So you come in piping hot—something I’ve done wrong. Your words are sharp, angular, little isosceles triangles, nicking the walls, kitchen counter, clanging off pots and pans. And here you are turned half to me, half to the kitchen, wearing your short little skirt, your rainbow tights half up your thighs, your bright orange dreadlocks, bracelets, ankle bracelets, beads and your little tits pricking the fabric under your shirt. You’re giving me hell and all I can think about is how cute you are, and sexy, and the next thing I’m bending you over a chair, right there in the kitchen. You scream. I scoot your panties down to the tops of your thigh stockings. You try to stop me. Your slender fingers flutter at your hips, but honestly—are you really trying? Then all your chatterbox crabbing stops with a whooping inhalation as I sink into you. Your palms are flat on the seat of the chair. You try to right yourself. And then the kinky thought occurs to me: Push a girl’s head down and up pops her pussy. Nature. Female anatomy. Just keep her head down and pretty soon she remembers what she’s about. She’s reaching under the chair to hold onto chair legs. All those fidgety words turn into shocked squeaks timed with my thrusts. Your legs are straight, your ankles spread. You’ve risen to the tippy-tops of your rainbow toes. We’re pushing the chair across the floor. And then you’re all elbows, fingers, and flailing for a grip somewhere under the chair as if you were about to slide off a cliff. And then you do. Your back arches as if greedy for as much of my cock as you can get; and that yanks me with you right over the cliff’s edge. How long as it been? Too long. No wonder. It feels like I’m pissing inside you. So much. As soon as you stand it’s going to soak your stockings, but you do. And now I’m remorseful. A good lover is supposed to listen. It can’t always be sex, sex, sex. A girl is more than her body. And so I ask, having emerged from the fog of lust: ‘What were you saying?’ Instead, with one hand lifting your panties over your despoiled rear; your other hand behind my neck, you stand on your rainbow toes and kiss me. ‘I don’t remember,’ you say with that ungodly sweet smile that turns me to butter. ‘Nothing important.’
William Crimson | October 9 2015
Categories: Consensual, Copulation, CP, Cum, Dominance & Submission, Erotica, Insemination, Love, Quickie, RedBud
The Erotic Writer 
well. and woah. and..and..and…what was I sayin’?
nilla
. “A good lover is supposed to listen. It can’t always be sex, sex, sex.”For real? O thought good sex was the sign of intense listening.
Well, you know, it depends. For some women, in my experience, the listening comes before the sex, others during, and still others afterward and extensively. And then that can change with the same woman from day to day. Having sex with a woman is like playing a violin: you have to tune the instrument differently every time you approach her — there’s temperature, humidity, time of day, etc…
I agree. (I know you like that!)