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| Blogs > rm_rakehell500 > Rakehell for the Heck of It |
S Strikes Again
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S Strikes Again I have a history with the letter S. More so than any other letter in the alphabet. Two of my wives had names that started with S, Sarah and Sally (even worse, Sally is an old nickname for women named Sarah). My first long term relationship was Suzy in college, a Eurasian graduate student who resembled Nancy Kwan, who played the lead in The World of Suzy Wong. Granted, my first wife was Angelique, not an S in her name anywhere even after we married. Not an S between us and only one tiny one in our 's middle name right at the end --- Yves. But S has played a bigger role than it should in my sex life: Sharon, Susan, Sue, Sandra, Sandy, Sam(antha), and now ... Sheila. Sheila is the attractive lady of a certain age who I mentioned in an earlier post showed up on my doorstep with offers of gratitude in the physical form for my somewhat dubious brush with heroism --- the moral kind anyway. Sheila. Hmm, how to describe her? Physically blonde, green eyes, attractive. Mentally --- uh, well, mentally --- basically my standard, big mouth, total extrovert, no censor on her mouth (verbally or sexually), a screamer, wild in bed, loves sex, big tits she doesn't mind displaying in low cut tops, long legs she doesn't mind displaying, hates to admit she's vulnerable ... she is over a decade younger which is new, but she's pretty much my type, too much jewelry, dresses better than she has to, her own sense of style, doesn't know what shy means, can't get along with her mother, loves animals, said she would sleep with me the first time I met her ... That was four years ago. She was in a relationship of the tempestuous kind. It's been off an on because he needed her, heart surgery and diabetic problems, plus he is an ex con struggling to pay back his considerable court cost even though he honestly didn't commit the crime. A nice guy, but prison really screwed him up plus he's racist which she can't stand, impotent, and so touchy he is only friendly with a few of us. But now its over. She's waiting to get out and he's resigned to it. He's mad at her, knows she likes me, but he and I are still friends. Yeah, weird. I tend to do weird. Yesterday she came over again. "Could I use your tub?" Their place doesn't have a tub. Their place barely has a place, it's more a bunker with two doors and a few windows than a house. Of course she could use the tub, no strings, no mention of last week. No pressure, no come on. Okay, I'm a mensch, and an idiot. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe she regrets what happened. Maybe I wouldn't recognize a pass now if Western Union delivered it. "Could I use your tub?" Well, I am nearsighted. So she disappears in the bathroom, such as it is, and I hear the water on, and I am sitting on the side of the bed at my portable desk on this laptop avoiding working on my book, and more than a little distracted by the nearness of a naked woman so close and so far, and a desirable one at that. I'm trying to avoid thinking about that. I was laying around the house in white bike shorts and any bulge is going to be notable not to mention wet spots. Other guys try to recite baseball statistics at times like these or do math. I count in French. My sexy first wife was French. It doesn't work worth a damn. And then that familiar call. Women have a certain way of calling a man to arms. I hear that voice in my sleep. It's usually prefaced by "Honey, could you come here for a minute ..." No matter how high pitched their voice it drops about an octave, becomes throaty, a touch whiskey soaked, suddenly they all sound like Elizabeth Ashley with a head cold. Books of the sort I write use the word "husky" usually "with desire" or in racier books "with lust." She's a little husky anyway (another pretty common denominator in my life --- sue me, I'm aural). "________, can you come here for a minute ..." I did not run. I stood up slowly. She could just need help adjusting the temperature of the water. Maybe she needed a towel. Maybe she had soap in her eye. Maybe celibacy has made me a total moron. The door wasn't locked. I pushed it in. She's in the tub and the glass doors pretty much obscure the interesting parts. "Over here," she said. The treasonous dictatorial bastard in those too tight bike shorts is unfurling his serpentine hood (got that from a women's romance novel aka soft porn), I have an erection, or about two thirds of one if you want to be graphic. Maybe she won't notice. It's only about at the seven inch range so far. "Can you come here?" I don't walk in backwards. I think of it, but I don't. Nice and casual. Why make this easy by stripping off and just diving in. I walk forward. Gradually I see more. No strategic wash cloth. She is casually sitting in my tub, no bubbles. She has large breasts with large nipples, dark and right now rigid for a woman in a warm tub. I recall pleasurable details. Why is it women love to torture guys? Well, why not? As George Carlin said, women are all crazy and men are all stupid, and women are crazy because men are stupid ... An erection, even a large cock, shouldn't really draw all that much blood from your brain, but it does. You think anger makes you stupid you should try an erection. My balls ache too. Never a good sign. In older men they don't tighten as much as the used to with an erection. Mine are hard as pool balls, and feel about that size. So here I stand, my now close to eight inch, pushing 100% erection is edging up to the elastic band of my bike shorts. At this point I am cursing myself for buying white and not black. There is a wet spot I feel, but don't dare look at. She is leaning forward face to balls so to speak. One hand raises slowly, dripping water and soap, and she cups my balls and cocks. "Oh, I've gotten you wet." I'm pretty sure it's mutual, but I don't say it. "You should get those off, you feel feverish." It's a wonder her hand isn't steaming. She reaches with both hands under my tee shirt and slides fingers under the elastic. The shorts hang for a eon or two on the erection inside them and then slide off pulling it down and then springing up. It's just short of nine inches now, wide head, lips open with a worm of pre cum trying to escape. "Maybe you should join me," she says cupping my balls. "That looks painful." To be continued.  Lust brings you together, love keeps you there, sex keeps the mechanism lubricated.  |
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I'll look forward to!  Lust brings you together, love keeps you there, sex keeps the mechanism lubricated.
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mmm you have me intrigued now! You do have a lot of S ladies in your life.. Why your life is exciting. hugssssssss V Lust brings you together, love keeps you there, sex keeps the mechanism lubricated.
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mmm you have me intrigued now! You do have a lot of S ladies in your life.. Why your life is exciting. hugssssssss V Become a blog watcher sweet_vm
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I'm a professional writer. We'll do anything to get a reader to read part two. The good part is to come tomorrow. WITHOUT PASSION LIFE IS NOTHING
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Thank you. Not much enhancement here from the actual situation, but writers can't help but cast even the truth in a dramatic story structure. Part two tomorrow. Lust brings you together, love keeps you there, sex keeps the mechanism lubricated.
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I was actually enjoying myself until I've got to the part that said "To be continued" The good part is to come tomorrow. Lust brings you together, love keeps you there, sex keeps the mechanism lubricated.
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I was actually enjoying myself until I've got to the part that said "To be continued" WITHOUT PASSION LIFE IS NOTHING
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