Friday, June 5, 2009

And then.....

Oh, happy, happy Friday y'all. My inbox didn't fill up with pages torture I just had do do it myself. Enjoy. May you have a pleasure-filled weekend!
Let's see....where were we?

Another Thing Coming
Pt. 2 (See previous post for Part 1)
--Gina Marie

Buck moans as I tease his tongue with the lips of my flower, barely allowing the tip of his tongue to reach my moist, pungent flesh. Dipping a finger into my thick, warm cum, I swipe it across his upper lip. My action is followed three times, our unique sexual fragrances mingling into one intoxicating perfume teasing Buck’s flaring nostrils.And with that, we file from the room and leave him there to ponder his fate.

“What are you laughing about?”


“What? What? I know, I'm a weirdo. I’m just having fun with you.”

“Yeah, your stories are quite delicious and vivid. It’s just that…..”


“Putting me in a barn with a bunch of sex-crazed women….I’m scared for myself.”

“But I used your porn name. You can handle it.”

“I think they’re going to end up fighting over me. A real brawl.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. They might have even forgotten you. They’ve been gone for three days.”

“All right then, let me have it. What happens next?”

“What happens next is this.”

I pull the blindfold up slightly so he can see the moon shining over the rail of the balcony and onto his skin, a crescent of pale blue light illuminating the center of his cock.

He shifts against his wrist cuffs, arms tied to the railing. The air is warm and still. A single bead of sweat slides between my breasts as I swirl my tongue silently across him, slowly tracing the edges of moonshadow and light.

He flexes his ass, eyes shining from beneath the blindfold, lets out a small moan.

“Don’t think,” I whisper. “Don’t even imagine. Let your mind become liquid. While I fuck your brains in."

I pull the blindfold back down and drip warm olive oil onto his chest, thighs and stomach.

I don’t touch him, just let it slide across his skin in warm, thick rivulets.

Blow. Soft puffs of air across the Cape of All Hope. I am so small that I can curl up like a kitten in the center of his navel. A single drop of cum leaks from the tip of his cock. His chest is rising and falling, the breath of the living earth, the exhalations of a hundred million trees. I am so small that when the drop falls his cum washes over me like a warm wave, his sex dripping from my hair. I am hanging on to the edge of his cliff, drinking from him, arousing him, stroking him softly with my bare toes.

Kiss. Falling. Cool leather along his inner thigh. Moonlight now a silver rope across his pelvis. Smack! His cock jumps, the crop coming down just hard enough to not be cruel.

Stroke. Elkskin trails along his belly. I am so huge that I am vapor. I am invisible. I surround him. Every cell in my body separates and floats, a fluttering silk scarf in the wind of his breath, the scent of me every blossom of every flower of every woman ever born distilled into a tiny bead of cum hanging at the end of my clit. Only I can release him.

Into his ear. My breath tender, aching lust. “I love you.” Ropes bite al dente against his wrists. The collar with the words, “slave,” shines in the flickering, waxy light. Mine. My lips spread wide and warm against his swollen head. He thrusts himself deeper with his hips.

Whip! “No lover,” I whisper. Be still. Be still. Oil drips onto his cock. Fingertips flutter across swollen flesh. The scent in his nose is mudflat and beach fire, the tang of singed driftwood and the bubbling juice of freshly dug clams opening slowly above the flames.

He can hear me sip at my wine, feel my lips on his toes. His hard cock rises up. Summer breeze teases his balls as I lower myself onto him. Opening into him. He grinds his hips. Smack! The crop mark on his thigh streaks red across the night sky. His skin glows against thick, white cotton. I whisper. “I want you.” My mouth is my cunt is the chambers of my heart, pulsing, sucking, pumping. Hungry. Wanting.

And then I am gone. Minutes. Hours. Days. Years. A hundred lifetimes. Nothing left but butterfly wings and the curled tongues of insects to take him the edge. The blood-streaked knife’s edge. He will wait. He will quiet his hips. He shivers. A thin blanket settles atop him. The crop traces the map of his existence across his chest, stomach, thighs.

My whispers are my sighs, are my cries, screaming for him. My voice floats in his mind. Legs spread. Oiled glass dildo. Slipping pleasure deep inside. Unexplored desire. Vibrator pulses against his balls. Lips on cock. Tongue circling. Hunger. Thrusting harder, the glass fingertip strokes him, licks him hard from the inside. Sperm boils like witches brew in the cauldron of his balls. His testicles relax and tighten against my lips, smooth and salty, undulating like the pulsing sac of an octopus. He can feel the pressure of liquid heat building deep inside. My pussy drips into his mouth. Chinese chimes moan in the breeze, my vapor swirling. Thrusting faster, harder, the flesh of his tight ass in my hand. “Oh yes, please, yes lover.”


Not yet.

I am so small that it takes two years to walk from the tip of his cock to his lips. His damp skin feels like the world’s softest sand on my bare soles. Two years. Did he wait for me? My hair has grown to my ankles. I am encrusted with his salt. Will he remember my voice? At last, I lap moisture from his mouth. Fresh and pure. His lips open. He inhales. He sucks my lungs dry. Life-giving breath.

And then he explodes, body releasing from mind. Atomic. Mind-blowing. Hot, wet sex. Brains. Fucked. In.


And now....the "world's sexiest salad" from the Naked Chef Jamie Oliver. I have to agree. It is a very seductive little dish.

Cut a criss-cross in the figs, but not quite to the bottom, and then, using your thumb and forefinger, squeeze the base of the fig to reveal the inside
--Jamie Oliver

6 ripe figs
6 slices prosciuitto or Parma ham
A good handful green or purple basil
6 small balls buffalo mozzarella, torn

For the Honey and lemon Juice Dressing:
1 tablespoon good honey
6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons lemon juice
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Cut a criss-cross in the figs, but not quite to the bottom, and then, using your thumb and forefinger, squeeze the base of the fig to reveal the inside.
Place the figs on a large plate and weave around I piece of prosciutto or Palma ham around each fig.
Add the ripped up basil and the buffalo mozzarella.
Drizzle over the honey, making sure each fig has some in the middle, then drizzle the olive oil, lemon juice, and salt and pepper.
Or: Mix all the dressing ingredients together in a bowl and season, to taste, then drizzle everything with the honey and lemon juice dressing.


Octopus love Photo: Deviant Art --


Erobintica said...

maybe the reason that we didn't give suggestions is we are too amazed at what you come up with all by yourself - I've had to read this a couple of times today - wow.

my word is


use one of those!

BadAssKona said...

How does one add anything to that symphony? Remarkable! Poetic! Transforming! Brilliant! If anyone can describe feeling, define sense, it is you.

Gina Marie said...

Hi there Robin! That's such a sweet compliment, thank you! I'm glad you weren't disappointed that Buck didn't get attacked again by all of those ladies. Mullypod, eh? I think I saw one of those out in the herb garden last night. They're really tasty sauteed with fiddleferns.

Howdy BAK my friend. Symphony! Goodness! So happy you could feel what I was touching!

Ciao & thanks for commenting!!!

neve black said...

Both Robin and BAK have so eloquently stated exactly what I'm feeling. The is simply gorgeous, my dear. :-)

You have pleasure-filled weekend also.


Anonymous said...

You are such a tease. You heat us up, now what? Give us more! I can taste your soul!