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.

A canvas of white...

Pale skin. What is it about pale skin that makes me want to touch it gently, caress it, kneed it under my fingers and just enjoy the silkiness of it? Take the woman sitting over in the corner right now. For the last half hour, I’ve been trying to focus on doing some work. But the only thing I’ve been able to think about is how much I want to tie her down to a bed, spread-eagled and slowly massage every inch, every curve. And when she’s finally panting, legs quivering, cunt dripping, I want to straddle her chest, my hard cock poised directly over her pale cheeks and blue eyes and slowly, soothingly stroke myself into a powerful, shuddering cum. I imagine her eyes looking up, taking in my hardness, my pumping hand, my eyes focused on her face. She’ll know that I’m enjoying the anticipation, the knowing. She’ll know that I’m trying hard to delay the moment when I will finally succumb and let the sensations take me over the edge. My cock will pulse, once, twice, and then a jet of hot, white cum will stream across her flushed cheek, over her nose and up over the clear skin of her forehead. She will gasp and her tongue will lazily search out across her lips, seeking out a taste of saltiness. Another jet and another pump from my throbbing cock painting her face and, yes, her tongue, with cum.

I can’t get the image out of my head. I want it like I want a drink of water on a hot day. It’s not a whim. It’s a desire that requires quenching. If I strolled up to her and told her what was on my mind, what do you think she would say...?

The many textures of desire

There is a question about sex that I've never really understood: What's your type?

Really? My type? When? Today? Last week? In the morning? At night in a happy, chatty pub? Could you possibly be more specific?

Having a "type" seems like a cop-out, an assignation to expectation and convention. A careless slotting into a box that helps those around us feel they "know" us. But I think committing to a "type" is the equivalent of saying there is only one painting you admire. It's limiting and reductive.

Today, for example, my head keeps turning at the sight of pale-skinned, brown-eyed women who look like some throwback to a more more ancient aesthetic. The modern greek goddess with a slight curl to her locks and a cool confidence and a look of seriousness about her eyes. I'm in a worshiping mood today.

Take the woman who just left. Tall and slim (but with some hip and some curve), with the pale skin and dark hair of a carefully tended deity. A milk and honey girl. A woman like that makes me want to immediately drop to my knees and drink her in.

There you have it. I love to give... yes, full lips and tongue buried in the warm, moist folds of your cunt. And not just a cursory licking. That's criminal. I crave long, deep massages with lips and tongue, arms and hands holding you firmly as I feel you swell and spread and flow under my tongue. Gorgeous.

And for some reason, it's the goddess-girls who bring that out the most in me. Today's girl brought on an immediate wave of tongue lust. I wanted to push her forward over the coffee bar counter and bury my mouth between her cheeks. Licking and pressing deeper, running my tongue along her cunt and ass, drinking her in.

It's funny, that. How a simple look or demeanor can bring out completely different desires in me. Bright,cheery, chatty girls, for example. I usually have an instant vision of yanking their workout stretch pants down past their ankles, pushing them back over a library table and banging them for all they're worth.

It's not too surprising, I guess, that the way we perceive someone would bring out specific desires and reactions in us.

The tiny pale girl at the cash now. Pony tail, looking chilly, but with full, sensual lips and a long, gently upturned nose brings out a completely different reaction. I want to gently push her to her knees, and press my hardening cock between those full, sensuous lips. I want to video tape it all, slick hard cock plunging in and out between those softly pillowed lips. And I want to cover her face in cum. I know. Cliche. But I don't crave that in every case. There is just something about her gorgeous skin and delicate cheeks...

So next time you see that man who smiles and says hello but gives you a lingering assessment, a slight glaze in his eyes, he might just be dreaming of you on your knees, your face covered in hot, dripping pleasure...

Intro: Welcome, come inside

Hi there, and welcome to the other side of the looking glass.

You've just crossed the threshold, moving from the surface world of polite smiles and handshakes, schedules and responsibilities to the world below the surface. You've entered the mind of your polite, fit and attractive next door neighbour -- the great dad and good husband who smiles and waves at you when you drive by on your way home to your own domestic cocoon. You've crossed into the private thought stream of that guy you've seen across the cafe, working away on his computer, reading the paper, stopping to chat with the staff and say hello to acquaintances and friends. You've stepped from the world of polite conversation and civility into something... darker, moister, more fundamental.

You've crossed into my private thoughts and, if you're female, you're going to discover what's behind the smile and the slightly too-long stare. You're going to read about private thoughts and reflections -- the thoughts and reflections that seldom find voice.

You see, I DO want to fuck you. You've been right all along. But, truly, it's not that simple. That's too boring, too banal. That's the stuff of drastic oversimplification and reductivism. The real truth is I MIGHT want to fuck you. But mostly I want to explore you. I want to savour your uniqueness. I want to understand better why you caught my attention and meditate on the unique desires you bring out in me.

Take the young woman sitting up at the coffee bar right now. It's a busy morning in my local coffee joint. There are a lot of people here, 80 per cent of them women. But it's YOU that has caught my attention. What is it exactly? Hmmm, It's the way you're fluffing your hair with your fingers, letting your short, all-business cut breathe. It's the tight, trim thighs, the legs of a runner. It's the glasses, fun but serious. You're definitely studying. That's attractive, too. Big brains are very sexy. They add texture to your landscape. It's also the way the sun keeps catching the downy hair on the back of your upper arm, blonde hair highlighted against honey skin. It's also the top you've chosen: High-waisted, soft cotton tunic. And it's definitely the way it dips down your chest revealing the rising slope of your breasts. They look spectacular. And YES, I want to see them. Of course I do! But we are not in a simple-minded frat-boy movie. It's just not that simple.

Yes, I want to see the gorgeous curve of your breasts. Who wouldn't? Your body is living art. I want to see it, but not right away. Not just like that. I want to discover it, slowly... I want to discover YOU. Your breasts are simply an access point to your sexual side. I want to see what you look like once the veneer of civility has been dropped and you are acting on your needs and desires. You are polished and perfected. You wear your public persona like a shield over your intimacies and contradictions. It is those things that I want to see, to drink in, to savour.

So there you go. Do I want to fuck you? Sure. Probably. But more than anything, bar-girl, I want to back you into a wall, look into your eyes and slide my hand up under your top,circling the tip of your breast with my fingers, listening to your breath become more rapid as my fingers close around your nipple and being to squeeze...

Welcome to the other side of the looking glass...