That’s What It’s Made For

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Usher’s newest album is pure sex. I’m listening to “That’s what it’s made for” and the brief spoken interlude that sounds like a clip from a porn script, complete with breathy intonations that I know so well, has gotten me turned on. I’ve been in rare form this week; every single night, I’ve found myself browsing this or that story on Literotica (yes, I’ve been there, rubbing one out desperately to some expertly painted scenario) with my left hand seemingly stuck between my legs and my right one on my breast, head thrown back as I moan out my orgasm, again ever so thankful that my roommate has gone away on vacation. Then I remember last Friday’s hookup, and remember that there’s a man that could be knocking on my door in 15 minutes should I choose to summon him. In my current state of arousal, the temptation is oh so very deliciously, delectably real.

I’d call his cel phone, of course, because the hour is late and I prefer to be a little discreet in my booty calls than waking up his whole family. “Hello, Tomas? This is Sabina. I was wondering if you’d like to come over for a little while?” And because he remembers last Friday, the two orgasms I stole out of him, my demonstrations of my unusual natural flexibility, and my ability to take a hot dog half-way down my throat… because he can detect that tone in my voice that promises naughty things, that he can’t even imagine but he knows he’ll enjoy; because of all this, he’ll not only show up, but also be half-hard when he knocks on my door 15 minutes later. I’d answer the door clad in my low-slung sweatpants and tight green tank top, no bra, breasts outlined and nipples delineated with scientific clarity. A shy smile of mine, hiding a sinister intention. “Please, Come in.”

Now, let’s be clear: This would be the first time I take a fuck buddy, a booty call. Would I try to dissimulate with some small talk? “How was your day?” etc? Or would I grab him by the front of his shirt, pull him into the apartment, shut the door, and with both hands upon his chest push him against the closed door, reach up on the tips of my toes, and kiss him? Let’s imagine that second scenario, and describe some of the merits of a good kiss. Fanatics will know a kiss can contain the full measure of a person’s sensuality: that oblong muscle with its millions of little soft bumps slowly pushing itself into my mouth, about teeth working my lower lip, about slickness and saliva, the convergence of two passions.

At this point I’d probably hoist myself up on the low countertop/bar that separates my kitchen from my dining room, legs spread open with him standing between them, as his tongue continues his dutiful endeavor. I hook my legs around him, yes, we’re both fully dressed and we’re just kissing but already I can feel the moisture forming between my legs as I pull his mouth to my neck with one hand. If ever there was a sensitive spot on me, it’s been my neck. My hands land on his stomach as he nuzzles my neck, I grab his shirt and pull up, it’s discarded and I close my lips around the pebbles of his nipples, canlı bahis not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be interesting. His hands, perhaps, would be caressing my breasts through my shirt at this point. I don’t really care, I’ll get my fun later, for now I’m content to undo his belt and the button of his jeans, and then with a look full of intention, I sink to my knees before him and lower the zipper with my teeth.

I don’t want to get to the main attraction too quickly. After all, part of my reputation depends on the originality and the prolongation of my erotic encounters. No, for now I’m content to remove his shoes and his trousers and just PRESS my hand firmly against his clothed erection as I lick along that line where taught abdomen meets boxer waistband. I rub a little, slide my hand along his thigh under the shorts and just brush his cockhead. I look up, and his eyes are closed, his jaw muscles tense, as I continue to move my hand up and down over his covered shaft.

Now the fun begins. “Sit,” I tell him, indicating one of the sturdy wooden dining room chairs. Oh, he remembers this part, and even puts out his wrists for me to tie the leather wrist cuffs that I have surreptitiously produced from some hidden drawer. Shirtless, pantsless, he allows both his wrists to be bound to the back of the chair, and now he cannot move. (A note to the reader – my dining room has one very, very distinctive design trait. One of the walls is. Completely. covered in mirrors. Let your imaginations run loose.)

I straddle him, eyes closing as my groin comes in contact with his – very evident – erection. Now, let it be known, I love cock. I worship cock, with my hands and my mouth and anywhere else the damn thing’s meant to go. I kiss it, I grab it, I rub it all against my face, I lovingly lap up escaping drops of pre-cum. That being said, HIS cock is a physiological masterpiece. Last Friday might not have progressed past a one-night hook-up had it not been for his monster cock, I wouldn’t be having the fantasies I’m having, I wouldn’t be considering actually calling him up and leaving this story only half-finished because already I’ve slipped my hand down my panties and I’m wetter than I have been in months. I’m not going to give a mathematical measurement – I was too busy at the time to bother with rulers and measurements, and numbers are rarely accurate in this sort of story, but I don’t have to invent or exaggerate because that cock, that beautiful stiff cock in my hands and in my mouth, texture (cliché, but true) like velvet-covered steel, has left a distinct impression on me. And so to be in presence of that cock once again, to grind myself against it as I bite (gently, don’t want to leave any telling marks) where neck meets shoulder, well, it’s obvious that before long I find myself on my knees before him, releasing his cock through the opening in his boxers, and bringing my mouth to the head (where, truly, a drop of pre-cum awaits me). I lick my lips, moistening them, but keeping them closed and pressing them against the cockhead bahis siteleri so that it pushes its way into my mouth. Tomas moans. With his hands bound behind him, there’s no way for him to (gently) push my head down into his lap, or to fondle his balls (considering this, I go down for a few swipes of the tongue on his balls to moisten them, then bring my right hand up to roll them in my palm) or do anything.

Clothes are bothering me. This is where I shed my tank top and release my pendulous natural D breasts (all true, folks, have I lied to you so far?) and my tank top leaving just one standard-issue flesh-toned string thong, like those from Victoria’s Secret Basics. Meanwhile, with some careful maneuvering, I pull down his boxers and throw them off into some corner, and now we’re both naked save for that small cloth triangle (that I’m saving for the grand finale). I abandon my slow buildup and return my oral attentions to his crotch with a passion. My technique alternates – alternatively, I fondle and caress his balls as I bob my head on his cock with just enough pressure and with lots of spit, a nice wet sloppy blowjob, till it’s slick enough for me to wrap a fist around his erection and, pressing tightly, thrust up and down and rub my palm over the head (this earns me several moans from him) as I turn my mouth to his balls and ever so carefully suck them into my mouth one at a time, massaging them with my tongue as my hand continues to jerk him off. Then I switch again, and this time my movement is fast and focuses mainly on the head as I pump the remaining length of his cock with one hand. The room is filled with my slurping noises and his moans, and when I pull back with my mouth less than an inch away from his cock – pointing straight up at this point – he arches his hips up high trying to re-enter my mouth. He misses on the first attempt, and his cock hits my cheek, leaving a streak of pre-cum. Again, and I help him out and open my mouth and extend his tongue, and as his hips come down I come down wit him and take him in as deep as he will go. He hits the back of my throat. I come up. I go back down, he hits the back of my throat again, until I relax, and push, until he goes down a little deeper, and then some more, until my nose is nestled against his abdomen and there is no part of his shaft visible outside my mouth. His eyes are closed and his head thrown back and he’s pulling his wrists but the bindings hold true.

At that point, I displace my mouth and begin tonguing his testicles again (wishing I could reach that point between his balls and anus but the sitting position doesn’t quite permit it) and pumping his cock furiously (all of this reflected in the mirror, which he watches avidly when a break in my activities permit him enough concentration for it).

I can’t stand it anymore. I straddle him, standing over him, and as I push the thong to one side I position him at my entrance (as hot and as wet a pussy as anyone could hope for at this point) and hold myself there for a few moments, with just the pressure of bahis şirketleri his cockhead against my pussy lips. Then I sink down a few inches, so that about a third of his cock is inside me. I can feel, acutely, the part of him that is inside me, and I pull back up and lower myself down again a little farther this time, until he’s two thirds of the way in. There is nothing to imitate the feeling of being penetrated, filled, fulfilled. It’s at this point that he thrusts up into me completely and I gasp, oh god. Cock, cock inside me, and I’m coating it completely with my pussy juices and it all feels so slick and delicious and right. Oh fuck, dear reader, are you as turned on as I am right now? I can barely keep writing, my body feels such a longing right now, a *real* concrete painful longing to be filled in the way that I write about, because truly, it’s inimitable. But back to our story, with our dear Tomas strapped to a chair buried to the absolute hilt in me.

I move. Up and down and with his girth (oh Tomas, remind me to congratulate your mother sometime) I feel every inch coming in and out. I feel I’ve absolutely neglected the poor man so as I grind myself against him with him inside me, I try to undo his bindings. Blindly, and distracted, and trying to balance this task with my body moving up and down, I finally manage it and he grabs my hips and lifts me up and SLAMS me down again, my breasts bouncing violently. Damn.

Change of location, now that he’s free. I stand up and bend over the bar/countertop that I’d sat on initially, and he comes up and grabs both my breasts from behind, erection pressed firmly against my ass, and I’m obliged to reach one hand down and guide him in. I love this position, and appreciating his new freedom he moves furiously. I can see us in my mind’s eye, seat dripping into his eyes, my hair disheveled, making sounds like he’s killing me (I have trouble keeping it down) and I reach down and fondle my clit. Two minutes later, I’m coming, biting my own hand to keep from shouting out because I have neighbors that I’ll encounter sometimes in corridors. And, cliché a concept as mutual orgasms are, it’s not at all unbelievable that after all the night’s activities my orgasm (and my pussy muscles clenching rhythmically around his cock, and I know this because sometimes when I come I like to keep a finger or two in afterwards and feel the contractions of my orgasm) sets him off as well.

And, because this is a fictional story (so far, were I to make it come true we’d certainly use a condom) and because I’ve never done it before and it’s a huge fantasy of mine, he’d come inside me. My descriptive abilities fail me here, as I don’t know if I would feel the presence of the extra thick liquid deep in my pussy as he gives a few last pumps, or how it would feel when he pulls out, whether it would trickle down my inner thighs. For those of you who have experience in this, you can imagine it here.

To conclude, a quick shower, for him and for me, either together or not. I don’t know, I’ve expended all my energy on everything else, I don’t particularly want to make conversation, and so we get out and towel off and go to bed.

The last thing I hear, before we drift off, is “next time it’s your turn with the cuffs.”

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