breakfast date

i wore the dress for you…the one that shows deep cleavage and soft skin. full roundness that draws the eyes of anyone near me. it makes grown men want to be taken in my arms and held while they suckle and regress or it makes them imagine their spunk spilling thickly over them, after titty fucking me. i know you appreciated it.

i wasn’t surprised when our flirtations lead to some sexual discussion, far more revealing that our prior bantering had taken us. it was a negotiation, a revelation, a confession of sins and limits. as i sat across from you, deep into the discussion, i wondered if you knew how aroused i was becoming. the dirty things i imagined you doing to me.

i was tempted to advise you i was wearing no panties. or to make a comment, just that much more sexual just to see what you would do. i was sorely tempted by a body that was responding to yours and our candid conversation. my abstinence does nothing for my ability to think in a conservative manner.  it makes me rather obvious in sexual responses.

and i was responding to you. could you tell?  could you see my breasts rise and fall, just a little too quickly? did you look at my licking my lips and have your mind wander to where my lips should be instead. did you think about my tongue licking your balls and your tight little asshole before drooling my spittle up your shaft to suck you off like i was born knowing how you like it?

your mouth distracted me. i wanted to kiss your full lips as if i was paying attention to your cock, so that you would ache to push my head to your lap. i wanted to bite them. i wanted them around my nipples and i wanted them suckling my clitty. i wanted to sit on your face and envelope you in the heady scent of a musky woman’s scent then kiss my taste from your lips.

you aroused me. sharing breakfast with me in the diner, as we laughed and flirted, talking about very private things in a very public place. having another couple across from us, look askance at us a few times as they sat quietly, not talking to each other. she looked offended. he alternated from shared annoyance to intense casual disinterest…lol…listening intensely to as much as he could hear without pissing her off.

i wonder if i could keep your interest, if i took you to my bed to service me. you’ve had your 10 year marathon of sluttiness following your divorce. you love your variety but are finding it harder to find sane, normal women. you want more stability, more connection. as long as the girl is sexual enough for you, you are willing to walk into a relationship of sorts. willing to be open if it works. willing to be a preferred partner, if not an outright boyfriend.

it makes me wonder if we could fill each others voids. right now i know i am lusting for you. wanting to semi punish you for arousing me; teasing you until you know who controls things between us. then again, maybe that’s why you arouse me. you don’t come across as a passive man in bed. you challenge me so perhaps you do that sexually as well. right now it’s unknown and so i imagine myself taking what i want from you.

using your lovely body to satisfy myself upon. touching your tanned olive skin in sensual ways until i push you to react, respond and push back. god i love sexually teasing a man. making his erection hurt from the pressure to cum by using soft words and touches so that by the time he cums for me, he is spewing his soul as well as his semen, over my hands and face. i want the ache in his balls to linger for days afterwards.

i wonder if you know that’s what i was thinking about as you spread jam on your toast and sipped your coffee. if it would surprise you to know that’s where my mind wandered. i wanted to feel you up through your jeans, take your measure. i wanted to feel your tight ass and imagine you bent over on your hands and knees with the perfectly round globes spread wide for me, exposing private areas to my eyes, so i could tongue you.

you have experience, but you’ve never had me. i am the exception to the rule. i don’t play fair and i don’t accept anything but sexual obedience to my sensual nature. i don’t role play as  i am both extremely dominant and perfectly submissive, if it’s deserved. i am not easy on any level but i only intimidate men who don’t know how to handle a woman like me. i am not neutral. i will either own your cock or you will rule my cunt. either way, i win.

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11 Responses to breakfast date

  1. Pingback: breakfast date | georgeforfun

  2. Marty says:

    Either way everybody wins

  3. Hot, just plain Hot😜

  4. kdaddy23 says:

    I need a cold shower…

  5. myarousal says:

    A woman who loves the win-win scenario……who is perfectly Dominant and perfectly submissive… the essence of the woman who would relish in…..”on your hands and knees with the perfectly round globes spread wide for me, exposing private areas to my eyes, so i could tongue you.”…….willing to nuzzle into the darkness with a man……leaping into the dark abyss……

  6. willcrimson says:

    I write erotica in the company of a café, restaurant or bookstore, inspired by the men and women. Maybe I watched you. (I wouldn’t have missed you.) A woman like you asked me once to teacher her a passage at the piano. She came wearing a tube skirt. Her cleavage was like yours. The hem of her skirt stopped short, suggesting more than it hid.
    I wanted to fuck her.
    Sex object That’s how my cock thickened and lengthened, needing her mouth, the touch of her tits and the moisture of her thighs. The ache, the largeness, trapped, ready to thickly spill, was more than an ache—an agony. The blood beats, the ears are deafened and the mouth waters imagining the nipples marbled on the tongue. She was young.
    But I wouldn’t make that mistake twice. And what if I had been wrong? What if she had said: You’re just like other men?
    I am.
    I’m want a woman’s beauty. I want the nipples under the garment. I want the flair of the hips and her legs, parted. I want her eyes when I open and penetrate her. I want her legs locked round my hips. I should have taken you at the piano. I should have sat next to you and unzipped. I should have let you see me—and yourself in me. There it is, rigid, skin stretched, straight and already a drop slipping down.
    Sit. Here. In my lap. We’ll play at the piano. Ride me. Show me what it does to you—this thing, this width, this length.
    Or I would have you kneel on the piano bench. I would slowly slip into you as you played, just lift the hem of your tube skirt, and only just enough. I would pull back the top and let your tits hang from your full and beautiful breasts.
    Clihés. Nothing but clichés from beginning to end.
    All I can say, had I had a second chance, I wouldn’t have let her leave the practice room without her cunt letting slip the silver praise of my orgasm. A woman like her deserved no less—and anything less an insult.
    And a woman like you deserves no less.
    I can overhear you. Over the toast and jam, I wonder if he sees what I see—a woman’s lips ready for the O of a cock; your tongue ready to taste, your fleshy legs ready to be plied and bruised. Does you underwear? If I were him, I would find out. I wouldn’t let you go the block before the flavor of your womb glistened on my finger’s tip. But I’d lick it. I’d shove the taste of my tongue back in your womb and stick it there—and something more substantial later.
    Maybe I wouldn’t let you get into the car without taking my cock’s shape in your pussy. There’s no other reason you don’t wear underwear. That’s so you know. But I won’t come in you. Later. Not now, when you expect but later, when your orgasm, my blood under your fingernails, is the only way you’ll get it. There. Where you want it.
    I wonder if he suspects, as your tongue slips between your lips to sip Coffee, to sample the toast and jam, where else your tongue has been. Up a man’s ass? Cupping a man’s balls? Does he have any idea what a slut you are? What you’re willing to do if he’s not, and how you’ll submit if he knows?
    Look at your heels. Look at your lips and nails. Look at the cock-hungry wrenching of your spine.
    How could he not know?

    • rougedmount says:

      how many times have i read this…and it doesn’t matter. the same word echos inside my empty whispered hoarsely from a dry does one pen a reply when you can’t think? when coherence is gone to be replaced by imagery and wanton sensations trickling down the inside of a thigh. through the silent chorus of adulation, there is but a single idea capable of expression…both curse and benevolent prayer, an expression of submission, of arousal’ of hope and fear combined in the singularity of the only reply i can make, right now…

      • myarousal says:

        I have been at many low points in my life, some I sense similar to you. I’ve known the depths of despair and longing, with virtually limited hope…..A girl I know sent me the words to a song, asked me to read them and listen to the song. Her and I had a relationship…..maybe one that you could relate to…..I was supposed to be the one who her husband would allow……while he relished in her and my “oneness”… was not supposed to be love….but….when her and I were connected… was amazing and beautiful…..but wrong. The last phone call we shared was two lovers in tears….her request was to listen to the song she was listening to…..and cry with her…always knowing she would love me……

        “Broken”…… Lifehouse

        The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
        Maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time
        I am here still waiting though I still have my doubts
        I am damaged at best, like you’ve already figured out

        I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing
        With a broken heart that’s still beating
        In the pain, there is healing
        In your name I find meaning
        So I’m holdin’ on, I’m holdin’ on, I’m holdin’ on
        I’m barely holdin’ on to you

        The broken locks were a warning you got inside my head
        I tried my best to be guarded, I’m an open book instead
        I still see your reflection inside of my eyes
        That are looking for a purpose, they’re still looking for life

        I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing
        With a broken heart that’s still beating
        In the pain (in the pain), is there healing
        In your name (in your name) I find meaning
        So I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’), I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’),
        I’m holdin’ on (I’m still holdin’)
        I’m barely holdin’ on to you
        I’m hangin’ on another day

      • rougedmount says:

        there is nothing worse than loving when you know it is unable to be acknowledged

      • willcrimson says:

        Good god, just reread it this morning. Saw all the typos and the same word occurred to me ~jesus~

      • rougedmount says:

        lmao..a writer never finishes writing, do they?..i wrote a post once and was intoxicated…not quite fall down dead drunk..but not far from it…and i read it the next day and left it as it was…as a memory to my libationous excursion…i loved it as it was…

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