You continue to suck my cock keeping it rock hard and full of desire for your pussy, which I know is dripping wet with juices I can almost and have got to taste.
I lift your face up and kiss you tasting what you have pulled from my cock. I tell you Master is going to suck His wet pussy as I slide lower making you straddle my face. Looking up into your swollen pussy I tell you, God you look ready to cumm in a big wave the first time my tongue touches your pussy lips. I feel you shiver like you always do before you cumm in a big wave. Changing my mind and shocking you by biting into your inner thighs as you grab my head and cumm all over my face screaming Oh yes Master please Yes OHHHHHHHHHH. You cumm so hard and long that after I release my teeth and begin licking the juices from deep inside your pussy, you cumm over and over again.
But instead of draining my kitten this sets you on fire even more, turning you into my wild slut who can't get enough. Knowing you want to fuck my cock so bad, I let you slip that dripping pussy down my chest to drive it down on my hard cock. You ride up and down on me tell you cumm so much you can't hold yourself up no more.
Turning you over and drive my cock deep into your pussy. I fuck you like a raging bull tell it's so hot and we're sweating and I howl loud as I cumm deep inside of you that sets you off in another wave. I fall back and pull you to my embrace just holding you close telling you I love you so much.
After we start to catch our breathes I begin to looking into the back of the limo, liking what I see and begin to get a very wicked grin as some very kinky ideas start to form in my head. Seeing that look in my eyes and smile, you start to get excited nervous knowing yes it is a long drive home and long cause you told the driver to take the long way home.
The End.
My Goddesses: Cheronne's Memoir
When I moved to Chico from Magalia, the finality of splitting up with Davi began to settle in. Steve's place in Paradise was agreeable enough, but I had begun to feel guilty about Davi just up the road a few miles, he had to drive past Steve's driveway twice a day. And in any case, I didn't ever expect to stay with Steve forever. He's not really my "type", whatever that means. I knew that from the beginning.
I'll have to be careful about what I say here, but I know more about myself than I did, and some of what tasted like chocolate ice cream at the time has left a bitter taste in my mouth. My relationship with Steve started with a stimulant - a white powder - and now that the fun's over, I can see that the white powder was what it was about from start to finish. The white powder, the slightly rebellious gang of Steve's friends: doctors, lawyers, other therapists, young professionals. What you would call "Yuppies" now.
Comparisons between men are useless; I won't go into the sex with Steve. It was different, and it wasn't that important, or very meaningful. I sometimes felt like Steve was very conscious of his "performance", and that for him, the entire sex thing was completely apart from love, or lovemaking. He wanted his performance to be appreciated, and sometimes he very subtly solicited praise. I occasionally got the feeling that he was competing against something or someone. I guess that would make sense, since I had told him most details of my relationship with Davi and Maureen. Again, I think it was the powder. At least for me, the high quickly became the centerpiece of our time together. It all became about the high. Getting high. The little rituals of cocaine. The slightly raffish, vaguely dissolute young professional set. I understand my husband better now, at least his addiction. The slide from "just fun" to "can't live without it" is subtle, but deadly. I've seen some of these friends of Steve in the morning, after a party. They're scared and sick.
It's taken nearly a year for the "coming down" to end. A year of hell, but I think I've finally got the monkey off my back for good.
I can honestly agree with Molly now: I wouldn't have looked twice at Steve under any other circumstances, but I was hurt and needy, and he flattered me; made me feel desirable and sexy. Now I wonder whether having sex with his clients or "patients" is a regular thing for him. He makes a big deal of it having been perfectly appropriate in our circumstances, but I doubt he actually believes that. The more I know of him, the more I think he has a blank spot on his moral compass. I think he sees himself as a sexual healer; sex therapist. The vast collection of erotic art and literature he has belies a preoccupation.....Mental health therapists don't fuck their clients. I think it was at my third session with him that he suggested that some "fun" of my own might relieve the pain of what we (not just me) were going through at home.
I hurt; I was jealous, angry, and wanted to hurt both Davi and Molly as much as I was hurting. Martha called it a grudge fuck. I can't disagree. At least we didn't have sex in his office. He was nice about it: took me out to dinner, then suggested that we go to his place to "relax". I knew what was coming. He went through this elaborate and somewhat self-conscious ceremony with the coke: a gold-and-silver filigreed container with the dope, a beveled antique mirror, and a tiny spoon. I felt paralyzed. Like a deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck. Having sex with Steve seemed inevitable, and expected of me. It was part of the script for the evening....I didn't have the strength or will to stop it. And in a way I felt trapped. Now I realize with a flush of shame that I recognized my feelings at the time.....they were almost exactly what I had felt when my cousin Jay was unbuttoning my little sun dress, touching my nipples, licking his finger, and sliding it in between my labia. I'm floating below the tree canopy; staring down at a young man with trembling hands and hot breath on a lanky young blond girl with her eyes closed, mouth pinched into a line.
My head and heart are clearer now. Davi wants me to come back to Wyoming to live. I don't particularly like it there, but I suppose it's just fear of the unknown that makes me continue to put off packing and moving. In my heart, I do know that he is the person I want to be with, if I'm going to be with anyone. I love him, more than anyone else I've ever been with. There is something about us that is so perfect. I'm still angry at him, and the realization that his heroin addiction is a permanent affliction is pretty sobering (sorry). I don't feel the massive sense of violation anymore, though. I know he's sorry; Maureen is sorry. I'm sorry. All of this last year has been like a slow awakening from a long nightmare. At least I do now believe that the nightmare is over, and that healing is possible.
The person I want to be with is the David I remember from our early days, the David he mostly was all the time we were together. The gentlest man and kindest spirit I've ever known. I remember us talking for hours in bed, about all kinds of things. Life, love, music, work. His appreciation - almost religious appreciation - of the natural world. And he listened. To my dreams of developing a foster care agency for unwanted kids. I had been divorced, and alone, almost two years before we became intimate. And I had known him long before that. He was first a volunteer, then a board member of the rape/trauma crisis center I also volunteered at two evenings a week.
I was pretty skeptical of having a man on the staff and board of a center that provided services for women, and some of the other staff were lesbian. I remember slowly, reluctantly, softening to his sincerity and gentleness, and his skill with women who were traumatized. He was a genuine softhearted guy. One of the women who supervised his first few months as a volunteer, herself a lesbian, commented that she had gotten over thinking that he was in some way suspicious. In fact, she said that he might be the first decent guy she'd met since her older brother. A lot of bitterness in those days. Still.
I remember the first time he and I kissed; the first time we made love. Him leaning over me, looking me in the eyes tenderly as he touched me. Whispering to me how beautiful I was. He still does that: makes love really personal, really tender. That loving look he has in his green-and-gold eyes, and the sure generosity in his body as he brings me to orgasm. No other person - man or woman - has ever so completely loved me, so intuitively known what turns me on, makes my soul and body sing. If I told you that I had been married for three years without once
experiencing an orgasm, and that the first time Davi and I made love I came twice - excruciatingly.....do you understand? Davi, no matter what happens between us in the future, you have the touch that makes me a completely a woman.
My first husband was a good guy. I know that he frustrated himself endlessly trying to make me "melt", as he put it. The word he used was "anorgasmic".....suggested by a therapist. Neither of us could overcome the baggage of our former lives. From eight to thirteen, I was repeatedly molested by a cousin; my mother's sister's son, also a friend of the man who became my husband. I still feel guilty using the word "rape", although that was exactly what it was. He was six years older, and I worshipped him. He took me for walks in his parents' date palm groves near San Bernardino. He taught me to ride a bicycle. He listened to my adolescent fears and frustrations. When I finally told my parents what was happening, the pastor of our church told my parents that we should not ruin the boy's life by making him into a criminal......boys are just boys: God has forgiven him; why can't you?
I don't forgive you. I haven't forgiven my parents, Jay's mother (my aunt), or pastor Richardson.
As Jay captured my body, I floated away. I know that must not make sense, but it's all I can say. My mind saw us sitting in the shade under the palms, his fingers opening my shirt and shorts to touch me....I can still hear his breathing quickening as he pinches my tiny nipples; rubs my little innocent vagina, puts his saliva on me. I knew what was happening....don't all women who have been raped know that they are being forced? Generation upon generation of submitting to superior force to save our lives. Even now I still sometimes awaken frozen in fear; feeling him clutch me as he moans and comes onto my stomach, or the dirt, or my hand, or my sunsuit. Frozen in fear as his breathing eases, and I become aware again of the rustle of the palms and the musty smell of his semen, my own salty girl odor, the mournful call of the doves. He wipes me, his hands shaking. Makes me promise not to tell anyone, or we won't be allowed to walk anymore together, and I will be arrested for being a prostitute.
Afterwards, I became...what is the word nowadays? Frigid is the only thing that comes to me. When I became sexually active (semi-willingly) at age 16, I did it because boys seemed to want it from me so badly. I didn't want to disappoint them; their need was so great. And I hated having them hump my leg. A couple of times, I felt a stirring of something in my crotch, but mostly I felt puzzlement over their fascination with my body, their quivering obsession and compulsion to touch, pet, enter. My body wouldn't cooperate, though. When boys tried to enter me, I'd usually just freeze up tight and dry. So, I became an expert at the handjob.
I'd known my first husband since childhood, too. He never knew about my molestation until I told him after we'd been married and seeing a therapist for a year. We were trying to work on our sexual issues. I told Rick then, and watched as in his eyes I changed from his wife to a filthy object; soiled and unacceptable. We stayed married for another two years; both of us miserable. At night, I could hear his teeth grinding. He masturbated after he was convinced I was asleep. I felt him quivering, his body stiffening, and a stifled groan as he came onto a handkerchief or his underwear.
To jump forward to Davi.....his touch was so tender and gentle. I told him I was frightened, but that I wanted to try to become whole, to be able to enjoy lovemaking, to actually experience an orgasm with a man. By that time, I'd had a couple of women as partners, and I could actually become aroused and come after a lot of TLC. Davi actually teared up and rose from the bed when I whispered to him that I was afraid, and why. He said that we didn't have to make love, or could do it in a way that didn't feel threatening to me, only if I wanted to. He offered to love me with his mouth and hands, and I accepted that. He was so patient, slow, and tender. He asked me if felt ready for him to touch my breasts, my thighs, my vagina. I couldn't be embarrassed, he made me feel as though I were the one initiating each further intimacy.
I remember him finally petting my pubic hair, touching my labia, my clitoris; just his wet fingertips, then the tip of his tongue. Unbelievable softness and tenderness, incredible heat and wetness.
I felt ashamed and afraid for a moment as I felt my body responding by swelling, becoming wet. And he touched me everywhere, not just my breasts and vagina. My entire body felt like it had sexual nerve endings. He massaged my shoulders; my scalp; my thighs and calf muscles; my feet. His touched my nipples, then traced his fingertip slooowwwwly down my belly, around my navel to my clit. He told me how beautiful I was, and I believed it. I felt beautiful, and a little wanton. I became very wet and juicy, then I wanted him to come into me right away, but he wouldn't do that. He just kept stroking me with his fingers, touching my clit and vagina with his tongue. He was holding me close, little kisses on my thighs, belly. Whispering to me how beautiful I was, how sexy my body.
Several times, before Davi, I had become very aroused, but then could not progress to the next level, and became frustrated and unwilling to go on. That became a bugaboo - and I began to anticipate that I wouldn't come, now matter how long I and my partner tried. I just gave up. With him, I got to a place so high, so aroused....I remember thinking, and hearing myself say "Oh, God, I'm going to come." I could feel him becoming very aroused as I became aroused; it was almost like he coaxed me to the brink, then waited for me to become ready to cross it before coaxing me to the next level. He must have felt my orgasm beginning: he put his lips around my clitoris, and sucked rhythmically and gently. He was gently twisting my nipples, then he put his palm on my abdomen, to give me something to push against, and to feel my contractions. I'd never experienced anything like it. I felt a flood of tension and heat blossom in my clit and vagina, then spread through my nerves out to my fingertips, toes, ears. A rush of sensation, every cell of my body balanced - throbbing - on his soft lips and tongue; then fire spreading throughout me.
He moaned with me and stroked my nipples and stomach. Finally, when my contractions eased, he withdrew his face from me, kissed my nipples and put his fingers on either side of my clit to gently squeeze.
I'm not sure I ever quit coming. He whispered to me, funny little things: how beautiful I was, how much he had wanted to make love with me. He kept gently squeezing, and after a while I knew I was ready to come again. This time, he did it with the fingers of one hand on my clit, and some other finger inside me. I remember thinking that my clit was swelling until I was afraid it would actually burst, then coming almost painfully, powerful contractions. It felt like my entire body was being immersed in fire. Not that I had much experience, but I had never come so hard before. My previous few orgasms were just a warm, rhythmic pleasure, not this massive quake of searing heat, sweet agony, and white light. When it ended, I was panting, and crying a little. And he lay on me and hugged me, whispered things to me. He brushed one of my nipples with his long eyelashes. He smiled and whispered "wow!" And he held me for the longest time.
I loved him, too. He didn't ask, but I held his cock in my hand. It was hard, hot, and I could feel it pulsing a little. He was ready, there was a bead of clear fluid on the tip, and he moaned when I stroked gently. When he came, his back arched, he gasped and cried out my name, and then I could feel his come shooting up through the shaft, up into the air, onto my shoulder and hair. A very powerful and prolonged squirt of hot juice. Even after that, I was still having little quivers; like little orgasms, in descending intensity as our bodies relaxed.
We slept together that night. Davi put a pillow on his shoulder and his arm around me, and I awakened with my head on his shoulder in the late morning, although we could not have remained in that same position all night. Asleep in the morning light in his bedroom, he looked to be no more than 16 years old. Longish thick blond hair, an angel's face, long eyelashes and a sensitive turn of his mouth. He whimpered a little at one point as I watched him, then his eyes fluttered open for a moment, and he turned his face into the pillow and sighed, then stretched his entire long lean strong body: arms, then shoulders
and chest; his abdomen, then his legs, feet and toes. He quivered a little. After a moment he turned face up and put his arms around my shoulders lightly, and said good morning, beautiful woman. His eyes were half closed, and a shy smile touched the corners of his mouth. My heart was beating in a full, slow rhythm; every part of me was relaxed and happy. I checked myself for fear, shame, anxiety.....there was none. Just a sleepy tranquility, and a tremendous contentment of body. My vagina felt warm and wet; happy. There was a little soreness in my abdomen and thighs, and that felt good.
I haven't said this before, and I know I risk embarrassing you, husband mine. Yours is the sleekest, softest, male body ever. But for your strength, decided masculinity, leanness; you could be a woman. I love your skin: so smooth, soft, and warm. When I touch you, I feel your heat and strength. And you have a special bouquet of scents: M>u oil, baby powder, a slight muskiness. I see you in sleep: your hands between your legs, face completely relaxed.
As time has gone by since Davi, Molly, and I split up in hurt and confusion, I have reflected a lot on what really happened. I'm giving up blaming anyone, or assigning responsibility to one or two of us more than others. I have to face the facts now: it was originally my idea that my oldest and dearest friend come live with us. I was so fascinated with what our (David's and my) lovemaking had become that I wanted to share it with a friend who was probably as frightened as I was by life and men. I was and am proud of D, and our very special love for one another. And after all, wasn't the early and mid- nineteen seventies all about getting high, pushing forward, testing the boundaries?
Defiled Seduce Night Page 36
