I sit easily on the hard seat of the subway, watching. This is my arena, my runway of hopefuls. All vying for my attention, though they know it not. Morning commuters or evening exhausteds fill my vision.
I’ve been known to drool, squirm. Even cream in some instances.
I think they know I’ve singled them out for full body visual grope. Some seem to pose, flex biceps, strain their crotch in my general direction. A select few will run fingers through their hair, leaving a preview of their bedroom persona.
I leave eye prints as I gawk. I lick my lips, pout. Maybe even toss my hair. If I spot a truly delectable one, I’ll take a long strand, wind it around my fingers and caress my lips. All the while keeping a close eye on his reactions.
I store all that information. For tonight.
Each night, in my bed, I can have anyone.
I imagine myself seduced by the man who caught my eye today. That man, whomever he might be, lays beside me, whispering sweet, sinful phrases. He promises me the moon if only I will yield to him, just tonight, the secrets of my sexual soul.
His hand will steal up from the recesses of my imagination and cup my breast. He’ll tweak my nipples. Run his fingers gently down my stomach on the path through my erogenous zones.
Oh, he’s good. He knows exactly where I need stroking the most. He knows the exact steps to steam my body. He hones in on my most secret pleasures.
He titillates and teases. He strokes and tweaks. He listens to my pants of pleasure. When I moan, he lavishes intense attention there–immediately. His ultimate goal is my pleasure.
I never have to instruct. He knows! He will do anything to make me come—anything.
He builds the sexual moment higher. Gently he pushes my limits, further and further. He waits for my complete submission, my unconscious full opening. My body hums with the tension his caresses have elicited. My eyes flutter closed as I arch into his phantom clutches.
I can see him so clearly. I can feel his muscles—I watched their play today. I see the blue/brown/green eyes narrow sexily. His crisp curls/straight bed-tousled hair beckon my fingers. But he won’t let me touch. His after-five shadow devilishly tickles my thighs as he separates my nether lips to ply his tongue in my secret garden.
Oh, he is so good. So sensual. So knowing.
He watches tenderly while I gasp in his arms. He enters me. Slowly filling me to comfortable depths. He waits while my body adjusts to his girth—that magnificent thickness defines my boundaries. His fingers rotate, twirl and tweak the center of my nerves; my engorged clit. I arch more fully onto his turgidness, easing in that final inch. He moves. Withdraws a tiny amount, sliding in and out; humming his pleasure. His cock twitches and corkscrews driving me crazy. I open more, pleading for any final inches. He complies, filling me so full I shudder. His motion intensifies. Faster—faster. His fingers keep pace.
My toes flex. My pussy clenches. I arch, quivering in ecstasy. Electrical charges—fireworks blossom in my brain as my body spasms in my orgasm. He stays the distance, and then some. He remains aroused, full even after I signal my finale. He withdraws slowly; prodding, rotating just in case I want more.
I fall asleep, satisfied. Dreaming of his rugged loving, his desire to please only me.
In the morning, I check my battery supply. I never run out of AAAs.
Aspen was born with a pen firmly grasped in her chubby fingers. She wrote her first story at three, in crayon, on a picture book. Her first critical review came swiftly after discovery, in the form of a spanking. Not deterred, Aspen has continued to write. 2010 has seen her emergence into the published world.