Sunday, March 16, 2008

The Dance.

You start standing up. Fully clothed, facing him, and then into the traditional slow-dance pose: your arms up around his neck, his hands on your waist.

The first move is a kiss.

His hands run over your back first. Through your hair, taking up a fistful and pulling it for an instant before combing tenderly through and then moving down. His hands, then, under your shirt, running back up underneath, making broad flat strokes over your skin and your bra before moving back to unhook it. Your hands, this whole time, on his chest, feeling it firm under his t-shirt and the nipples hard.

In unison your shirts peel off, arms high over heads and held for a moment. Any hair that wasn't mussed before is now. And you can see so much of his skin and feel his scent, and you bury yourself in it as he buries himself in your breasts. His lips are soft, his teeth are rough, and for a moment all there is for you to do is hold his face and watch him close his eyes and immerse himself in the softness of your breast.

You lead on the next move. Down on one knee, hands forward to unbutton his pants, hands down to remove, hands down again for the underpants, hands forward to take the cock. Stroke. Observe. If it wasn't stiff the instant it came out, it hardens in your hands. He looks down and watches you and makes no move; you are free to set the pace. You take that cock into your mouth and then he has to react, making little noises or intakes of air, strictly in time with the rhythm. His hands come to the back of your head but apply no pressure.

If he let you it would finish here, but he doesn't; he drags you back up to his level again and kisses you deeply. Which is rather open-minded of him if you think about it. Then it's two steps to the bed and you fall back with his hands to guide you down. With a single swooping move, ideally, he removes your pants and underwear, and he sinks into you as his hand sinks down to your pussy. He strokes around the outside until you're wet and once there's wetness he strokes within until you relax open, and very often he keeps stroking after that just to make you writhe and moan and clutch at him. As he did before, it's your duty to stop him and pull him up to your level. You beg to be fucked. He obliges.

And that's the best thing in the world.

There's variations on the theme here, there's room for artistic interpretation. His mouth or hands may be on your breasts again, and your hands may be anywhere or everywhere on his body, from cupped on his face to stroking his balls. There are different positions--anything that allows him to keep thrusting deep inside you hard and fast is permissible--and you may move fluidly between them or stop for a moment and start again with redoubled strength.

You come. God, Jesus, fuck, shit, oh, yes, no, fuck, do you come.

It takes longer and it's less certain, but eventually there comes a point when his pace quickens and everything about him roughens. He thrusts harder and faster until suddenly every muscle in his body tenses and releases and coming he collapses on you. Under you. Wherever.

In the last move, you wrap your arms around one another and lie still.


  1. That is... hot. Wow, that is really hot... Excuse me, I need to go cool off in an ice cold shower...

  2. Bruno needs a dance partner.

    Holly, wanna be my pimp?

  3. I have to agree with Karyn. I am glad I ran into this blog, I might just have to save it.

  4. Matty -Thank you!

    ...Do you really write for Shakesville or is that just a default link?

  5. I'd have enjoyed that more viscerally if I hadn't read it immediately after reading and commenting on the previous post - my fault, not yours.

    A beautiful example of how vanilla most certainly is a flavor, and a delicious one at that.


  6. Sunflower - Hey, he's not a bad guy or a bad fuck--the fact that he screws up sometimes shouldn't taint all the good times.

  7. Well, yeah, mostly he sounds like a really good guy - that's part of why I thought conversing about the issue covered in your earlier post might well be productive. I truly was startled, going by other things you've said about him, that he'd done that.

    A lot of my comment on that post had to do with my own experiences with similar things, rather than with the specific instance you encountered - my apologies if it seemed to reflect on Brandon too much.


  8. I don't write for Shakesville, but I think I found your blog off of there