A Touch (A Fantasy), Part II

This is a multi-part story that starts with Part I.

We continue our embrace, your arms pulling me into you, grabbing my back, my shoulders, my arms and my ass. I keep my hands off of you, pressed up against your head to prevent me from smothering you with my attacking kissing. We break to catch our breath, and I roll you over, me on my back, you on top of me.

I tell you I want your breath on my body. You slink down to my neck, attempting to kiss my neck. I push your head away slightly and feel your breath on my body. I shudder slightly at your warm breath, and you try to kiss me again as I push you away once more time. Just breathe on me.

You pull my shirt off my shoulder and move your mouth to my shoulder, again trying to taste my flesh as I pull you off. Just your breathe. Your hands are on my skin, and your lips are bare millimeters from my tanned body. Your face moved down to my chest and your mouth breaths warm air on my nipples, on my chestbone, on my ribs as you work your way down my body. Every time you try to kiss my body, to lick my body, I pull your hair harder to punish you for violating my rule.

You work down to my abs and I shudder again as your breath runs through my belly hair. Your hands are on my belt as you unbuckle it, popping the fly buttons from my jeans. No lips, I remind you. You pull my jeans under my ass and I lift it as you pull them clean from my body. Your face is less than an inch from my cock, still hidden from my boxers but showing the urgency of my need to be in your mouth, in your throat.

Your breath leaves my boxers and my cock and moved down to my thigh, causing me to slightly arch my back. In doing so, your lips touch my thigh accidentally, but I pull on your hair harder to remind you what you're allowed to do.

Your head shifts down to my knees, one of my most sensitive spots. As you breath on my knees and inhale my body's scent, my cock jumps in my underwear. You look up and notice, an evil smile on your face, mixed with your own frustration from not being able to touch me with your mouth.

As you're down by my knees, you hand snakes up and pulls my boxers down to my knees. You crawl up slowly, using one hand to slide off my boxers and your other hand lands on my hip. Your face is now inches from my cock. You open your mouth, as wide as possible, and try to put your mouth over my cock without touching it. Every time you fail, I pull on your hair, causing you to scream once from the pleasurable pain. To punish me, you hold your mouth over over my cock, now pointing up and ending at my belly button. Off your tongue comes a large drop of spit, dripping onto the underside of my cock head, causing it to jump and emit its first dose of precome.

You breathe your way back up my body, to my face as you breathe onto my mouth. I unzip your jeans and remove them completely, then use my hands and feet to remove your panties, too. You kick off your socks over the edge of the bed, and lay on me, your tits on my chest, your pussy on my cock, your face close to mine. We stare into each other's eyes and kiss again, deeper than before. I can taste your hunger for me on your lips, on your tongue as it enters my mouth.

"Fuck me now" you tell me, pushing your wet pussy lips up and down my rockhard cock. No, not yet. I roll you over onto your belly, my cock resting between your checks as I torment your back with my own breath.

I start at each shoulder, pausing to warm your neck when I pull your hair above your head. After the shoulders, I work down and up each arm, slowly, finding the spots where my breath's warmth and pressure cause you to wriggle. I pin your hands down sideways to prevent you from daring to touch your clit for release and relief. When I get to your spine, I let a little spit drizzle off my tongue, then breath out a warm gust of air following by a slow cold exhale. Your body writhes, goosebumps form, tingles move from your head to your toes.

Your moans get louder. "Please, fuck me, please." I slide my cock from between your cheeks and work my way down your back, stopping at your sides with a large open mouth of slow warm breathing. Your goosebumps appear every time I do this, and when I breath slowly and move across the bottom of your back, the goosebumps follow my breath.

I continue to drip some of my saliva onto your spine, watching your goosebumps disappear for a second and then return as my breath down. I get to your cheeks and breath on them softly, watching the same goosebumps form. I pull your cheeks apart slightly and let my spit fall into your ass, giving you shudders from the touch that you need. I let go of your arms and remind you to keep them there as my face ventures between your slightly parted legs, my breath on your pussy, your clit, your thighs. You squeeze them together tightly to try to grab my head, so I slap your ass hard, leaving a red mark.

Your scream is cut short with a bite of your lip, and I can tell from your scent that you knew you deserved it. As I work my way down your legs, you moan "No, please, lick my pussy, eat it," which I ignore. Your thighs, the back of your knees and your calves are incredibly sensitive, so I focus more on the areas that cause you to stick your gorgeous ass up in the air slightly, as if to meet my cock plunging into your wet pussy. I laugh evilly when you realize I'm not there against you.

Then I get to your feet.

(To be finished in Part III)

The Touch (A Fantasy), Part I

You tried it again. You tried to touch me and I smoothly avoided it while looking like I had no idea you even attempted it.

I can be smooth like that. I know you want to touch me again. The first time you did, it took you 3 tries in an hour, I was so good at avoiding it. When your hand finally fell on my back as we walked, I could hear the sizzle that went from your palm, up your arm, into your shoulder, and through your torso. I smiled inside, but my outside was completely smooth.

That second touch took you longer. You managed to snag the cuff of my dress shirt (epic fail reach for the hand), you almost touched my neck but my mop of hair got in the way. When I grabbed you to lift you off your feet, your hands almost made it around my back but I dumped you down, stepped backwards, and asked what you were doing jumping on me like that.

I laughed and turned away. You laughed too, but I could see the look of chagrin on your face, peripherally.

Why do you want to touch me so bad? What do I have to offer you that the other guys harassing you with late night texts and daytime emails don't? They're attractive men or boys, they sort of have a good way of pretending to have their shit together. They've slept with far more women than I have, and you still keep them around. Why aren't you going after them on this gorgeous afternoon? It makes little sense.

Maybe it's because you know I'm avoiding your hands. Sometimes I make it obvious, but most of the time, I don't.

So when you finally push me against a wall and grab my hands, I can see that all the waiting and teasing was worth it. The look in your eyes of anger and frustration and domination melts when I pull you towards me and you kiss me. Is that the touch you're waiting for? The way your body falls limp in my arms leads me to believe it's part of it, but not everything.

When we break from The Kiss, you try to grab my hands but I pull them behind my back, spin away from the wall, and ask you what is taking you so long, we'll be late, get your ass in gear, little girl. There's that face of anger, of frustration, of the desire to dominate me. Not now, little girl.

I can tell you want to scream "I'm a woman," but you know how much I laugh at people that have to use words to explain what they are. It's one reason I don't explain what I do for a living. Words are unimportant. You increase the speed of your step, and when I hear your footfalls are closer I walk faster. We're almost there.

The show was fun. You stood slightly behind me, to my left. I noticed, peripherally again, that your eyes went from the band to my face and back. I never turned around to look. When I felt your body step forward to be closer to me, I turned quickly and said I would go get another round of drinks. There's that face again. Your hand pops up to touch my arm when you say thank you, but I turned and walked too quickly. Another epic fail for you.

We leave the show and you're looking perplexed. I ask if I should hail you a cab as we approach my car. It's obvious what you want and who should give it to you. Or are you taking the cab to meet up with him later? I forgot. I am forgetful, but I didn't forget this. You had late plans, and I am just fine with taking my leave and finding another place to retreat to. You bite your lip, look down at your shoes. If you prefer, I can wait with you here. You know I don't drive women to meet guys. Ever.

"Can we hang out more?" you finally ask. If that's what you want, but I'd hate for you to do this to me if I was the guy waiting for you later. Go see him. I'll be around, we'll hang out again.

You step forward to give me a hug but I unlock my car door and open it. Be safe, and have some fun! No hug. No kiss. Just a wink and I'm in my car. My engine is on before you can say anything, but my window is closed anyway. You wander off and find your own cab.

The date with him wasn't as good as it intended. He pawed at you, grabbed at you, said inappropriate things that sounded funny at first but thinking back were completely a doofus showing his card at a high stakes poker table. He's really not that manly. Sexy, maybe. Attractive, for sure. But he's a wimp on the inside. His muscles could possibly harm my body, but my mind and my depth and my attention to details would leave him panting, bloody, and broken. There's no match for a man, not this man.

When you texted me at 11, I ignored it. You tried hitting me up on chat, I closed the window on my phone. I'm having fun, with a new friend, in some random bar. Finally, you call. I answer. "I'm free, want to come by?" I'm busy, but how about next Tuesday? "Oh. If you free up tonight, just come over." We'll see. Good night.

I could hear your voice cringe at the thought that I might end up in someone else's bed. Maybe she's more feminine, or prettier, or wears nicer clothes. Maybe her tits are bigger (or better yet, smaller). Maybe she shed that tummy fat now instead of 4 weeks from now. Maybe she's a woman, what if I think you're just a girl?

I really don't, We all have issues, we all have frustrations, we all have needs and desires and goals that aren't being met. I'm just better at looking past those problems myself. I'm not Mr. Perfect. I'm not Mr. Right. I'm not Mr. Everything. I'm Sane, and you know me by the way I walk and talk and smile and listen.

I decide to bail on Little Miss Better Than You, so I call you at midnight. You answer in 1 ring. Desperate much? I'm on my way, I hope you're not too tired. You sound it, and I mention that.

I get there and you're nursing a cup of coffee instead of the usual shitty beer you like to drink when you're down. Your eyes are awake, your makeup was recently touched up, and your hair looks fantastic. My hands are behind my back and I display two DVDs for you to choose from. You look at both and smile weakly. Movie night! "Oh, ok."

I sit on the single chair in your living room, leaving the huge, big, make-out-friendly couch for you. Your throw your feet over, aiming at me, and we put in a DVD. I watch, still noticing you watching me. "Do you want to sit over here?" I'm comfortable in the chair, you relax, you need it. "Oh, I don't mind." You deserve it. "Oh." Back to watching the movie.

I offer to pour a glass of wine, but you have none. Beer doesn't do my body justice, so I grab a bottle of water from your fridge and ask if you want anything. When I bring you a glass of cold, filtered water and put it on the table in front of you, your hand covers the hand I have on the glass. I look at your face, and as my hand leaves the glass you pull me down to you, on top of you, covering you. Instead of kissing you, I look at your face, giving you my best isn't-that-cute face. Your face shows stronger anger, desire, need than ever before. Your hands run up my entire body, over my shoulders and neck to my face. You pull me in for another kiss, maybe bigger and better than The Kiss, because you needed this so badly. Why don't people give you what you need, instead taking what they want?

We kiss until you can't stand it anymore. You try to remove my clothes, your clothes, anything that will allow you to touch me much closer, much more intimately. I refuse, pushing your hands above your head, holding them down so you can't remove anything. I kiss you again, then work my mouth down to a button that I deftly remove with my teeth and lips alone. You moan.

I have to remove my hands from your hands, blue from the force I used to keep you at bay. As I move down your torso, slowing removing buttons, you try to force your hands down further to do it yourself. I almost bite your hand in punishment for you moving too quickly. Finally, your work shirt opens, and I work my way back up your body, staying as close to the middle with my lips as possible. Can you even feel my lips, touching so softly as to possibly go unnoticed? Your breathing proves you do.

As I get closer to you, I fend off your hands from my side, from my chest, from my back. I move my face up to yours, and finally allow you to touch my face and my neck, to pull me into you. I accept your kisses, and start to kiss back myself.

"I want to take my shirt off." I already did. "No, completely off." Ok. Close your eyes when you do. You close your eyes, and remove your shirt. You also remove your bra, eyes still closed. I push my body against yours, my chest now unclothed as well. You open your eyes and I kiss you for the first time. Your hands touch my back and you shudder; this time I don't force you away.

To Be Continued in Part II

My Bizarre Fantasy Journal #3

Since I'm a writer (I get paid for it even), I keep a variety of crazy journals that focus on ideas I have.  Sometimes it's business ideas or inventions, sometimes I cover places I want to go and things I want to see, sometimes its sex, most of the time it's just random spewed thoughts.  Rarely is it fully coherent or possible.

Here's one I wrote in 2007 that never panned out.  I figure I'd share it with others, not in hopes of fulfilling it, but mostly in hopes that someone will come back to it again when they need a little entertaining fantasy of their own to write about, publicly or privately.

Fantasy #3: Not Anonymous, but still Unknown

It's always been my desire to hook up with another writer in a semi-anonymous fashion.  When I say "hook up" I don't necessarily mean sexually.  Maybe we'll meet for business reasons, or it could even be a bar pal.  Maybe it'll be a lover, who knows?

The idea of the fantasy is to create a new blog before the first real getogether.  Would we meet online somehow, or maybe one of us got the other's email address and we started talking virtually that way.  Either way, said new friend is not someone I've spent any significant amount of facetime with.

This new blog would be a publicly displayed private journal that we each keep, but not to interact with.  She'll post, I'll post, but we won't interact.  In email we'll plan our future first getogether: we'll pick our new names (I envision her being Chanel and me being Narcissco, but the names don't matter), we'll pick where we'll meet (a bar neither of us has been to maybe 45 minutes from our usual spots), we'll pick the day and time (Thursday, 8pm).

I'll write on the new blog about what I'll wear, how I'll trim my beard, but not about what I hope for.  Basic stuff.  She'll write her own article about the same.  We won't read the other's post, but any followers who are interested will.  Maybe we'll share the common blog on our own blogs ahead of time to get others to jump on as followers and commenters.

We'll meet.  Whatever the purpose (business, friendship, love, screwing), we'll each return to our own homes and update the blog with our opinions of the evening.  Maybe it'll be a very short relationship, a one-time date or hangout session.  We'll comment on what we saw and actually thought: I might talk about her bad makeup or her amazing legs, she might talk about what she honestly thought of me.  We won't know each other's real names or addresses, maybe not even our phone numbers.

If there is to be a future meeting, we'll communicate with each other via the blog journal.  "Post #4: How about Tuesday the 15th?"  "Post #5: Perfect!  Let's check out Young's Grille in Evanston."

If there's a sexual hookup, the details would be amazing, considering we don't know what the other person's real life is like.  If there's no sex but it turns into a joint venture of another kind, those details would also be amazing.

Maybe it's destined to failure, or maybe it's an on and off friendship or relationship with updates in-between times we meet, personal updates regarding the specificity of the relationship, any fantasy or hopes for it.  Minds and emotions displayed to the public, to the other person, but maybe never commented on in real life between the two.

It could be fun, or it could be horrible.  Either way, it's an idea there is still time for.  Maybe this year.