Monday, December 14, 2009

Spilled fruit

Watching him wrap fat curls of raw bacon around the feta-stuffed dates reminded her of the old juniper growing from the rock out in the desert. Reminded Amanda of thick, curved roots seeking moisture. Reminded Amanda of the rope that the hunters had tied around the trunk, reminded her of rough bark and juniper oil and dusty-blue berries scattered around on the ground. Spilled fruit. Reminded her of his hands, and the cuffs, and her bare skin, splayed out there on the ground, on the soft mattress, on the leather couch, on the counter, up against the porch rail, on the camping cooler, spread flat out on the salty, cracked earth.

The moment he walked into the party, the atmosphere changed. There were those boots, with the thick white socks carefully folded over....and the heavy, dark cotton (not wool) kilt. The white shirt and the pressed jacket. He smelled like iron, snow, holiday wrap, sweat, paper ribbon, cunt honey, earth, wine, and leather. He smelled like feta cheese, like Greece, like a Greek, like a Scot, like a cave man. He smelled like everything that's ever been heated, creamed & warmed to melting and drizzled over a warm, wet, living flesh and spatu-laid into a cooling pan. He smelled like the first man....and the first woman. He smelled like slippery new flesh and the dust swirling atop the ancient, wind-blown lakebed. He smelled like hot meat and warm, soft, puckered dates with a dizzying aroma of pussy nectar drizzled atop the pork just before it is flamed beneath the hot broiler. Smoking. Setting off the alarm. For the first time. Ever. He had that kind of energy.

A sensation, such as a pinprick or a slap, when blindfolded, isn't a sensation at all, is it? It is more like a smell or a glimpse. It is like tasting instead of feeling. It arouses all other senses. That was the way he moved about the room, filling drinks, smiling, the dimple on the left cheek a crease of pleasure seeking fun, seeking lust, seeking pain, wanting more. He aroused all other senses as he served their every need.

Amanda felt dizzy as he approached. "May I take your coat, pour you a drink?" He laughed. Her insides went soft. Her clit went hard.

The party went on as he hovered about. The women fussed over this and that, wins and losses, hairstyles and family matters and caught up on all the small talk. He smiled as he handed her a chocolately pinot with leather overtones and a hint of berry. Juniper. Crushed stone. Sand. Looking at him across the room, she almost spontaneously arched her back, imagining him back in time, in the sun, in another place, spread out over her. "You are mine."

There is that place in early morning between sleep and awake -- the place where fairytales and fantasies begin and end, where morning star and salty, sandy shore meet....when you want and want and want until you can't take it anymore. Your lips are on fire and your pussy is warm to the point of melting all over clean sheets. Your nipples are hard despite the thick comforter. Your ass flexes uncontrollablly when you think about his hard, hot cock sliding inside, teasing him for awhile, squeezing him in and out while you suck tenderly on his ear before it is too much and you pound into him, the overwhelming sensations and pleasure and energy transforming him into you and you into him.

Amanda was really only half awake when she pulled his knees apart and approached him gently with parched lips. And there, between his legs, she spread herself atop his bacon-wrapped cock and drooled into his ear as he emerged from sleep.

She pulled his hands above his head and tied them, loosely, but not slightly, to the headboard. He moaned as she pulled his legs wide and roped them apart. The bacon-wrapped cock rose in the din cast by streetlamps below. His stomach and chest flexed as she teased him with fingertips and tongue, the dates sliding from side to side in her pussy like Ben Wa balls, the sugar dripping in sticky syrup on to his abdomen and thighs. Finally she unwrapped his cock and settled herself on top of it, letting only the feathery edges of her lips caress his swollen head. The room smelled of sugar, wine, salt, flesh, and the warm, raw sea.

That night, as the ladies slipped the smoking, bacon-wrapped dates between their lips, the pussy-scented cheese making them weak, they all went there that place we all came from. The place where trees spring out of rocks, where men fuck for sheer pleasure, where women sin without guilt, where honey doesn't come from bees. And where kilts and the rock hard cocks beneath them grow on trees.
Image: Alexa Collection --


BadAssKona said...

I smiled, from beginning to end, of the story, of the night, of it all....

Gina Marie said...

That dimple of yours.....says so much

Craig Sorensen said...

Wow. Another feast.

Delicious, as always.

neve black said...

I loved every yummy bite of this post, sweetie.

"...they all went there that place we all came from. The place where trees spring out of rocks, where men fuck for sheer pleasure, where women sin without guilt, where honey doesn't come from bees. And where kilts and the rock hard cocks beneath them grow on trees...."


Gina Marie said...

Thanks Craig! I hope you left the table full and happy ;-)

Aw Neve, something about those kilts, eh? I tuned in to your Sommer clip the other day -- you are just sooooooo good!