Bent Over Kneeling

He held her there, not letting her move, as he began to flick his tongue in between her open legs. She could feel herself getting wet, her ass moving up slightly so he could get to her. He opened her up, inserting his finger into her vagina. She came, right into his hand, juice flowing from an eternal spring. He lapped it up like a thirsty cat, drinking every bit of her that spilled.
She went to turn around again, and again, he stopped her. She was at the bottom of the bed, her arms above her head, her still not being able to turn around to see his face.

He still worked his finger in and out, causing her to tighten around it, feeling it like feeling his penis, stroking in and out of her. She rolled her eyes up, moaning, feeling his finger start to stroke her clitoris. She felt his other finger start to stroke her anus.. This scared her a little, until she heard his voice over her sighs, “fiez-vous à moi mon amour, fermez vos yeux et fiez-vous à moi..”she felt her body go, her muscles became more relaxed. Trust him he said, close my eyes and trust him. Her whole body went limp, she willing her muscles to release all the tension she had felt. She could feel his finger, gentle, tiny little strokes on her anus, as his other finger worked magic else where, getting her more and more excited as the seconds passed. She felt a slight pressure there, and felt his finger go in just a little. It was a strange experience for her, both places being massaged at the same time, it felt...wonderful, strange, breathtaking...

She let go again, hearing him moan as well, feeling him this time pushing somewhat harder, moving in and out to her breaths. Her body moved with this, her hands gripping the sheets so tight that they came off the mattress. She began to moan louder, her body moving now, slowly to his fingers. She could feel him, his hardness on her, on her crack, wet with her juices he had rubbed on his hardness. His finger came out of her, and she could feel his cock slide into her, filling her. It hurt at first, scaring her, but he was gentle, just pushing a small amount at a time until she could take it all. His other finger never left her love canal, wet, the bed, his hand, his cock, hard with anticipation of this new fore’ into the dark ways of lovemaking...
She took it, holding her breath, and relaxing, having to, it feeling so weird, but so good. She was so horny that she thought at one point she would come at least a hundred times. It was endless the feelings she was having. She tingled and shook with each orgasm, as his stroke in her became more and more urgent. He held her there, his hand on her ass, drawing her to him, pushing her back, pulling her to him once again.

Her head filled with the grunts of him, even though she couldn’t see him, she could vision him, his head back, his long hair wet with sweat, his body glistening now with it, she could feel his face over her body as he bent over her with each stroke, droplets of his water falling on her back.

She could feel him, starting to tighten, his strokes getting more aggressive...she tried not to panic, but just to enjoy the feelings of this. Once again the tingling started all over, and she thrust backwards hard, wanting him now, to pound harder into her, to feel all of him in the virgin place, wanting him to come deep within her.

His finger came out of her, and both hands were firmly placed on her ass. She could feel his grip, his nails digging into her flesh, scraping down as each stroke was met from him by a moan.

The tempo got faster, more aggressive from him, him slapping her naked ass as she took it all in, feeling his balls flap against her vagina, making her that much more wet. They were beginning to tighten to the feel of all this, and the motion kept her breathless.

His hands became rougher with her, grabbing her hips, then her ass, as she lay there in the same position he put her in, he grabbed her legs, and pulled her to him, as he drover harder into her.

Just as she thought she couldn’t take any more, his hands traveled back up to her ass, and he inserted his finger back into her vagina. Slow strokes with it, fast strokes with the other. She came. And came again, hearing him moan softly himself, “ah oui mon ange, il se sent bien ainsi, j'aime être à l'intérieur de vous en estimant que vous me voulez”(ah yes my angel, it feels so good, i love being inside you feeling you want me).

She felt him pound into her hard, once, twice, three times, grunting loudly now, and she felt the hotness of his seed into her, spewing, pumping into her and she loved it, loved every decadent moment of this wild passion. She was spent, as she knew he was. She felt him pull out of her, and kiss her there, kiss her ass, and kiss her legs. She crawled back on the bed, and rolled over on her side, breathing hard, tears running down her face, silently so as he wouldn't know.

She couldn't figure out what all this was, what just happened to her, how she let him do that without a thought and above all, she liked it. She liked the feeling of having him where no one else had been, of having him inside her in every way...

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and felt his hands around her, his strong arms holding her once again.

“mon amour, mon ange. ma petite fleur. vous êtes si spéciaux à moi....”(my love, my angel. my little flower. you are so special to me....).

She was weak and shaky, and really needed to go use the bathroom. She rolled over, to finally get to kiss his wonderful lips, the ones that had been all over her body...

She rolled over to hold him and have him hold her in the glow of the night....

Only to find, he was not there.

The Striptease

The Striptease

I see you, smiling shyly as you run your hand nervously down your black button up shirt…you lick your lips slightly, as you begin to unbutton your shirt. I sit and watch, as you pull out first the right side, then the left, slowly pulling it off you letting it fall to one side…your belt comes next, and I glance down, not wanting to take my eyes from yours, to see that you are growing as excited as I am with this…

My mouth goes dry, not wanting it to, because I want a chance to taste the sweetness of what is to come. You undo your belt, your pants fall, leaving you only in the black sheath that covers your excitement. 

You turn, first one way then the other, as you grow, as I become wetter, my breath more shallow, my hands now taking up the nervousness that you once felt but no longer do…

You pull off the sheath, to reveal your full glory…

I beckon you over to me, for you to stand in front of me, as I wet my lips, and take all of your hardness in my mouth…I can hear you moan quietly, your hands coming around to tangle in my hair, pushing my head up and down to the desired rhythm that you want. My hands come around your hips, moving upward to feel your hardened nipples. I can hear you take a sharp breath inward, feeling your balls tighten…

I pull up, looking up at you, with your eyes closed and your head slightly back…

I stand up, you look at me quizzically as I smile at you and lead you over to the rocking chair to sit down…

I kneel before you, on my knees, as I spread your legs, taking your  hard cock in my mouth once again, you begin to rock back and forth, sending your cock farther down   my throat. I go down, slowly on you, bringing my teeth just ever so slightly up, as I feel you spread your legs just a little wider, I lift up on my knees to go down even further on you.

The rocking starts slow at first, then as your breathing gets heavier, your moans louder, the rocking gets quicker….

Until….your legs tense, your hips arch ,your balls tighten, you grow just slightly larger than you already are, and explode in my mouth, cum gushing the back of my throat as I swallow quickly to keep up with the flow coming from you…

My breath is labored, not from sucking you, but from my own orgasm, the rocking of my body back and forth as I went down on you, the tingling tightness that I felt each time my body matched your stride…

The Pearl Necklace

The pearl necklace fell

From her ivory neck

They did scatter amoungst

The cracks and crevasses

Of the empty tomb

 Emotions that had long

Since been scattered

Scurrying along the stone

To the sound of rats and mice

She counted as they ran

From her fingertips

Not wanting capture

By her cold cold hands

Not wanting to entrapment

On a cold cold neck

The string had broken

Much as her spirit

The golden clasp has rusted

Much like her heartstrings

She sat down alone

As withered as the roses

In the vase dusty crystal vase

Remembering a time before

When youth was best wasted

In the undergrounds of Paris

Where beauty, her beauty

Reigned effulgent

When she never gave a thought

To anything other than dark desire

She feels my presence around her

She knows that I have come

I pick up the white orbs

That did escape from her

To place them all

Back in her rigored

Dead hand 

Art and the Artist

He watched her lying there sleeping, her arm over her hip, her leg splayed across the bed. There was no sheet, just her nude the overhead fan blowing her long brown hair slightly, partially hiding her right cheek. There was something about watching her just sleep. He loved looking at her body, inspecting every inch of it. He loved touching just one body part at a time, her arms especially.

It was the softness, kissing the inside where it bent sent chills down his spine. Some loved feet, others toes or the neck. There were all kinds of places one could find on the body to entice but to him, the arm and hands were a story within themselves. There was something noirish with them, almost suspenseful.  He could tell what kind of personality a woman was by the way she held her arms and hands. Insecure, she held them in front of her crossed. Dominant, she would have them on her hips proudly. A submissive woman would have her hands folded in front of her with her head down as well. A carefree woman would walk with her hands behind her back.

He watched when they were preoccupied, much like a voyeur, as they would reach for that one item on the top shelf. He enjoyed it when he was asked to participate in assisting when they couldn’t reach, as he would accidently brush up against their softness. Some men would take advantage of this and brush against their breast, but he just wanted to feel the gentleness of the arm or the smoothness of their hand, as he would reach them whatever it was they needed.

It wasn’t like he had been stalking her or anything. They had just been in the same place at the same time, and he noticed her. No, she hadn’t noticed him not in the least. In fact, she had spent hours in the museum without noticing him.

He had gotten there early in order to explore the photographic works of Oliver Valsecchi. His art form was fascinating in the way he used his human subjects. He most loved Les Couples. The way the camera captured the interaction was perfection.  He had not noticed her at first, as she was sitting quietly in the corner on a bench studying the La Seine at Vétheuil by Claude Monet. He observed how she would lean in from her perch and cock her head first one way then the other. She would write something down on her note pad, adjust her spectacles and get lost yet again within the work of Monet. He smiled to himself and as he were watching a silent movie she would squirm, shifting her weight, move her foot, stick out her tongue as she wrote. She then would readjust her glasses, push a stray strand of hair that had fallen loose from the brown bun that was pinned upon her head. She would frown, bite her lip, erase what she wrote, dust her note pad and start all over again. He watched her for more than a few minutes before moving on to the next exhibit in the other rooms.  

He had all but forgotten the girl until the Egyptian room when he had heard her small footsteps make their way near the statue of the great god Anubis. He tried not to be too obvious in his stares, but really couldn’t help noticing the form of her body, the way she held herself as she stood straight as an arrow. She was shorter than he thought at first, but he guessed that you really couldn’t tell when a person was sitting just how tall they were. Her blouse was yellow, button up and tied in a knot at the top of her faded jeans, the first two buttons were undone showing just a hint of cleavage. More of her long brown hair had come undone, cascading down her back from the pin that was holding the rest haphazardly in place for the time being.  She once again leaned in and investigated her subject with the utmost proficiency of a detective, and as she turned around, he finally got a glimpse of the most captivating blue eyes he had ever seen.

She smiled at him. At first, it was a half-smile of a preoccupied mind. Then as she began to realize he was not a part of the exhibit a genuine smile began to form on her pretty round face.

He could feel his face getting hot, for a few reasons, one being found out, and another being embarrassed at not knowing how to start a conversation in this manner. He was a shy type of man although one would not think this of him if they just judge him by his demeanor and stance. He held himself quite well, almost intimidating at times on the subway, as one would have to be if they lived in the city.

He was tall, dark skinned blue eyed and all the girls thought him to be nice looking. Rugged good looks were how his last girlfriend put it, but he never saw it. He did try to keep in shape and loved riding his bike through the busy streets and alleyways when there was time. He was not one to gloat on appearances; rather he enjoyed the inner sanctum of the mind when it came to a relationship. For that reason, Pam never worked out. She was ravishing with long silky blond mane, brown eyes and very long legs, but she really didn’t have much going for her in the intelligence department. Sure, she was a college graduate, but she hadn’t learned all the skills it took to be a conversationalist expounding on the virtues of the philosophers of the ages. Her main interest was high fashion and money, what was Haute Couture for the coming year and what would be rack approved for the local stores. His interest was more of the esoteric nature and those things undiscovered and yet unseen by the naked eye. He loved debating the theories of quantum physics as well as listening to others talk of their paranormal experiences.

He believed in other beings, never disputed the company of a higher existence and loved listening to the battle tales at the local veterans’ home he volunteered at. His ex on the other hand believed nothing that he spoke of believed only what was in front of her and detested the sight of anyone past the age of forty without a bank account big enough to choke Kim Kardashian.

Needless to say, the romance quickly faded when he denied her permission to be on his bank account and credit cards. He saw her once after that. She was with a rich British exec from London. He was doting on her, fawning over her beauty and grace and how well the diamonds set off her neckline.

“Hello.” He began. “I saw you back there at the Monet, did you like it?” he inquired.

She smiled even bigger, catching him off guard completely at this point, him not expecting that at all. She then held out her hand, and he suddenly took it in his own, bending down, he kissed it gently, his tongue slightly tasting the top of her middle knuckle. He could feel himself getting  aroused and tried not to think of it as he glanced at the surprised look on her face.

“Enchante’ mademoiselle” he said in his best French accent grinning  “Ummm My name isssss Claudee Monet? Meybee vouss like my work no?” he pretended to take his hat off and bow to her making her break out into laughter.

She curtsied to his bow finally speaking in such a lyrical voice, “Mr. Monet, It is such a pleasure to meet you sir! I adore your work!”

He could not help but smile, feeling quite a bit foolish with this charade and much like a schoolboy, but he couldn’t help but continue. “And which of my werks of art deed vous find that vous liked?”

She held her finger up to her right temple and playfully tapped, thinking. “Well, I did enjoy The Luncheon very well. But there was A Pathway in Monet's Garden at Giverny that I’m really fond of because of the use of the purple.” She smiled bashfully at him as he blushed once again, not understanding why his heart was racing so. After all, she was just a girl in an art museum.

He took her by the arm and hooked it in his. For all she knew he could have been a serial killer, but still she looked at him with those pools of azure that would melt Ted Bundys’ heart.

“Then what say…” he looked at her for a moment at a loss for not knowing her name as she picked up on his hesitation

“Alice. My name is Alice Wonder.” She smiled again.

“Then what say we shall sit down and have a spot of tea and expound on the virtues of my paintings and such? I will tell you about the grief I felt while painting The Boat Studio.”

“You felt grief while painting that?” she questioned.

He cocked his head. “Not so much grief as sea sickness can’t stand being on a rocking boat you know…”

“And what happened with your French accent there Mr. Monet?” she poked, smiling up at him.

He smiled and sighed theatrically, “Gone with the wind I suppose, just gone with the wind..”

They both laughed as he pulled out the café’ chair for her and motioned the server over to order the tea.