GETTING YOU ALONE

This entry is part 21 of 25 in the series 2013 Mar

When we get together, I start by leading you by your hand into the bedroom, where I slowly lift your shirt off over your head, exposing your full, beautiful chest, your breasts begging to be let loose from your bra. I reach around and undo the clasp, letting the straps fall away as if your breasts are pushing to free themselves.

Your breasts hang there, so firm, so full, and as I lean down to undo your pants, I give your nipple a little kiss. As I push your pants down your body, I kiss the other nipple. Then I bring my head back up and move my mouth to your neck, my breath hot and humid against your skin. My fingers trace paths over your thighs, your hips, your smooth ass. When you step out of your pants, which are bunched at your feet, I stand back to let my eyes take in your amazing body. The blood rushes right to my cock, making it harder.
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PLAY IT BY HAND

This entry is part 10 of 25 in the series 2013 Mar

I haven’t had sex in three months—the longest time I’ve ever gone without a lover—but that doesn’t mean I haven’t gotten off. Even if I have no one else to help take care of me, I always make sure that I have at least one orgasm each day. Just like I have a cup of coffee as soon as I wake and make sure to go to yoga four times a week, I have to have a climax every day or else I don’t feel quite right.

My usual method of masturbation involves breaking out my favorite vibrator and a trashy romance novel and spending some quality time in bed with the two of them. Last Monday, though, I got the urge while I was in class, and while I wanted to dip my fingers in my pussy right then, that wasn’t  going to happen.
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A FUCK IN THE PARK

This entry is part 19 of 22 in the series 2013 Feb

My husband Fred has teased me about fucking his friend Allen since we were married six years ago. We’ve purchased every magazine and book that features stories about some man’s wife fucking another man or a group of men, and the stories excite Fred more than anything else.

We often share our sexual fantasies, and one night I confessed that I often fantasized about being with a very big, muscular black man. I explained that there was just something so erotically taboo about the thought that it never failed to turn me on.
Well, Fred has this friend who works with him. His name is Allen. He’s from South Africa, and he came to the United States when he was a kid. He’s a big guy, six-foot-eight, and if not for a bad knee injury in high school, he probably would’ve been a college basketball star. He’s heavily muscled from working in the warehouse and doing lots of heavy lifting. He’s a pretty fierce-looking man, but also incredibly handsome.
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MASTER, MAY I?

This entry is part 13 of 22 in the series 2012 Oct

This is a fantasy I keep having about one of my coworkers, and I wanted to share it with someone:

You reach out and catch my hand as I brush your hair from your eyes, and they open leisurely, lazily. “Morning, Sir. Are you planning to get up before noon?” I tease.

“I might sleep if someone didn’t make so much noise,” you answer with a fake growl. “What the hell’s with the shirt?”

“I was enjoying the sunrise,” I tell you. “Watched a red hawk swoop down and carry off a four-foot snake.”

You shake you head and chuckle, then command, “Get down here and kiss me, girl.”
“Yes, Sir.”
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A Religious Experience

For years I’ve been having a real strange sex dream, and I’ve never shared it with anyone before. But I wanted to share it with your other readers, in case maybe they’d had the same fantasy. Anyway, in my fantasy, I have sex in the Vatican. That’s kinda crazy, right? This is how I remember it whenever I wake up in the morning:

I’d been spending a few weeks traveling alone through southern Europe, visiting all the great art collections of Spain and Italy. In my dream (and in real life) I’m a history professor, and visiting the galleries and historical sites is very important to me in my work. I had the summer off, and I had arrived in Rome in mid June, which, if you know that part of the world, is definitely not the best time to be there. It’s stinking hot, and no respectable Roman would be caught dead there in the summer. However, the place is full of tourists who come by the busload to all the famous sites, with the biggest attractions of all being the Vatican and Saint Peter’s Basilica.

Men have to wear long pants and women modest dresses that cover up most of their figure or else they’re not allowed to enter the Vatican. Under these sweltering conditions, I personally decided that day to go commando. The Vatican museum is reputed to be one of the greatest collections in the entire world, and of course the art is known as including some of the most exquisite pieces assembled anywhere. People begin lining up outside soon after dawn, and the doors don’t even open until 10 o’clock. So when someone finally gets inside, there are about 10,000 other people vying for a spot in the miles of corridors that wind through the galleries.

It’s hard to know why so many people are there, since a lot of them seem uninterested in all the treasures. They merely shuffle through the halls and bump into everyone around them as they make their way through the sculpture gallery and back toward the rooms that house the works of Titian, Rafael and Michelangelo. Of course the latter’s work is what most have come to see, as this is the home of the Sistine Chapel, with the great ceiling and the huge altar piece done by this master.

All forward movement came to a stop as I reached a place about 100 feet from the entrance to the chapel, and as the crowd pushed forward, I found myself pressed firmly against the tight bottom of a young lady directly in front of me. It was a nice little backside— on a seemingly attractive, five foot two inch, dark haired girl— and as we waited, my penis started to react to the warmth and the scents that were floating around among us. She turned her head slightly and, looking up at my face, said something to me in Spanish. I indicated that I didn’t speak Spanish, and she broke into a smile and turned her whole body around to face me, stepping on my toes as she did so. At that point, I found that I was looking down on the most delightful face, a lot like a young Sally Field, and now my erect penis was pressed against her navel and her lovely pair of 34Cs were hard against my body.

In clear, beautiful English, with just a trace of a Spanish accent, she smiled up at me and said, “I asked, ‘Is that all for me?’” And with that she brought her hands between us and slowly ran her fingers along the side of my ever hardening manhood. I was completely stunned and must have looked really goofy with my tongue hanging out. Then, with a huge grin on her pretty, dimpled face, and standing on tiptoe, she climbed up my body and kissed me. Not just a little kiss on the lips, either, but a real open mouthed, “Let’s go somewhere and fuck” kiss.

There we were, in amongst a crowd of mostly Asian tourists waiting to enter the holiest of holy sites, and I was in a state of arousal, fooling around with a young woman whose name I didn’t even know.

In front of us was the entrance to the Chapel, which was currently full of people. The guards were waiting for people to leave before they let anyone else in, but to our right was the staircase down to the galleries of modern religious paintings. It’s clear to us that nobody, or hardly anybody, was going down to that area. We both looked in that direction and without a word we stepped out of the line and headed hand in hand toward the modern art.

I’m not terribly interested in modern art, and even less so in modern religious art, and by the meager number of people and the near lack of guards, neither were many other people, so it was easy to find ourselves, at times, out of view of the other visitors.

Juanita, who like myself had gone commando that day, was wearing a thin cotton dress that buttoned up the front. We walked into the gallery in intimate contact with one another. Whenever we were out of sight of the guards, we kissed passionately, and when we stopped to look at Dali’s “Crucifixion,” I slipped my hand inside her dress and palmed her beautiful young breasts and stroked her rigid nipples. When she walked slightly behind me, I hooked my finger through her lower buttons and wormed my middle finger into her very wet vagina or ran it back and forth across her erect clitoris. Of course she paid me back by sliding her hand into my pocket and squeezing my cock or, as she stood in front of me, cupping her hand beneath my testicles and driving me crazy with light touches.

By the time we had finished our slow meander through the modern religious paintings, we were both at the peak of horniness and had had about as much foreplay as anyone could handle. It was then that opportunity knocked, in the form of an open door. Sure the door was behind a partition that stated, in at least four languages, that people were not permitted beyond a certain point, but we could see that it led into a dark corridor or some kind of tunnel, so we quickly dashed inside.

The passageway was dark, with the only light coming from the gallery we had just left, and by the time we were 20 feet or so inside, the darkness was complete. We found a niche in the wall about 30 feet from the entrance, and we sucked face with furious abandon. I opened her dress to the waist, exposing her front to the air, then dropped my pants to my ankles. We continued pushing our tongues down each other’s throat, our tongues acting like two snakes writhing around each other in a sea of warm saliva.

I cupped my hands under her firm, round butt cheeks and lifted her small body up until we were eye to eye. Then I lowered her down onto my penis as she reached down and directed it into the correct opening. I lowered her slowly while pressing her against the wall, and she in turn locked her legs around my waist and rested her thighs firmly upon my hips while locking her feet together. I gently lifted and lowered her up and down on my dick, and she responded by locking her arms around my neck and writhing against me. Our bodies were covered in sweat, and as I had opened my shirt earlier, our naked chests glided against one another as the sweat dribbled down to our pubes and then flowed freely down toward the floor.

I bent my knees and pushed more forcefully into her with each upward drive, and I could feel the head of my dick rubbing across her cervix. She was building toward a major climax, and I was scared she would scream. The echo would eventually bring the Swiss Guards, so I pushed my tongue even deeper into her mouth as she began to shake violently and forced her body down, trapping my cock and preventing me from thrusting upward.

As she started her descent, I returned to thrusting again, driving my weapon even more forcefully up into her warm, wet honeypot. I knew I couldn’t last long, and after that prolonged foreplay that had kept me hard and frustrated, I had no desire for anything more than achieving release for my straining balls. About 20 strokes later, I shot all my pent up juices deep inside her. I quickly explained I was both sterile and clean, so she need not worry, and as I lowered her to the floor, I reached down to retrieve my pants. I took my handkerchief out of my back pocket and used it to wipe off my cock and her pussy, so we wouldn’t stain our clothes or drip onto the floor.

She pulled her wrinkled dress around to her front and buttoned it up, but the sweat on her body made it cling in ways that would not pass muster with the guards had she not already been allowed to enter.

The whole experience in the tunnel had taken us not much more than 15 minutes, as we’d been so fired up by our outrageous foreplay. I looked into the gallery and saw only an older tourist, so we quickly reentered. He must have had some idea as to what we’d been doing, either by our appearance or the guilt on our faces, because he smiled and said, “Bravo monsieur, mademoiselle!” when he passed us. I just smiled back meekly while Juanita blushed and looked away.

We entered the Sistine Chapel from the lower door and were soon in the crush of several hundred people who looked almost as bedraggled as we did. Not being in a state of grace in this august setting seemed to have some effect, or so I thought, on my companion, who still clung to me but seemed anxious to leave. We took in as much as we could of that great hall with the marvelous ceiling and incredible altar, and then exited into the outside world. I didn’t know where we were for a second, but as I looked around, I saw the Pieta and knew we were just inside the doorway of Saint Peter’s Basilica.

We had barely moved 20 feet when I noticed two young women waving frantically to Juanita, and she responded by pulling me in behind a large column and saying she had to go. She stood on her tiptoes and gave me a deep, dick hardening kiss, and then she pulled away. I took a business card from my wallet and told her the name of my hotel, asking her to call me. Then she ran off to join her group, which was made up of a number of young women as well as three older women who bore a strange resemblance to nuns in civilian attire.

I always wake up around that point in the fantasy, and I always wish I’d stayed asleep longer to find out if Juanita was really a nun or just a student at a religious school. I know it’s my fantasy and that I can decide for myself who and what Juanita is, but I can’t help wanting everything to be real.

I have a trip to Rome planned for the fall. Maybe I’ll have the chance to turn my fantasy into reality. Maybe I’ll find the real Juanita. . . .— Name and address withheld