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From: "Rachel Neiss" <november919@hotmail.com>
Subject: ST: Wet 1/1 M/F true M mast, fucking, F Mast, twist ending
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Wet (1/1)

by November Tuesday


You don't deserve me . 

There's a spark there, under the blue haze of your eye, and it is 
clouded
and numbed. It makes you beautiful when you stare off into the sky,
endless reflections catching it, firm brows, pink mouth tight and
masculine and screaming when you cum d eep inside of me. When you
came. You come, then you are gone, back somewhere under the clouds. 

I don't have the tolerance for this, and with age and with having 
suffered
at the hands of careless lovers, I don't have the energy for this shit. 

This last time was nice. You came to my window and leaned down. I
stayed quiet and let you speak. You want me to come over. You want to
come. I know it though you don't say it. But its no longer exciting, 
that
knowing. I want to hear it. 

So I come over, and deadpan in your usual maddening style you tell me to
get naked. Finally. I pull my tee shirt over my bare body and your hands
instantly find my breasts. your hands are warm and like magnets they are
on me, tweaking, circling, pi nching, making me shiver. I moan and my
head falls to the side. My hair falls into the hollow of my neck, warm 
on
my skin. In so many words, you tell me to leave my panties on. 

I fall down on the mattress and you follow, and your touch is warm li ke
sun on my skin. I shiver visibly from my nipples through to my spine as
your hand runs over the curve of my breast. I am wettening and swollen
under my panties and as you continue to stroke the hollow of my waist I
writhe briefly in another shudder, pressing my legs tight together.
"Damn, girl!" you say, and I am thinking of how a perfect man, or at 
least
a better one, would have more satisfaction in my reaction. Savor it as 
his
own, and get hard from it. But then you are kissing me, lips warm an d
sensual on my own, and my fingers are pulling your hair loose so that it
falls over your freckled shoulder and down to tickle my skin. You have
promised to jerk off for me, and as I watch with a heavy gaze your hand
drifts absently to the hardness un derneath your underwear. Your thumb
caresses it, and the motion is so fluid and sensual and beautiful that 
when
you realize that I am watching, you pull away. I smile, wordless, and 
put
your hand back. You lift your hips to remove the underwear and the n you
are lying spread, hand lazily grazing your cock, lightly down around 
your
balls, and I moan in appreciation, encouragement, and the wetness
seeping even more from inside me at the sight of it. I watch, smiling, 
as
you forget me, and you begin to graze your fist over its insistent pink
length, and your body finds its own familiar motion. Your head thrown
back to the side with knitted brows and open lips quickens my breathing
and I myself want to stroke, gently, the furrow under my panties. You ,
panting, beg me to suck it. Your penis has a gravity all its own, a 
warmth,
and as I hover down over it, moving between your legs, letting you feel
my breath on your thighs and testicles and hard, prone, ready cock. I 
dust
my tongue over the skin wher e the head begins abd pulls tight the 
shaft,
in a lazy wet circle. Gliding wetly, over and over, I suck you, holding 
tight
around the base of it as it throbs hard more and more, and I pull it 
into
my mouth where its top fits perfectly against the roof of my mouth. My
fingers on your balls, tickling, swirling through the hair. You are
moaning and your head falls back and forth. I suck until my jaw begins 
to
stiffen and ache, and then I swing one leg over you and hover above your
straining cock as your blue eyes open in wonder like a baby's. 

Then, I am sliding, tight, so wet, down over you. Your hands on my waist
push down. I smile and narrow my eyes and pull up. You look at me with
exasperation. Hovering just around the tip, a circle of madde ning
wetness. I can feel the warmth of your legs on the inside of my own, the
texture of the hair that startled me more than anything when I lost my
virginity - that feeling, more than the pain, of a man's leg hair on the
bottoms of my feet. With my le gs I hold your hips down, and slowly 
circle
my hips, the wet lips of my cunt mouthing your cock. Then, I fall and
down and deep to the hilt my breath huffs out of me sharply - you are
fucking me. I am fucking your cock hard, up and down, and your hands
rise to guide me and push me like your toy up and down on your
throbbing cock. I smile like a cat and clench deep inside, and you are
tossing your head back and forth, moaning, eyes half-lidded and rolling
back, and then with my legs I pull completely of f of you , leaving cool 
air
on our skin where it had been- it is time. 

I roll over onto my back and pull you, and wordless you follow, pressing
down and rooting between my legs, and I spread, and pull you to me with
my ankles, and moan and moan and cry out with how incredibly full I feel
as your cock is stuffed inside. You go in and out slowly, hard, so hard 
that
my head is moving back and forth on the pillow, so hard that you are
fucking my entire body up and down with the motion of your hips. Y ou
are throwing back your head and biting your lip and making pained
noises and your mouth opens and grimaces and I clench you as hard as I
can, so hard my own face contorts, and I know you feel it and know it 
and
then you are screaming, slamming in viol ently, and for long seconds you
move in, then out, and then slowly in again, relishing each inch which
clutches your spasming shooting cock. 

Moments of breathing, just breathing, as if you were starved for air and 
I
run my fingers through the filmy sweat down your back, through your
silken hair, down over your quivering body. 

Then you get up, and with concern you pull yourself out of me so that
there isn't a wet spot on the sheets, and then you stand up. You pull 
two
tissues from the table and with one wipe down your dick, and before you
can reach out with the other I say "don't even hand that to me." 

But so that I don't drip everywhere, although that is what my aching,
swollen cunt wants to do, I get up in one smooth movement a nd walk to
the bathroom with my legs pressed tigh together, anger rising in me. I
wipe it out, then return to the bed. You, however, have sat down in the
chair and with the same worried concentration you are watching TV. 

No, come here. No, make me cum. I need it so much right now. Hey - it's
not over, where are you going? 

I lie down and spread and open the lips of my cunt. Switch on the
vibrator and so gently hold it close. So delicate I can only feel the 
air
fluttering around it. I press it closer. My eyes close. Around, slowly.
Fingers dipping into our mingling wetness. I open my eyes and look at
you. You are watching TV. 

Blue eyes staring, reflecting blue water, fishes undersea, swimming on
the TV screen. I am wet wa nting so much to cum. You are sitting away
from the bed now, watching the TV, eyelids heavy. Are you going to sit
there and watch TV? I switch off the vibrator and stretch my fingers. I
should leave. Same damn diving footage we were watching a half h our
ago, looped, only then you were inside me to the hilt. A new, strong,
young voice inside of me says "Go. Go home. Go home and light some
candles and play the same CD and get yourself off. He doesn't deserve
even to be in your presence." 

But I don't want a scene. And I don't want to leave. And I want to cum.
Now. 

And if I continue, and lose him in my cries as I come hard, and then 
leave,
well then, what power could that hold? 

I can't concentrate, with the worry of my thighs a nd humiliation of 
being
ignored and spread open. I'm spreading in defiance, I remind myself, and
I push the button. The hum returns. You do not even look up. I close my
eyes tight, focus on the images until I am alone, and they surround me,
and you a ren't there except for being a presence I am defying. I try to
picture the way you looked, three minutes ago as you stroked your cock
with your head thrown back, the image that made me so wet, and that
image is fading somehow. it is just as well. I wil l give my orgasm life 
in
spite of you and then leave you alone. 

I am lying spread wide and I don't permit myself to move. I spread 
myself
far though my hands are tired from exertion, and I let the vibrator 
graze
the pink folds of my clit. Tease. Because in the long run, having an
orgasm is not work, but falling off a log. Ideally, a woman should not
have to work to forget about her inhibitions. A woman should be nothing
but rapt in the halo of her own orgasm. 

My brows knit, harder, force me to focus on the warmth tingling there
and of the wetness flowing to join wetness like a delta between my legs.
My clit is swollen into a little nub under the skin. With the edge of 
the
vibrator I graze it, flutter back and forth. A sensation in my v agina,
which normally is no sensation at all, grows and I realize that the
muscles inside are clenching upon themselves. The feeling draws a line 
up
and through my clit, and then I know I am home free, I have conquered, I
moan and am peripherally aware t hat you are waking up, and my cunt is
spasming and bursting into such joy that I am moaning, breathing and
moaning, crying louder and louder. I turn my head toward the window,
and when I click the vibrator off I stare dazed at the ceiling. A few
seconds later, wobbly legs, I get up. You are speechless in your chair. 

"Don't get up." My voice even, but sharp. Where are my jeans? Kitchen. I
pick them up, then back to where my panties lie in front of you. Pick 
those
up, and on with my shirt. "S orry to interrupt your show." Sit down
opposite you and put on my shoes. You haven't moved from your chair or
your underwear. You watch me bustle around. I pack my things and say
"good night." 

But you are looking at the spot on your sheet, darkene d to a rich
cranberry color in an oval shape where I had laid. I point out that part 
of
that is your cum but my bitterness is not due to your rejection of all 
the
things flowing from me but how, in private, I cherish the wetness that
swells, crests and l ingers between my legs. 

You begin to rise, slow, to walk me out. "Don't bother getting up." I
clutch my keys and mutter something about just being friends, trying to
keep anger out of my voice. I need to be lying still, my legs feel like 
water,
but I say goodbye and negotiate the fire door. My legs are unsure and
incompetent. There has been rain in the alley and the scent is sharp and
earthen. Down the alley for the last time like this, braless and still 
wet
between my legs. 

Back home, my stereo is still playing. I put on the record called 
Passion
and play it loud as I go back about my life, oblivious to the irony of 
it. I
feel a bit sore around the edges but its better to wait alone for 
passion
and the sting of its lack than to be wi th someone, comparing their 
faded
colors to the vision you wait for in your heart of hearts. Someday, I 
will
appreciate the strength and brilliance of my actions. Because through my
worry about myself and my thighs and my worth, the fact is as hard and
real as silver in my hand that you do not deserve the sex I can give 
you,
not half of it or one tenth of it. 

Part of the reason I have so much to give is that I can have it alone, 
in and
of myself. When I take off my clothes and I am again naked in my own
sheets, my hands cup my breast and my thigh and they are soft and I am
enough, and I sleep in peace. 


November's stories are all available at
http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Underground/3193/



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