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From: jonhoneyslip@gmail.com
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Subject: {ASSM} A Casual Encounter M+F
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Date: Tue, 12 May 2009 20:10:01 -0400
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pers-4zfkx-1166638251@craigslist.orgYou're nervous, I'm nervous.
After all, we really just met a few moments ago and exchanged a few
pleasantries while on the couch.  And before that a few terse instant
messages.

But there we are, two strangers who've realized that we've exhausted
our excuses not to proceed.  You, at least, don't have to worry about
performance anxiety, though from what we've chatted about I know that
you certainly have some emotional complications that can't be helping.

And then, I forget how, we start kissing.  And my hand is on your
leg.  My other hand's finger woven into your tawny hair, cradling your
head.  You seem to be enjoying it, which is a relief.  I'm younger,
but getting past the age where I can count on my youth tip the balance
of attraction reliably in my favor.

The kisses are nice, and our hands wander.  You're surprisingly taut,
well built, and whatever reservations I had ebb as my tumescence
flows.  You let my hands wander under your shirt and up your chest to
fondle your breasts, pinch your nipples.  You let my hands stroke your
back and tuck into your jeans to discover the pleasant surprise of a
flimsy thong.

Yes, you did expect this, you did prepare.  You wanted to give
yourself over to wanton lust with a complete stranger just as I did.
As I do.  We're together in this, complicit, abandoned, indulgent.
Yet there is no shame.  Awkward though it began, all is now perfectly
natural.

"Would you like to move to the bed," I ask.  The thong taught me that
you're willing, but still I want to be sure that you don't feel at any
point I might take advantage.  "Yes," you reassure, already shifting
to get up and cross the room.

There, we strip down.  Even now, just the faint memory of the triangle
panty fabric that describes the delta of your pubis and mons is
entrancing.  The thin elastic around your waist, and between the
cheeks of your firm ass.  I'm surprised I haven't conjured the image
in my mind's eye as a masturbatory aid more often.

We pet, heavily.  I put on a condom.  We fuck.  You're on top, in
control.  I work my thumb between your thighs to massage your
clitoris, knowing that even a rock hard cock won't necessarily be
enough to satisfy you.  We both sweat, your mature breasts and
exercised thighs slick and gleaming pink with exertion.

It's all I can do to hold on, and in the process of fucking I forget
that what turned me on to begin with is that you wanted it from
behind.  I had wanted so badly to fuck you from behind even before I
saw you, before I knew what you looked like.

But for me, you taking what you want, riding me like an animal, this
is enough.  Afterwards, I ask you if it was worth it -- the drive
across the bridge for some kissing, some groping, some dick.  And you
say it was, and you seem to mean it.  But I've never been able to
believe the post-coital assurances from my lovers.  In second
guessing, I should have finished a cigarette, sipped some water, and
fucked you from behind for good measure.

In fact, in my fantasies, I do.  I'm doing it now.  Fucking you from
behind, my hands on your hips, up and down your back, around your
belly and back between your thighs where my fingers can navigate your
strange, sweet, sublime pussy.  In my dreams, I will take you like an
animal for the rest of my life.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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