right leg as my right hand continued to hold her by her hair. I was grasping and squeezing her thigh over the thin camo pants she was wearing (we had matching pairs), and now my right fist changed intent from gentle tugging to an urgent pulling of her hair. With her small, auburn curls held tightly in my fist, I held her head in the same one one would command a cat by possessing the scruff of its neck in a moment of discipline. I tilted her head in the ways that pleased me best, moving her kissing mouth to where I desired it against my own lips, to my neck, to my chest. Dean began to go limp and pliant, unsteady on her feet, but my hand at her leg kept her weight in balance. She was panting. Beads of sweat started to seethe from her brow. Her mouth remained open like a salmon struggling for life.

My hand left her leg and coarsely ran up the length of her ribs and over to her black Tshirt. Her arms gripped my back and held my ass. There was no gentility here: I was pawing at her breasts now, holding and squeezing her tits through the cotton like a man who hadn't handled them in years. I felt her flesh meld between my strong fingers as my squeezes pulled her skin into my palms with heat. Cupping her left breast tightly, I tugged it upward as my other hand yanked her head back and exposed all of her neck. She cried out and opened her eyes, pupils dilating under the bright lights. I moved closer, bringing my covered but hard cock against her leg as I started to rub my girth against her.

Quickly, I reached behind myself with both hands and yanked hers away from my ass. Gripping her wrists, I placed her palms on the white pine shelf behind her, just under her hips, before resuming my naked possession of her heaving tits. Standing resolutely before her, now both of my hands were clutching, pawing, squeezing, cupping her breasts while my kisses continued to crush her. I started to pull her top off, yanking the black wifebeater over her shoulders.

But that fucking bra was in my way. Grunting in annoyance, I grabbed her by the back of her head and thudded her brow against my right shoulder, bending her over just slightly. Dean was shaking now, quivering, still panting, and she stayed perfectly still while my hands made quick work of the hooks at her back. Throwing the bra to the floor, I kept her exactly where she was while I started to undo the button of those camo pants, yanking the zipper down, and sliding my hands inside them to squeeze her little ass.

She raised her head to passionately kiss me, and I could taste the sweat on her upper lip. Her bare ass was in my grip, and I squeezed and caressed her asscheeks like the property they were to me at that moment. Cupping a cheek in each firm, hot hand, I met her kisses while our tongues darted, and I flicked the tip of my index finger against her winking backdoor. I pressed the fingertip against her there, feeling her anus open so very slightly, just enough to hold onto the smallest bit of my fingertip in a circular embrace.

I brought both hands up. I held her hair again as I kissed her. I started to tug her hair now, savagely, tightly, causing her to yelp and stare into the lights above us again. I held her head high as I bit and licked at her bared tits, the dark crinkled nipples hard and yearning up for attention. And then I pressed the full breadth of my right hand, palm against her chest and fingers spread, just under her neck and shoved her backward and into the wooden bookcase.

It shuddered with the force of my shove as her back thudded, small pieces of sculpture left shaken and spinning, volumes of books resettling, a framed picture knocked to the floor. She stood there now, topless and her pants in a wayward mass around her calves and ankles, shaking. Her back squarely met one of the support planks of the bookcase, her shoulderblades against copies of Ovid's Metamorphoses and Suetonius' The Twelve Caesars. How fitting.

I pulled her panties down.

Resting my hip against the bookcase, I leaned beside her now and returned to enjoying her breasts as she gasped for air. Holding her close to me as she wavered and swooned, my right hand began pawing, slapping, pinching her tits, her flat belly, her bare thighs. I smacked her thighs to urge her to part them more, and she was obedient. After enjoying the feel of her torso some more, I cupped my hand and slid it between her legs to completely cover her drenched and quivering cunt.

I looked into her eyes. I brought her mouth to mine again. I started to swirl my fingers, and soon I had her outer labia softly pinched between them and felt her urgent clit, hard as a stone, in the middle of her soaked flesh. I spun circles. I tugged upward. I smacked her cunny with broad, flat fingers. Dean's knees started to buckle, and I held her weight as she leaned between against me and the bookcase. I probed her with firm, spreading fingers, feeling her urgent need and her soaking sex. Holding her wet flesh between my fingers again, spinning my fingers in fast circles, it wasn't long before Dean's head arched back against the wood and she began screaming in long, loud, repeated, gasping bursts.

Her cries echoed throughout that narrow hall, and, upstairs, I both hear and feel the presence of someone wearing shoes slowly walking through their own hall above us and stopping not three feet away and over our heads. One of the Women Upstairs, or one of their boys, had heard us, came closer, and now was listening to Dean's screaming climax. I could picture her or his eyes blinking in amazement, because mine were as I smiled a Top's smile.

As my hand continued to possess her tight, soaking flesh, Dean started quaking when the first streams of her grrlcum began to gush from her. Her knees buckled again, and now she slid her back back down against the naked wood and crouched slightly as I supported her weight with my hips. My spinning fingers were unrelenting while stream after stream after long and pungent stream flooded from her and splashed against my boots, the floor, the opposite wall before she completely collapsed into my arms, panting, exhausted, her camos and panties in a crumpled heap around her boots.


Anonymous said...

Wow, that last paragraph.
I will still find a woman like that, someday, that will cum with me, squirt for me.

Anonymous said...


Tria said...

I must say that I just love your entries. I feel like passion is missing from a lot of relationships and reading this entry is making me long for a lover that would want to throw me against a bookshelf and have his way with me. Thanks for sharing.