Of glasses, soft skin and cleavage

There you are, sitting right across from me at the library table. Your hair pulled back in classic scholastic bun, your glasses perched on your nose, a statement of black plastic studiousness, your fingers dancing across your keyboard making a clear statement of productivity. But two things are distracting me. First, there is that smile. The little one that creeps across your lips from time to time. Surely an essay is not inspiring those little moments of knowing smirk? Are you on MSN, tapping out messages to your lover, telling him how your going to open those lovely lips and let his hardening cock slip into your mouth when you get home?

The other thing that's distracting me is more visceral: your sweat jacket. It's unzipped just enough to reveal lovely cleavage, deep and inviting enough to tell me that you have been blessed with gorgeous, round, full white breasts -- unzipped far enough to tell me that you might not be wearing much at all beneath that jacket. Unzipped far enough to make me want to unzip it all the way.

I imagine us alone in this room. I stand and come around the table as you type and smile. I pause behind you and run a finger through the loose strands of hair trailing over your neck. You startle... but only a little. Your fingers stop and you wait. I lean in, and leave a light, trailing kiss on the back of your neck. My hands circle your body, unzipping your jacket, slowly, all the way down. Your jacket comes open and you slouch slightly, knowing that your secret is out and your breasts are free in the air. I whisper past your ear, "You're naughty. Naked like this, here. You need to remember this and think about whether you'd do it again."

with one hand now resting against your neck, I press your head forward to the table... and hold it there. Seated like that, your breasts are now swaying out from your body, free and in the air. Holding you firmly in place, I reach in with my other hand and caress them lightly, feeling their weight, feeling their smoothness in my hand. I hear your breath quicken and I trail a finger across your nipple. It's tightening as I touch it, the tip beginning to harden and stand out. I stop circling it and a finger and thumb close lightly around it, gently squeezing, caressing. Your breath catches and as you begin to relax again, my fingers tighten, slowly, steadily, harder and harder, pulling slightly as I listen to your breathing stop and start at my touch.


"Raise your skirt, but don't stand up... stay there," I say, my grip never leaving your neck or the taut tip of your breast. You comply. "Now slide your underwear down and hike your skirt," I whisper. "Now, sit down. And touch yourself... I'm not going to let go -- I'm going to squeeze tighter, and tighter -- and you're going to touch yourself until you cum. I want you wet and exhausted and quivering. I want to see the dampness on your chair. I want to see you gasp and cum, here, in this place, while I watch... and I'm going to enjoy it."

Triggering a Dream: Reflections on Insta-lust

I haven't checked in in a while. But I assure you it's not because I haven't been thinking about you. I have. A lot.
"Thinking about you" might be too strong. It implied careful and articulated thought -- a complete painting, a start-to-finish narrative. I admit, I've been too busy for that. But you have, unavoidably, been bumping up against my more primitive sensibilities this whole time.
I think that is where any good sexual reverie begins for me: in a primitive moment. Sometimes that moment is allowed to flourish into something more complex: a scene, a story, a three-act play. But sometimes that moment remains, simply, a moment, a brightly-coloured reverie that shatters an otherwise mundane routine. That is the gift you bring, simply by leaning a certain way, catching the light on an appealing curve, licking the edge of your coffee cup, just so. You break the grey shell of routine and paint my world with a slash of erotic fuscia. And it makes me want to fuck you. Then and there.
Take that woman, standing at the counter. She's done nothing but show up wearing those stretchy, comfy pants. But the way they cling to the luscious edges of her ass sends an electric charge from my eyes to my groin. Stirrings. Longings. An almost irresistable desire to yank them down to your knees, push you over the counter and watch as my hard cock disappears between your gorgeously curved cheeks, again and again, sending rhythmic, shivering ripples through your flesh. All that from the pants you chose and the shadow of a curved behind.