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Kind readers, unless you’ve read the story “Thursday Night Bad Movie Club”, the following doodle won’t make as much sense.
Miranda Kane looked like a bird but she moved like water.
She was girl-tall at about six foot even, slender and slightly pale, with a long narrow face. The only things on her to break up the lean geometry were her small very round bubble butt and a topping of ultra thick black hair, perpetually messy and comical. Standing still, particularly when she was pissed off with her hands on her hips and face flushed pink, she resembled a sort of sexy goofy pelican.
When moving, though, she looked just lovely. All smooth and feminine, her long long legs and arms looked like slow motion, like honey when she traveled, down the hall, up the stairs, wherever. A stern face and a tall sexy walk. Not every boy finds this intoxicating, but enough did.
Not every minute, not every day even, but sometimes she thinks about the dirtiest things imaginable.
She is not thinking up romantic fantasies, she is not thinking about the soft lensed crap on Cinemax or in Cosmo. She thinks, sometimes, about the most twisted hardcore in the world. Mindless, stupid sex. Violent, abusive, perverted. The good stuff.
Here is a hint to you boy readers out there: maybe it’s not a majority of girls, but there are way more of us than you think. Girls that think about the most horrible demeaning pornographic shit in the universe, far richer and more creative than you ever thought of. Not all of us. But we probably number in the hundreds of thousands, millions maybe.
And why don’t we talk more about it? Why don’t we tell you naughty boys the real, real deep dark fantasies we have? The things we want to do to you? The things we want done to us?
Because we pretty much assume you’ll fuck it up. Bumble it, look stupid. And then we’ll get embarrassed. We don’t tell you these fantasies because we either don’t want you to think we’re gross and intimidating if we have Dom thoughts, or we don’t want you to think that just because we have Sub thoughts that we want to be treated that way all the time.
Miranda is an engineering director at a great big huge company where my husband works. She is a true BSEE/MSEE engineer, and her day is filled with nerdy engineers (a couple of whom love her, but most just respect her as a boss) doing their engineering things. She is a real person, and there is nothing about her that is artsy farsty, nothing that would compel her to write anything about herself. She is not that kind of person.
So without, really, her permission, I will tell you about her.
She is one of my best friends, and we do volunteer work together and go shopping in the city (Chicago). When we do that stuff together we are just giggling girls, in our late thirties both of us. When handing out passes to the suburban art fair, or eating Ethiopian food at a café in the city, certain things do not get mentioned.
Like that she has had a squealing bucking orgasm on my tongue and lips while she was bound and spanked by my husband.
Or the time when she was kissing my face, mouth, with Arthur’s come on her lips, her hot breath, while a different guy was fucking me upside down and Arthur took pictures.
You might say that she and I have shared some close moments.
But, you know, that stuff just doesn’t come up when you’re handing out passes to the art fair, not even as a joke, not even a word or a wink. It’s all kept down in the rabbit hole.
She was over at our place about three weeks ago while both our husbands were gone. Her husband (an engineer, like her but not at the big company she and Arthur work at) went back to Texas to visit family that she despised, and Arthur was gone to Sao Paulo on business.
It was not a perverted adventure – she and I never talked about that stuff except for the meetings of the Thursday night bad movie club. She just came over because she was bored, and she is an extroverted girl and hates being by her self.
I made oysters Rockefeller and a big chunky thing of bread in the old bread machine and we drank too much white wine. So, being that I am made of mischief I switched her to a couple of potent Tom Collins. I wasn’t trying, maybe, to get into her pants, but my own head was light from canlı bahis the wine and I just thought it would be fun to get her good and tanked because I am a little devil like that.
She hates to be alone. But she is not talkative, not very reflective and I am reflective all the time, can never turn it off. I wanted to see if I could loosen her tongue a bit.
Boy, I sure did.
She just started talking all kinds of stuff.
Outside there on our deck, it was one of the last truly hot nights of summer. Hot for Illinois, anyway. Maybe in the low eighties and the air pressure was high and windless.
We were smoking, something her husband doesn’t let her do, or makes her go out in the garage. She had her second Tom Collins held loosely in her hand, propped on her chest, making a wet spot, and she was sprawled out on the chaise thing, she just looked too long and thin to be real to me, because I am so short and round.
This is so stupid – I am not a dyke I am not a dyke I am NOT.
I started rubbing her feet, long and silvery like fish you might see at the surface of a pond with the moon out like tonight it was.
Talk talk talk she did! More than I ever heard her. About work, about her husband, about work, about her brother in Atlanta. Chatty chatty Miranda she was as I kept rubbing her feet. She did not say anything about me rubbing her feet, but she moved them so I could rub them better. I am just such a sub. Wanting to rub her feet, happy that she moved them a little so I could do it better.
So not like her to talk and talk. She is a corporate director and I am just a housewife, but we were still friends.
Then she sighs, while I am rub rub rubbing. And she says, all dreamy, something that just kills me. She says, “Max, did you ever want to fuck your dad?”
In a word, no.
I think it’s just sexy as hell that she is thinking that, saying that, while I am rubbing her feetsies. Makes me want her, want something. So, being that I am an imp, I lie and say “Oh yes…you too?”
“Sometimes,” she says kind of teasing herself now.
I just keep doing her long slender feet, but I am rubbing them lighter now, to tease her skin, not to quite tickle her but to brush her soft skin instead of push at her muscle and bone.
“When you fuck Arthur,” she says, “what do you fantasize about?” she is asking, she is slowly hugging herself now, and then runs her hands through her thicket of black hair.
I stop rubbing her feet and move around the back of the chaise and start rubbing her shoulders. She does not acknowledge that I do this, but she does not resist. Her bones feels as light as air.
I put my mouth closer to her ear and just lie like hell, just to see what she will say. I say “I think about daddy.” I say it like this: daaaaaadeeee, really soft and distant.
“Oooooh,” she sighs immediately, luxuriously, “so do I.”
Now I am getting hot and bothered. Not by daddy. By Miranda. I am just not thinking straight at all.
She takes a long drag off of the cigarette that I gave her. Her husband knows she is allowed to smoke here, and he doesn’t like it. They are girly ones, ultra light menthol extra long ones, as long and light as her.
I do something risky, well kind of risky I guess. I push her forward in the chaise a little bit and I sort of work my way into it behind her, so that her long straight back is resting against my boobs and tummy. Again she says nothing, doesn’t acknowledge what I’m doing, but doesn’t resist.
I am spooning her now, from behind, and her head is resting between my boobs. I am playing with her thick hair now, and starting to rub her neck and shoulders.
“Do you think I’m a pervert?” she says softly.
“No, baby,” I lie. She’s a pervert all right. Oh hell yes. “When’s the first time you ever thought about doing your dad?” I say this, trying to blank out the thought of my old fat father, jovial and sexless to me, long gone now.
“Whenever he would spank me.”
Ooooh, why do our minds work like this? I am not thinking about my dad but I am picturing her dad, spanking me, fucking me. He would be tall and lean like Miranda, is how I picture this.
“He would spank me bare assed and bahis siteleri I would cry,” she was mumbling now, as my hands moved from caressing her shoulders and I just put them around her neck and bosom, just holding my hands there.
“I didn’t get spanked very often; he wasn’t that mean or strict. He didn’t even spank me very hard. But whenever I would get spanked I would go up to my room and feel myself up. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No sweetie,” I said, my cheek moving against hers now.
I am NOT a dyke. I am girly and wear skirts and dresses and never wear pants and hate dykey girls and loved getting fucked by boys. I am rubbing my cheek against hers now, her skin is warm and flushed and it’s crazy but I am getting warm as hell down there under my skirt. I am such a dyke.
Miranda is a girl, but she’s a girl-engineer. I do not really know what goes on in her head, cannot speak for her. But I can tell you what she did.
She leaned forward away from me and got up out of the chaise, and I thought the moment was broken, that I’d stepped over some line (outside the rabbit hole, that is). She got up abruptly and my heart was sinking with disappointment and embarrassment.
Miranda was standing over me then, looking down at me and she is so tall and thin, and she extends her hand to me, and I take it and she is sort of jerking me onto my feet. She firmly pulls me over to our little steel and plastic deck table and pushes my head down on it.
“Who needs a spanking?” She says. Sudden and stern.
“I do?” I say meekly.
She has her long hand on the back of my neck and the other is pulling up my skirt, and then pulling down my underpants down to my knees. I feel warm air on my warm pussy and this is going so fast all of a sudden.
I yelp a little at the first smack of her hand on my butt. It is not the hardest smack I’ve taken, but there is some fire in it.
For a skinny girl she is working up to a good tempo.
“Do you love your daddy?” she barks?
“Yes ma’am” I yip.
“Say yes sir!” A good smack punctuating her remark.
“Yes sir!” I sort of squeal. My butt is now starting to get red, kind of pulse in time with my pussy.
“If you love your daddy you’d drop your stupid panties.”
And I she lets off my neck so that I can stand up for a second and push down my underpants and step out of them. She pushes my head down again on the table and without asking I spread my feet wider apart. She is starting to slow the tempo of her smacks, but not the force. Her hand is starting to linger, lower and slower, and sweeter, in between the stings, finding her way closer to my damp center.
Girl’s pussies are no smarter than boy’s cocks. When we are thinking with our pussies, we’d just do about anything you wanted. You just have to know how to get there. Sometimes you’re all such dumb asses. Sometimes you get it right though.
She suddenly stops, stops spanking me. I hear her breathing heavy, exhausted, more than me, and I turn around and she has slid down to her knees. Looking downward. Now – for a moment – I am taller than her even though my butt is rosy red and throbbing, itchy.
She is temporarily still and silent, there and I will not waste this moment because now, ladies and gentlemen, I am definitely thinking with my pussy instead of my heart or my brain.
I push her down onto the deck and I am on top of her – a head shorter but maybe thirty pounds heavier, and I am pinning her shoulders to the deck there, straddling her.
“I am a good girl, I promise to be a good girl,” she is muttering, softly and inwardly, sing-song.
“Oh yes baby you are,” I say, and I am kissing her neck and cheek, hot and spitty now. I am so fucking pumped up! I so want her! She is not resisting at all, she turns her head to offer the other side of her neck and I am on it with my mouth, generous and shameless.
When I let my hands off her forearms I just pull open her blouse, popping the buttons off of them, and she languidly puts her arms over her head, submitting. Yes! Sweet! A girl is submitting to me and I just love this feeling. I know why boys jack off to this fantasy – of a girl submitting.
I have my mouth running across her small bahis şirketleri high set breasts now and she is moaning, wanting me. She has tiny long nipples and they are not like mine at all (big fat happy cow nipples I have) except that by now all four out there are as hard as little rocks. Cool! Cool too, to put my hands on the buttons of her skirt while she lays back, waiting for me to do it, how she arched her butt up off the deck so I could pull her skirt down and off. And her tiny (wet! yes!) blue cotton underpants.
It was that moment, with her panties slipped off her silvery feet and she let me push her legs apart and move up…that was a moment all right. Different from the rabbit hole, where all of us, really, were just submitting to a scene, to a place. This was a woman that so wanted me to put my mouth and hands on her while she thought god knows what about her father. Daddy, daddy, daddy. I don’t have those thoughts, but was getting off on her admitting that she did. Don’t think – don’t reflect – just do it do it do it bitch.
Oh I did her all right. I’m always a pleaser. I put my mouth and hands on her for maybe an hour. Luscious and slow and then fast and then whatever. I’d stop and ask her “Who’s daddy’s girl? Who’s daddy’s favorite?”
“I am,” she moaned, and moaned lower, “I’m a good girl, and I’m daddy’s girl.”
Girl head ROCKS all right – particularly when I’m doing it. After the third wave of orgasm (one big, one little, another big) she slowed, breathing heavy, slowed again, and was asleep. Like salmon and spit and her hair so to cool taste – that’s what was on my breath.
Ha! I put the bitch to sleep! I just wanted to yell this at the world, brag like a boy to his buddies, but didn’t on account of I was on my back yard deck and someone might have heard me. Instead, I just crawled on top of her, while she slept, and did myself with one hand around her neck and my other up inside me. It took the edge off, but it wasn’t huge. Still, I was terribly pleased with myself, making my girlfriend come over and over.
She woke up, pretty much naked on my deck about an hour later. I was smoking there, sitting on a chair, just spacing out, watching her sleep.
She woke up and her hangover was setting in. She was a tired girl, and not in so good a shape after I totally fucked her up with alcohol and food and cigarettes and my mouth and hands. I fed her three aspirin and a Tums and made her drink a large glass of water. Then I walked her up the guest room, and fell asleep beside her.
I woke up alone in bed at around 7:00 AM. Something smelled good – good and starchy and I walked downstairs in a long t-shirt nighty thing and she was there in my kitchen. She’d made coffee and had re-toasted the leftover bread strip things from last night in the oven, dressing them with honey and butter.
She looked at me with a kind of look I’d never seen from her. A kind of shy, embarrassed look.
“I, um, owe you one,” she muttered, almost smirking, as she pushed a cup of coffee and a little plate of warm bread at me.
“Yes you doooooo,” I said.
“Max I can’t even say it.”
“Not even in the rabbit hole, can we talk about….”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“Don’t say anything, baby,” I said, touching her arm.
“I just have to say thank you.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Like this,” she said, dropping to the floor, her hands around my big round butt and face up under my nighty, suddenly, a sharp long wet tongue hit *that* spot on the first try. First try! – she hit that button and I closed my eyes. I felt her hands, lips, and started to feel nothing other than my pussy and clit. And butt. And tits. And pussy.
“Eeek” I might have said, putting my hands down into her black thick hair.
And when I woke up later on the living room floor, it was 9:37 AM, the house empty now, and I could still smell her breath, her perfume, on my pussy, my body.
Miranda put that bitch to sleep, she did.
The next day I received a bouquet at the house, a wild, modern setup of tiger lilies and orchids and some tall stalks of grass in a long clear thin vase. No card, no comment.
She got this from me – the same day – a dark bowl stocked with a profusion of low cut purple African violets, dense with greenery and low thick ferns.
My gift was unsigned too.
I rely on words all the time, but sometimes you realize if you say anything at all you’ll just fuck it up.
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