Author: fttada

Deliciously Awkward [MF][Voyeurism]

Her eyes have always haunted me. There is a power within her gaze that was unique to her, or at the very least, I felt unique under her deep scrutiny of me. I haven’t felt the feeling of of her eyes upon me for ages, it has since only haunted me in my long memories of her. Yet, for the first time in what seems like an eternity, I feel that gaze again, her gaze again, and it is like a punch to the gut; my body and soul feel the same, deliciously awkward feeling under the weight of her devouring eyes. That feeling of being stripped bare, visually enjoyed, caressed without permission, and fucked senselessly while the passing crowd goes by unaware.

Anyone that knows her, if you were to ask them, would tell you that her eyes were brown. A few might even go so far to say they were a luscious brown. Either description would be understating it, by quite a lot. From someone that suffered under their scrutiny for days on end, someone that came to know every mote of her irises intimately, I can tell you they are not brown, not even a luscious brown. No, the color of her eyes are a soft amber to get permanently trapped in. Trapped along the shards of fiery agate that line her golden irises. There is only the slightest shape of almonds with her eyes. She rarely decorated them with any eyeliner, and never to my knowledge did she encumbered with mascara, for her lashes were long and thick all on their own. Read more »

Intensity: A Cautionary Tale [MF]

I can still recall how she looked lying naked on the bed of the sleazy motel room as I stepped out of the bathroom. It was a breathtaking scene and if my cock wasn’t already jutting from my body, hard and eager and anxious for a woman’s touch again, it would have taken that shape in a lightning fast way.
She was facing away from me, waiting. The light and shadows showing off the contours of her shoulders, arms and backside played at an illicit dance of contradictions. Light and dark painting her in an exotic way. She was beautiful, voluptuous and part of her was too self-conscious to know it. If Rubens was standing there, he would have been fetching his easel to paint her form., helpless to do anything else (except to masturbate to her image, gods know part of me wanted to). The contrast of the light and shadows dancing on her back as deep as the contrasts of who she was when I met her and who she seemed to be now.

~~~ Read more »

Fluid [MF]

“Stop!” she whimpered.

*Fuck!* I think to myself as my hand stops in mid-caress of Lindsey’s soft inner thigh. Her very muted request was barely heard, but my hand might as well have been zapped by an invisible fence. I never press on when that word is uttered with a lover as new as Lindsey. I am sure she can feel my fingers twitching in place though. So damn close!

That said, I am not sure how I misread the signs. I swear she wanted this too. Fourth date and we finally came to the point of having a cannot-keep-our-hands-off-each-other make-out session which felt like it turned into need-to-be-tumbling-into-fucking-each-other territory.

I let my eyes refocus and take her in as she is, as we are. Clothes half off, her honey blonde hair is in a pleasant disarray; her breasts spilling out of her shirt seemingly with no desire to go back into hiding; her face looks as if it is majorly pissed off that I listened to her lips command. I have never seen a lover look so wanton in my life. My cock feels as if it is in the beginning stages of a coup against my fuckable good scruples, it actively trying to convince me I was just hearing things. My fingers twitched a bit toward what awaits them at the end of the journey up her soft thighs; each twitching digit thinking my cock’s coup to be a wonderfully, marvelous idea. Fingers tossing agreement behind my cock that my good-nature was purposely trying to sabotage an otherwise wonderful evening with this beautiful and wanton woman. Read more »

The Kiss [fm]

I have never truly believed in the concept of a soul. In today’s modern age and the advancement of medicine, the soul seemed to be easily explainable by the chemical and electrical reactions of the brain. Something that died when the brain fired for the last time. The soul to me was thus a relic to an older time; when fire, air, water, and earth were the only known elements. It has purpose for poetry, but not much else. So, I never believed in the soul or that I had one; that is, until the day I had a piece of my soul ripped away from me, stolen. Thus I finally realized just how damned wrong I had been all that time before.

From that moment on, I have been fully aware of just how much the soul is a separate part of my being. Fully aware of it because the hole that is missing from my soul now is so profound. It is like losing a tooth. You know what it felt like when you had the tooth, but the hole that is now there is a constant reminder of what has been lost and slowly over time, you start to forget what it was like before the hole ever formed. The soul is a real thing, if nothing else, heed this as fact! It transcends mere reactions in the brain. I now know it will survive when the rest of me becomes worm food. I know because if I were to die this very moment, the hole that is in my soul would still haunt me post mortem. Read more »

Poison [MF]

She is poison. She is venom of the worst sort. I find myself sitting across from her anyway. Worse still, I find myself wanting her, her poison be damned! Wanting to roll the dice and taste her seduction; without choking on the poison that always comes with it.

She is poison. She’s destroyed men I felt were much stronger than me. Still, I’m getting drawn into her eyes that study me, feeling her striping the clothes virtually off of my body, imagining all of the ways she will pull me in, desperate to wanting her touch.

She is poison, and I cannot help myself but to want a taste of it. I’ve always come to her rescue after she’s burned all the bridges down around her. I’ve always given her the shoulder to cry on, the understanding, the loyalty. Before now, I avoided the poison that she is. But I have lived my life avoiding poisons of all sorts. I have driven down the road of the straight and narrow and still have gotten rammed into. My life is currently a car wreck of metal and flesh and blood and bone. I hurt, I weep. And I am too tired to avoid a possible taste of poison now. From my current vantage point, dying from her wicked poison seems a fate better than dying from what already ails me. Read more »

The Wall[FM][Public]

*Meet me at the place where we snogged a few weeks back that I just loved. You know the one, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Bring paints appropriate…*

I set down the note that she wrote with a shaky hand, as my pulse quickened at recalling the vivid memory of being with her at *that place*. Remembering her luscious tongue dancing in my mouth, her hands everywhere and nowhere, her bare legs wrapped around my waist in the tightest of knots as I pinned her against the graffiti stained wall under the halogen glow. Her dress hiked all the way passed her hips just by the natural rhythm of our grinding. I could taste just how much of a near-feral state she was in. It was an elixir best not tasted, but once you do, forever will you desire it’s flavor again. Her mouth is only that moist when she is beyond aroused. I recall vividly the single time she broke the kiss to breath in air instead of breathing in me, and just how seductive the “Fuck m…” escaped her lips before they found my mouth again, her tongue telling me just how she wanted me to fuck her. Read more »

An Odd Duck [FM]

Sheila is what some around the office would call an odd duck, and that is by those that are being polite. She is a complete whack-job if they are being a bit more honest and a fucking crazy bitch if they are being blunt as hell, which happens to be the most popular description of Sheila behind her back. Personally, I always tried to hover with the odd duck viewpoint, but there are days where she tests that theory even with me.

First of all, she dresses a little bit strangely, mixing at least three different decade styles together that comes off feeling clashy versus synergistic. If her hair stays the same color for longer than two weeks, you would almost start to wonder if she fell on her head and became more sane. Sheila also always acts a little strangely too. Acts a little strangely how? Well, try to imagine a male elephant frantically screwing a kangaroo mouse and the impossibility of it seeming to be the most natural thing in the world. Sheila acts strangely like that. She speaks often in cryptic gibberish. She’ll start a phase of a sentence sounding like an ancient Greek philosopher, only to end the same sentence sounding like a 12-year old fresh from the lobotomy factory. Read more »

A Sexual Religion Draped in the Colors of Ivory and Red [fm]

My soul always unravels when my cock enters Ivory for that first time, when we are together once more. I am the only person on the planet that dare calls her ‘Ivory’, for she hates her skin, the tone of it, and the impossibility for her to get even a hint of a tan. To her it is her biggest flaw, even more so than the disappointment she has at her breast size. I have called her Ivory ever since, not to mock her, but to remind her how much I enjoy the shade of her skin, its alabaster glow. How she literally shines like some supernatural goddess when we fuck in the moonlight.

But, as I was saying, my soul always unravels when my cock enters her that first time being together again, each and every time! Cock and cunt intimately familiar, yet not. The attraction, with a dash of resistance. Absence makes the cunt grow wetter and the cock grow harder and all of that. Regardless, that first time rejoining with her after weeks or months apart always feels like the very first time being in her. Every damned time! It is a divine moment. Read more »

Crumpled with a Hint of Color [MFF]

She made a sound that was the love child of a wicked giggle and a heavenly, broken sigh. That was my reward, or at least my audible reward. The chance to feast on her sex was usually reward enough. Although, in the current situation, it was more like a forced feeding. She was fucking my face with wild abandon. Gliding her cunt over my mouth in a cross between a tease and permission. My tongue and lips struggled to keep up, yet I reveled in trying and I hungered for intimate moments like this, pun definitely intended! I was never a guy that had to acquire a taste for pussy, from my first experience going down on a woman, I was hooked. It was a drug, and aphrodisiac. She definitely was using it to her advantage in this circumstance.

Our flesh a crumpled tangle on a bed only left with crumpled sheets and her crumpled red bra, the last of our garments to be discarded; the last prison her body escaped from this evening. Read more »

A Stranger’s Tale [FM]

I tasted sin, and her name was Alice. She was a cute, petite little thing. She worked diligently in a diner, was a single mom with two young kids, and just trying to make ends meet. When I had her alone for the first time, and tasted the depth of her sin – much sweeter than forbidden fruit – off of her lips, I knew she was something special.

I should reiterate here. I tasted the *potential* of sin from Alice. If she had a black heart, that sin would have eventually consumed her. Instead, she had that *potential* sin welled up, hidden and tight inside, like a hard nut that she only indulged on when she was very, very alone. The night we slept together, I unlocked every secret door until she finally let it all out with me. I took it from her as payment of services rendered, sort of speak. She gave it up freely and yet unknowingly. When I left her, I left in *potentials* place a sense of freedom to desire openly again, a memory of a magical night, and a feeling that not only was she worth a priceless amount, the ability to finally believed it. All that said, I still felt like I got the better end of the bargain. Read more »