Sinful Sunday: Giving Head

I wish I could wax eloquently about giving head. I read descriptions from women who love it and I think, “That’s nice for them.” I don’t love doing it except for one thing. I love Mr. Scott’s reaction. It doesn’t give me a sense of power or control. Sometimes it turns me on but mostly I’m concentrating so much on Mr. Scott that I forget about my own satisfaction for those few minutes. (I get plenty of my own satisfaction when I need it and want it.)

I love him. I love that he loves when I give him a blow job. That’s all there is to it.

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Sinful Sunday

 

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See You at the Park

“I’ll be at the southwest corner of the park at a quarter past two this afternoon,” I told him and then hung up before he replied.

By ten past, I’m in my usual spot, sitting on the ground. I admired my legs, stretched out before me, long and tan after the summer of running. The grass smelled sweet and the sun was warm. It was a perfect afternoon to be in the park.

I look up at 2:15. I spot him running along the path in my direction. He’s wearing my favorite t-shirt. I smile. He looks straight ahead.

He’s running fast today, breathing hard. He must have started late. I love that he worked hard to be here on time for me. I watch his leg muscles slide under his skin, pushing him along.

He stops at a bench about five feet away from me, leaning over the back and panting. He looks around, avoiding eye contact with me. He stands up straight and tall and slowly pulls the t-shirt over his head. I watch his arms, his torso, stretched out in front of me.

He drops the t-shirt over the back of the bench. He rests there for another minute then continues running down the path, not as quickly now.

I sit absolutely still until he’s out of sight around the corner then I scramble to my feet and rush to the bench. I pick up the shirt in both hands and lift it to my face, breathing in deeply. I love the smell of him. Sweat and shampoo and whatever it is that makes him smell like him.

I throw the shirt over one shoulder and decide to stroll home slowly, making him wait for me to join him there, taking my time enjoying his scent.

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Sinful Sunday: Roll in the Rolleiflexes

This idea came from a Twitter acquaintance but it’s also the kind of boudoir shot I’d send to Mr. Scott. These are two of his many antique cameras. I took them out for a little fun while he was away.

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Mr. Scott’s text reply was, “Damn!!! Nice work.” (I double-checked to make sure I noted the correct number of exclamation marks.) With two of his favorite things in one shot — boobs and Rolleis — I’m not 100% sure which he was complimenting first. 🙂

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Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: Running with Friends

Several weeks ago I had an exchange with Exhibit A on Twitter. I’d noticed from his tweets that he’d just come back from running and I had just come back from running, too. He sent me a pic of his running shorts because I have a thing for running shorts. I sent him the following pic back just before I got into the shower.

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I love having friends all over the world who sometimes end up going running at the same time as me, an ocean apart.

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Welcome Home

I was sitting on the porch in my pajamas still, drinking coffee and reading the paper (well, one of the newspapers I subscribe to on my Kindle) and my hand absentmindedly brushed my leg. I was surprised to feel a rough patch along the soft flannel. I looked and didn’t see a stain. I racked my brain for a moment. I’d just taken these pajama bottoms out of the dryer last night before bedtime. I hadn’t had a chance to spill anything on them.

Then I remembered.

An early morning blow job.

Mr. Scott came home yesterday after being gone for several weeks. He woke up early this morning from jet lag. I woke up just enough to realize he was awake.

After, as I snuggled up against him, I felt the cool moisture, the patch of flannel sticking to my leg. But I didn’t move away or clean up. We stayed snuggled in, alternating between dozing and kissing, until we heard our daughter wake up.

They’ve gone out now and I’m still sitting on the porch, drinking my coffee and fingering that little rough patch on the flannel and thinking about what’s to come later tonight.

Sculpture Garden

It’s in the middle of the city but I don’t think many people pay it any mind. Tourists seem to not know it exists. It’s a little too far out of the way for most office workers to visit for lunch.

I’ve kept it my secret but I fantasize about meeting you there, in the sculpture garden. I frequently go out of my way to pass it because of the thrill I get thinking of a rendezvous.

In warm weather the shadows are cool and inviting. In rain a black umbrella in a dark corner wouldn’t be noticed by the few passersby rushing by.

The smooth features of the one sculpture that always stops me in my tracks reminds me of a fleshy jumble of limbs.

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For months I passed by at street level, peeking, until one day I had the courage to descend the steps into the garden proper. Like approaching a crush I’d been too timid to talk to.

Over time I felt welcomed. I began exploring other parts of the garden, meeting its other inhabitants. They drew me back time and time again.

My heart raced when I discovered it. A parting in the ivy appears when you look at Rodin’s “Crouching Woman” from a certain angle, revealing a slight path behind the ivy, a secret welcome for lovers. As if the sculptures had been pointing me toward it, once I’d learn to look at them properly.

I think of sneaking in early, at sunrise. Or at dusk. Darkness would be safest. But I also want to be daring,  at that time of morning after the first wave of tourists has walked by and before any workers break for lunch. In the sun. In the heat of the day. We’ll be looking at “Crouching Lady” one moment, pretending to admire it hand-in-hand as we wait for the garden to clear of anyone else, then we’ll slip away behind the ivy.

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Wicked Wednesday: Strangers and Cake

The prompt for this week’s Wicked Wednesday is strangers on a train. My first thought upon seeing the prompt, however, was of some notes I jotted down several years ago inspired by a cable-car ride up the Untersberg in Salzburg. I had fun revisiting those notes.

She was riding the cable car to the top of Untersberg. She traveled alone but the car was full with a tour group of senior citizens. Their guide was a young man who spoke English with a hint of an accent. He also spoke perfect-sounding German. He wasn’t much taller than she, with a shock of white-blond hair. Black-rimmed glasses. Gray sweater with blue striped collar shirt peeking out. Jeans. Black walking shoes. Very studious looking. Distractingly cute.

She didn’t know that much about the area so she tried to eavesdrop on what he told the group. She inched closer to listen. He stopped talking to allow the group some time to admire the mountain view.

Caught up in the view herself, she flinched when she heard a low voice close to her. “You didn’t pay for the tour.” She hadn’t noticed he’d moved next to her. His eyes sparkled blue. He was smiling.

“It’s a small, enclosed space,” she said. “I couldn’t help over hearing.”

“Still,” he said. “I think you owe me something.” She couldn’t believe he was coming on so strongly and in front of all the senior citizens. His smile was genuine, though, lighting up his eyes.

“What did you have in mind?” She turned to face him directly. Her cheeks burned. She was never this forward but she was on vacation and trying new things.

“Coffee later? I’m free after I finish this tour.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know the city well?”

“Well enough to not care how touristy it is, but I want a piece of cake from that place on Mozartplatz.”

He frowned.

“I bet you have to take tour groups there all the time.” She smiled.

“Yes.”

“I’m only here a few days so I’m going back for some cake.”

“How’s this?” he countered. “You buy me a coffee while you eat your cake at an over-priced tourist café, then I decide where to take you for dinner for some real local food. Including cake.”

“You already want to make dinner plans with me?”

“Yes, if you’re only here a few days I have no time to waste.”

“How do you know you like me enough for dinner?”

He shrugged. “I don’t but I’m willing to take the chance. It’s just dinner.”

“And cake.”

“And cake.”

The cable car was docking at the top so he had to turn his attention back to the group. She waited in the back to let the group off first. As she stepped off, he maneuvered through the crowd back to her.

“Kurt,” he said, extending his hand.

“Allie,” she said, shaking it. “Have fun with your friends.” She nodded at the group.

“I’ll meet you at that café as soon as I’m done here.”

Allie hiked across the snow pack beyond the group. She watched Kurt from afar, speaking easily with them, smiling when the women flirted with him, nodding patiently at everyone’s exclamations over the view, answering questions, gently herding them away from getting too close to the edge. He was friendly and forward, good qualities in a tour guide. But he knew absolutely nothing about her. She didn’t believe she was breathtakingly gorgeous enough for guys to hit on her like that.

She wondered how often he used his tour guide job to pick up women traveling through town. The glasses were a nice touch, she thought, attracting a certain type of girl. Attracting her.

The group eventually shuffled through the snow back to the cable car, Kurt making sure everyone boarded safely.

Allie waited for the following cable car. She pulled a book out of her backpack but she couldn’t concentrate on reading. He was coming on very strong and she usually didn’t like that. But something about him seemed genuinely sweet.

Try new things, she reminded herself. I’ll spend an hour with him, eating cake.

“You have a little cream on your face,” Kurt said. “May I?”

Allie looked up from her half-eaten cake and nodded. Kurt’s eyes sparkled, holding her attention. He raised his hand to her face. His thumb pressed to her lips. Impulse took over Allie. She licked his thumb and drew it into her mouth. She sucked the cream off, then released his thumb.

They hastily stood up, dropped some euro on the table, and rushed out the door.

“My hotel is three blocks away,” Allie said, flustered.

“My office is two,” Kurt replied efficiently. They crossed two streets against the lights and crashed into a locked door in an alcove. Allie pushed against Kurt and kissed him deeply while he fumbled with keys from his pocket.

In the dim office Allie saw a couch and rushed for it. She heard the click of the door locking, then Kurt grabbed her from behind. They tumbled onto the couch together.

There was no time for slow, romantic overtures. Allie sat on top of Kurt and pulled her t-shirt over her head then reached for his sweater. He reached around her to unclasp her bra.

“Put your glasses back on,” she said when he’d removed them to take his sweater off.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, then grabbed her tight to flip them over together. They tugged at each other’s jeans.

Naked chest to naked chest, denim-clad legs tangled, Kurt held Allie tight and kissed her hard.

“I’ve never fucked someone I just met,” Allie whispered.

“Still time to change your mind,” Kurt whispered back.

“I want to do it,” she assured him. “I’m ready when you are.”

“You taste like sweet cream,” he replied, kissing her again and sliding into her. She moaned and bit his lip gently.

Later, Allie awoke from a light doze. Kurt’s body on hers warmed her. She touched his naked back. It was cool from the sweat. He mumbled something in German before fully waking.

“What was that?” she asked.

He raised his head slightly and adjusted his glasses.

“Does this mean you’ll have dinner with me?”

“Well, I never did get to finish my cake.”

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