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From: HRICHARDS@prodigy.net (Hawk Richards)
Subject: {ASS}New Story: The Hawk Within (M/F) by Hawk Richards
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"The Hawk Within" by Hawk Richards
_____________________________________________________
Disclaimer: You must be over 18 years of age and condone erotic
literature in order to read this story. Secondly, you must like
reading sex stories. I mean, why would you be reading a story like
this if you didn't want to read a story like this? You may not sell
"The Hawk Within" for money or whatever. I can repost stories on my
own, so please don't repost without my permission.
____________________________________________________
"The Hawk Within"
aprx 1200 words
(c) Hawk Richards
<HRICHARDS@prodigy.net>
I'm a cynic -- all hawks are, ya know. Therefore, a union of the
poet's soul and the instincts of the Hawk must be established. For
without this mixture, we succumb to our cynicism -- especially when
love is in the picture.
We are the predators, the hunters, who soar above the clouds and swoop
down to catch our prey in our steely talons. It sounds quite violent,
I know; that's just, I hope, the first impression, a fleeting one at
that. I do not hunt for blood or food, at least in the literal sense.
A hawk is a noble creature, which means it's not a scavenger, a
pheasant, or a dove. Nor am I a chicken, turkey or duck. I'm not as
regal and snotty as the eagle, which in my opinion just has good
public relations because of those silly Americans. Let me just say,
it definitely went to the eagle's bald head.
With a hawk's eye and a poet's sensibilities, I usually circle the
dance floor -- swapping stories with my friends, drinking merrily, and
dancing the occasional funky chicken (to mock my cousin, of course.)
It doesn't take me long to become accustomed to the environment. On
occasion, I spot a lovely mark for my attentions, and I appear beside
her, piercing her soul with my dark eyes. (Hawk's have very
mesmerizing eyes, if I do say so myself.)
"May I have this dance?" I may ask. Or, if the connection has been
established, then no words need to be spoken. Our bodies melt
together, we can feel our hearts beat in unison as they pulse
erratically with excitement, and I know she is mine. Occasionally,
another hawk, a brother perhaps -- but one that is not as strong or
capable as I am, comes along, tapping me on the shoulder and
requesting a dance with the fair lady. Usually, a manly display of
feathers and a few screeching words are exchanged. Normally, if the
prey has already been taken, I search for another mate, unless the
said prey is willing to leave with me. Then, I abscond with my new
mate, which is only the proper thing to do.
Back at my nest -- which, I guess, is another way of saying "swinging
bachelor pad," -- we exchange pleasantries, perhaps a few glasses of
wine or cups of coffee.
I wait patiently to make my move. Sometimes, I don't have to wait
long before she allows me to steal a few kisses, which often turns
into a few more, then my hands wander down her curvaceous body,
caressing the soft flesh through her various garments of clothing.
Our tongues, slipping, twisting, and touching, dance to an age-old
ritual that causes our blood to boil. My hands find her soft
globe-like buttocks, squeezing them, pulling her close into my person.
My erection, caught in the confines of my trousers, presses against
her stomach -- telegraphing my arousal and my need.
Her response, although different, shows me that I have the same effect
upon her, as I feel her hardening nipples press into my chest. I
nuzzle her neck, making my way down to the vee of her blouse. The
smell, the taste, and the heat of her bosom against my cheek causes me
to tear her blouse from her body, leaving her standing in front of me
wearing only her skirt because I tend to like ladies that do not
constrict their beauty with support-like contraptions that some call
brassiere's. Perhaps, it invokes an instinctual response in my loins,
when I see the jiggle, the sway and the beauty of a woman who goes
without one.
Then, things may become a bit more urgent -- to say the least. If the
woman is passive, although she rarely is during such an encounter,
then I must play the part of seducer, igniting her desires with my
caresses.
Usually, she participates with this as well, as she fondles my crotch,
rubbing my hardened organ through my pants. Sometimes, she may even
unzip my fly, and release me from the cloth-like prison. If that
happens, she usually kneels in front of me, as I sit down on the
leather sofa, my legs spread, and her in-between them, practicing her
oral ministrations upon my bobbing cock. Some women like to use soft,
feathery licks with their tongue along the shaft, up and down, before
they engulf me with their velvety mouth.
At around this time, they hear the guttural moan of a man-like cousin
to the feathery, winged beast, the hawk, as he suffers the pleasurable
sensations through gritted teeth.
Before I am taken over the edge of no return, I lift her face, and
grin a toothy smile -- we make the retreat to the bedroom, where there
is more room for play. We rid ourselves of our clothing, embracing
each other as we lay upon the bed. She probably can feel my throbbing
cock, as it writhes on her thigh, jutting out from my body like veined
one-eyed snake.
I test the waters of her arousal, if wet, open and ready, then I take
her. I nibble on her cherry red nipples, first one then the other.
Face to face, we kiss like two long-time lovers, sensual and
provocative. There are no doubts between us as I press my prick into
her cuntal opening. The tight sheath parts, letting me inside the
slick tunnel. Our movements rival each other in frenzied lust. While
I am on top and her beneath me, we rut like animals. My hips move at
a steady pace, pulling me in and out of her. She thrusts her hips up
to meet each of my thrusting jabs of my pole, unrelentlessly bringing
us to the final conclusion.
No woman reacts the same way, or so I have found. Some tense up, and
barely move during their release. Some buck wildly against me as the
come, while others tend to do both at different times -- especially
the women who are blessed with multiple orgasms.
After my own release, which usually leaves me spent, I collapse next
to her -- feeding off her glowing passion. Depending on the
situation, the whole cycle may start over with just the smallest of
urges from my newfound mate.
It's the day after that makes me cynical. Love is a very complex
issue, which I find terribly fascinating and also very frightening.
The instincts of the hawk often take over, and I am spurned onward --
loving the feel of a hunt. But, the poet in me wants to find and
adore that special someone. Perhaps, I will find her someday -- or
perhaps I will be caught by a Lady Hawk? One can only dream.
(c) Hawk Richards
__
Hawk Richards
HRICHARDS@prodigy.net
HawkRds@aol.com
Hawk's Storyboard
http://members.aol.com/hawkrds
Hawk Richards
hawkrds@aol.com
HRICHARDS@prodigy.net
Hawk Richards' Storyboard (aptly named after Hawk Richards - go figure)
http://members.aol.com/hawkrds
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