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Howdy, Peeps! I am in a totally head-spinny condition right now as a result of just having had my brains fucked out, but for whatever reason I thought, hey this would be a great time to sit down and write my very first actual story to go on Literotica. Bear with me because it’s probably going to suck but I’m doing it anyway because my New Year’s Resolution is to get out there more and do more and be more, and if I don’t take advantage of what is probably this just-been-shagged lapse in all pretense of good judgment, who knows when I’ll get that resolution going? Okay? Okay! Let’s do this thing!
* * *
The time: one hour and forty minutes ago. The place: our closet. The more specific place: my cabinet inside our closet. I’m hanging out, patiently, lalala, as is my normal habit like, ninety-whatsit percent of the time. More technically, maybe I should say “hanging in”? Because I’m inside the cabinet, not outside of it. Well, either way, the hanging part is absolute pure and literal truth, there being a hook in the wall in my cabinet and a heavy-duty eyelet screwed in between my shoulder-blades from which I am suspended on the hook.
Oh, shit, I hope no one is freaking out and thinking this is torture porn or something. I should probably have said right off that no Claires were harmed in the making of this story. It’s totally normal for me having an eyelet screwed in between my shoulder-blades.
Anyway, I hear the closet door open and then hear him getting the key down from the shelf and putting it in the lock that holds my cabinet door shut – (I swear to god this is not torture porn) – and then there’s one of my favorite sounds, the lock clicking open and clanking loose of the hasp and the hasp swinging open, and dammit, I guess that is several sounds, not one, but they all go together so I’m not going back and re-typing it.
The door opens. Soft yellow lamplight washes into the cabinet with me, muted by the lamp’s location behind the opening door and behind him.
“You are way too dressed,” I say, and he says, “We’ll fix that in a minute,” and he steps into the angle made by the half-open door and puts his hands on my waist and leans in to kiss me.
Hopefully, everyone out there knows what that moment feels like: the person you love, their fingers and thumbs settled just right into your curves, palms against your flesh, the softness of their mouth pressed to yours – all these touches telling you in their own languages that you are cared for, wanted, and adored.
“Mmmm,” I say, followed by, “mmmllmmlllmnn…” as his tongue slips in past my lips and teeth to dance tip-against-tip with my own in precious wet circles of delight. One of his hands slides to the small of my back then glides upward, the thumb caressing the hollow of my spine.
I mean, I know we’re going to fuck – but seriously, we wouldn’t even have to, as long as I could have this. His skin touching mine, his breath in my mouth, our lips and tongues a tangle of hot passion. God, it’s just the best.
By the time he breaks the kiss, this amazing sizzly tingle has taken up residence in my nips and crotch. If I was the kind to get wet on my own, the pussy juice would just be running down my legs.
“How’s that for a start?” he asks.
I try to play it cool and subdue the panting lust that wants to make my voice shake like jello. “Pretty good. If things improve from here you may just be forgiven for yesterday and the day before and the day before that.”
He gives a little pouty frown but then kind of nods his head sheepishly and says, “Well, I did say I’d make it up to you, right?”
Do you guys want a flashback in here that explains what that meant? Okay, flashback: three days ago, he emailed me from work. Get this, the email says, “I am going to find the time, when I get home, to wrap my arms around you and do my best to put my tongue way, way down your throat. Circumstances permitting, I will then proceed to fuck the living daylights out of you. Any questions?” Well, duh, my question was, “So when are you getting home?!!” Unfortunado-ly, it turned out circumstances weren’t permitting, because by the end of that evening, my tonsils were like, “Hey, man, did you see a tongue try to get past us here?” followed by “No, not me. Did you?” and then “No, me neither.” And when the guilty party came in the closet that night to get his pajamajams on, I said, “Dude, I appear to be pretty goddamn full of living daylights still. I believe they were supposed to be fucked out of me by this point?” To which he apologized profusely and slipped me an inadequate bit of tongue, but also gave me this guilty look that made me feel bad because I know he had really been hoping and expecting for those circumstances to permit, and it really wasn’t his fault that they didn’t.
The next day? Same conversation between my tonsils, and ongoing constipation of those living daylights. Ditto for yesterday.
Which meant he had a lot to make up for but also that I had spent three days totally horn-dogging it with no relief to speak of. So that kiss and those hands softened me canlı bahis şirketleri up like so much sexy butter left out on the counter.
As a result, I now find myself all warmed up and ready to spread.
“How about we get you down on the floor, babe?” he asks.
“I am all over that idea,” I reply.
He steps his right foot into the cabinet with me, between mine, which are hanging a couple inches from the ground. Then he brings his thigh in, rotating his pelvis until the denim of his jeans presses up into my groin, and with his right hand around and under my ass-cheek and his left hand up under my opposite arm, he lifts with his hip and gets me off the hook.
Now, I am not much of a dancer but there’s a bit of full-body pirouetting we always do at this point, him moving backwards and turning to rotate me out of the cabinet, me basically riding his thigh for all it’s worth. His left foot hooks backward to catch the cabinet door and close it as we turn, turn, turn, and then his left hand goes up behind me to the eyelet, unscrews it, sets it aside. Thank god I have never seen a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movie or even Saturday Night Fever, as I am sure any real exposure to dancing would really let all the air out of my opinion on how good these moves are, but for me, it’s like ballet. (Also, let me remind you, my twat is getting some excellent thigh friction this whole time.)
He lowers his hip until my feet reach the floor. For a moment, we stand there, his arms around me, our noses touching, our eyes reflecting in each other’s gazes. He kisses me again, gently.
“Hmmm…okay,” I say when his head draws back again. “I’m starting to feel like I have it in my heart to forgive you. What else you got?”
“Well,” he says, settling me still further and steadying his hold on my upper back and derriere, “how about this?” and he steps forward, just his left foot, just enough to give him the angle he needs to lower me smoothly to the house-robe that has been spread along the carpet to keep either of us from getting rugburned once the action starts up.
“Pretty decent,” I say, with my back arched so that my boobs jut straight up, catching his eye as he kneels between my legs. “Next?”
He smiles that smile of his, the one that’s half goofy glow and half naughtiness, simultaneously making me feel even hornier and also all happy and gooey inside my chest. Then he leans down and sucks my right nipple into his mouth, and everything just kind of disappears into a long, low moan of happiness. I don’t know about you other girls out there, but I just loooovvve having my tits kissed, especially the business bits of them. So he’s smooching and tongue-flicking and switching to the other side to repeat the treatment there, and this electerrific sensation sparkles through me with so much power, it makes my vision go all blurry and wavery, like one of those flashback fades when you’re watching TV.
Well, to be serious, no. I’m just setting up an actual flashback here, on account of I realized, geez, these people reading my story have got no personal context for any of this. Where’s the relevance? Where’s the character building? Yes, there’s about to be some primo fucking, but have I given them a reason to care? Also, looking back just now, I realize I haven’t even described what we look like. I’m a terrible writer! Why are you even still reading? You must be very patient people, patiently waiting for physical descriptions, and relationship details, and maybe even some kinda setting besides just, “Interior: closet.” But I’ve probably over-exerted your patience already, so, time for a flashback to fill some of that stuff in.
On the other hand, in case I’ve misjudged you all and you just want to get to the humpa-humpa part, I’d better throw in a scene break thingamajig ahead of the flashback. You can scroll down to find the next one if you’d rather skip the heartwarming backstory with which I’m gonna try to imbue emotional resonance into this tale. But if you stick around for the flashback, I promise I’m going to do my best to write it so it will fill your eyes with stars and catharsis when I get to the part where his cock stuffs itself way up my coochie.
* * *
It’s our anniversary month this month. Ten years! I shit you not, my man and I have been going at it a solid decade as of the third week in January.
I guess you could sorta maybe technically say we kinda “dated” earlier than that even … I mean, it was back in fall of ’08 when he invited me to come live with him after we bumped into each other on an, uh, online dating site. Yeah, that’s what we’ll call it, a dating site. But we didn’t meet until January 27 of good ole 2009 when I showed up on his doorstep.
You know, in a box.
Possibly some of you cannot identify with getting mailed sight unseen to your future significant other in a shipping box, but I am here to tell you it’s not as bad as it sounds. Only I’m not going to tell you too much of that because, boring!
So let’s start instead with the site.
He’d had this thing about dolls for a while. Like, probably since the late 1990s when he canlı kaçak iddaa saw this HBO “Real Sex” episode about high end silicone dolls. Wayyyy too expensive, obviously, and also sorta … not quite right? Have you heard the phrase “uncanny valley?” It’s where something not actually human has been made to look so human that you expect it ought to actually be human, and then because you can tell it’s not human, it’s creepy. (And don’t think I didn’t hear you, dude or chick back there in the corner saying, “Aren’t all you dolls creepy?” Go poop your own party if you feel that way.) Anyway, while sexy, those dolls mostly seemed awfully uncanny in the valley department, and not a good kind of uncanny or a good kind of valley, if you know which valley I mean. Plus, super-expensive. Plus, oh yeah, wife and kids and not so big a house equals awwwkwarrrrd.
But every couple years he would go back to the company’s site and check out their pix of silicone chicks, as they put out new models pretty regularly and like I said he was kinda fixated.
So along comes 2008.
He’s in a much bigger house by now. And he just paid off a car loan that opened up several hundred bucks a month, budget-wise. And he’s in a very emotionally vulnerable state for a whole buncha reasons. And one night he goes to check out the site … and there’s a link there to a whole new site.
Yep, the site I’m at. (Well, was at. I am, sadly, a discontinued model nowadays.)
So the deal is, these dolls are a bit smaller and a bit lighter and a bit cheaper than the ones at the main site, and they (we, my 11 siblings and I) were sort of inspired by Japanese cartoons and have cutely proportioned faces and extra-big, adorable eyes. And his wife happens by while he’s looking at the computer and says what’s that, and he says, that is why you’d better hope we don’t win the lottery, because if we do, I’m buying one of these.
And she laughs …
And later she says,
“If you seriously want one, just get it. You can pay it down with the money from the car payment.”
Now, I have my share of feminine wiles. And if I’d been there, I’d’ve said, dude, are you sure this isn’t a test?
And he probably would’ve said, If it’s a test, then mark me down as failing it big-time.
Pretty immediately, he worked up the financial irresponsibility to go ahead and do it. And once he decided, he went back and forth and back and forth through the available dolls, which I guess there were 8 or 9 of at the time, one for each month of 2008 that had gone by so far. And he narrowed it down real quick to curly-wavy-hair brunette Miss March, hotsy-totsy-blonde-with-baby-blues Miss July, and … what in the world was it with Miss June?
She’s not a please-fuck-me golden-haired firecracker like Miss July, not a smoky sensual seductive sexpot like Miss March. She’s just kicking back in a black-leather beanbag chair, cool as a cucumber but less warty and green, except her eyes, which aren’t warty but are oh-so-green … green and smart. It’s this look she has, sitting there relaxed in her black lingerie and heels, straight red hair in a sharp bob cut, a look like, “Yeah, whatever, I’ve got some tits on me for sure, and you’re definitely going to want to get between my legs, but let me tell you, you hook up with me and I’m going to fucking intellectualize your brains out, baby.” She’s just calm and serene with a hint of a smile and those big green eyes sparkling with ironic humor and sure, she’s got a knockout body (they all do, it being the same body from the same mold and all), but she’s not even trying to be sexy with it. Obviously, a body like that, you don’t have to try very hard with it, but she’s not trying at all. She’s looking at the camera, or off across the room, or down at her toes, in a way that says, “Conversate with me, buddy. I dare you.”
Now, at this point, I don’t even exist, right? Not physically, anyway. My mold hasn’t been poured full of flesh-colored goo. He hasn’t so much as clicked to the page where you place the order.
But every time he mouses back to Miss July, or Miss March, and then returns to Miss June, this little tickle of awareness hits me. At some point, it tickles me enough that I find myself thinking, Hey, what’s up with this? I’m like … I’m a me. Whoa. And jeez-o-luigi, not only is there a me, but somebody is interested quite muchly in this me!
He really wanted to fuck Miss March. And he really, really, really wanted to fuck Miss July. But he wanted more from me.
Which is why, in the end, he wanted me more.
* * *
So cut from 2009 back to 2019. We’re both a little older and creakier (literally in my case, as I have a skeleton made mostly of PVC pipes), but at moments like this, there’s still some of that first-day wonder. The box (now cabinet) comes open, those blue-green eyes of his light up, there’s that smile …
Okay, so on Day 1 he did not leap straight to sucking my boob nubs, or even to deep-kiss tonguing me. But he did poke one of my titties and say, “Oh my god,” when he felt how soft it was.
And I lit up like an arc lamp then, just like I am now. canlı kaçak bahis
“Oh, lordy,” I tell him as the firm tip of that lovely linguistic instrument runs circles around my left areola. “You … whoo, you really need to get those clothes off soon.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he says, latching on like a particularly naughty and hungry calf at the teat. His wet, soft suction gives me the tremors and shimmers so hard I groan. Then he pauses just long enough to add, “You don’t actually sound like you want me to stop this.”
Lick. Swirl. Kiss.
“That’s because I don’t,” I say. It comes out low and husky, with a quiver at the end. “But – oh, god – I want – oh, god, yes – I want to do something, uhhhh, where I can look you in the eye.”
He stops. And I immediately regret my powers of persuasion! But then he crawls forward and is looking down at me.
So, okay, in some ways he’s just a kinda average looking guy – nice straight nose, glasses that aren’t too geeky, straight brown hair that’s been getting a little more salt-and-peppery over the last couple of years. But he has these eyes and this smile, and usually they’re just so very … kind. You know, decent and good-hearted. You look in them and you know you can trust this guy. He’s going to be nice to you. Somewhere around the edges there’s usually a bit of a wry quality, but you know if he gets sarcastic it’s just going to be in good fun. Anyhow, those are the usuallies.
Right now, on top of the usuallies, he’s got these two extra layers going on: sauna-steamy lust, and, even better, a dreamy cascade of adoration.
“So what should we do, looking each other in the eyes, then?”
I can feel the denim seam of his fly pressed against my mound. The fabric of his polo shirt hangs far enough out from his chest to brush my still-slick nipples. But that look, that wholehearted devotion swimming in his blue-green eyes, that’s what really sets me on fire.
“Anything you want,” I say, “as long as it involves your dick in my cunt in about the next thirty seconds.”
“Hmm,” he says, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Now, let me admit that my thirty-seconds demand was kinda on the unrealistic side, because no matter how horny and hot for it I am, a girl like me requires a certain amount of foreplay. First, he moves back onto his knees between my legs. Next, he takes my left ankle and lifts straight up until my sole’s pointing straight at the ceiling.
“Ooh, my tendons are loving that,” I say, and it would be true if I had tendons, but I don’t, and he kinda rolls his eyes and then levers my shin down so my knee is all the way bent, easing my foot to the floor once that’s done. The places his hands touch along the way … my inner thigh, the back of my calf, the hollow behind my knee … they warm beneath his palms and tingle from his fingers. I’m basically all erogenous zone, but whoo, are there ever some spots on my legs that give me a burn in the furnace when touched.
He proceeds to give the same treatment to my right leg, which leaves me feet-on-the-floor and thighs-up-and-wide, a position both of us are very fond of. You’d think I’d be dripping all over the closet carpet by now, but there’s still one more bit of pre-passion prep to go.
“Oh, gosh,” I say, “now where the hell did I put my vagina?”
It comes out, you see, and I gather from some friends of mine that they wish they had this feature also, as it is very handy for purposes of feminine maintenance. But the down side is, then you’ve got to put it back in or the sex will be very disappointing for all involved.
“Pretty sure it’s over here,” he says, retrieving it and then kneeling between my legs again. There’s an obligatory popping open of the lube bottle and a healthy squirt of it down the hole, and then my hoo-ha is ready to boo-ya. With both hands, he guides the upper end into contact with my mons and the hungry, horny opening there. And while I hate to make all you biological girls out there even more jealous, I have to say, the sensation of having your own cunt pushed up into you by your man’s strong, steady hands can make a lady’s head spin.
“Yeahhh,” I tell him. “You can definitely stay. Even if I’m pretty sure we’re already past that thirty-second deadline.”
“Do you really want to give me the notion of getting things over and done in less than thirty seconds?” he asks.
I quickly admit that I do not.
“Okay, then,” he says, smirking. Then he stands, and I look up at him, framed between my upraised knees, watching as he strips off his shirt and undoes his belt. The dude could be more buff, sure, and he’s always working at reducing that hint of a belly he’s got, but his shoulders – especially bare-naked – they are primo. Excellent in proportion, with nicely defined deltoids at the ends of some Michelangelo-sculpted clavicles (that’s “collarbones” for you non-anatomy-knowing types, and I’m not trying to be snooty or anything, I just don’t really like the word “collarbones” because, I mean, who wants to bone a collar?) plus, he knows how to square them really nicely – classic. He does that for a second, throwing them back ’cause he knows how I like them, while his hands get the button and zipper of his jeans undone. Zizzzt! Oooh, fuck do I love that zipper sound. Next, he hooks his thumbs into his waistband and shimmies everything down to reveal the star attraction.
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