I collect men. It’s that simple. I gobble them up and spit them out. But him? Him I didn’t want to collect; and him I most definitely didn’t want to spit out. There are no personal gains with him; but there is a potential for a loss. Day-by-day I become more and more vulnerable with my heart. Is this you, Zoe?
Am I frightened? Absofuck’nlutely.
My heart is on display. There is no glass casing to protect it from being mishandled or shattered for that matter. I leave myself exposed and vulnerable for him to potentially rip me apart.
He requested my time and attention this evening over drinks. I accepted his invitation without hesitation. In hind-sight playing hard-to-get may have been the wiser strategy.
But I was ready to get into some trouble with him tonight.
He knocks on my door at 9PM sharp to escort me to our destination.
We walk into Park Avenue hand-in-hand. I am wearing my little black dress that accentuates my hips-to-waist ratio. I twist my torso with each step I take as we follow the hostess to our booth. My long hair bouncing simultaneously with my breast, the pair on the verge of giving the audience a peep show.
After walking through the crowd of beautiful people, we have been escorted to the corner booth with a bottle of champagne on ice waiting with a note that reads ‘Sorry Gorgeous, I’m Taken.’
I’m breathing…I think.
Before taking a seat, he draws me into his chest and whispers into my ear, “Do you feel it?” His Portuguese accent brings an electric current through my body.
His power at that moment made me want his cock inside me right there and then. The audience wouldn’t inhibit me from spreading my legs and exposing my pussy to the strangers in the room if it meant I had his cock inside me. The cock that the length or girth of which I have yet to explore, for that matter. “Yes, I feel you about to crack my ribs,” I reply withdrawing my instinctual response of yes, I feel your big, hard cock…put it inside me right now!
He releases me, allowing me to have a full view of his face, which is glowing. Fuck, am I drawn to him. He gazes into my eyes as he exposes his pearly white teeth. The man’s got to whiten them. He is giving me his approval to take a seat. I don’t shy away from his gaze.
The guy-next-door, who I have been waving hello to from the distance is the man who can potentially change my ways. Six months later and I still haven’t fucked his brains out. Am I losing my touch? Or, could he be the one who changes me and my brain?
I take my seat and he joins me to snuggle side-by-side with one another, creating our own invisible bubble between us. Lights flashing, music blaring and I tune it all out, feeling and hearing his breath. What will his breathing pace be when he fucks me?
He pours the champagne into two flute glasses, places the bottle back on ice before turning to me. What is he thinking?
He hands me my glass while raising the other. He looks directly into my eyes and says, “I have been watching you for a while.” He leans towards me and whispers into my ear, “From your secret admirer, who admired you from afar.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I don’t reply. Sometimes, you just don’t have to. Oblivious to my surroundings, blocking off the music, my peripheral vision, my focus is on him. I take a sip of champagne, lower my glass and stare into his eyes before raising the glass once again to my lips, gulping the liquid until the last drop. Yes, I intentionally want his attention. I lower my glass onto the table, twist my torso to him and whisper into his ear, “Take me home.”
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t waste one second thinking or re-thinking my request. He puts down his glass, grabs my wrist, stands up and escorts me through the beautiful crowd to his car.
He holds my wrist most of the car ride with the occasional gaze. I’m the least bit terrified. His maneuvers bring me a rush, as he races on the streets, not wanting to waste a single moment. Once we make it to my place, he firmly takes my hand and takes me up to my apartment.
He’s nervous, but I’m not. I am not thinking sexy; and I’m most definitely not thinking hot. I am, however, thinking naked. I unzip my dress and allow it to flow to the ground, lie on my bed and patiently wait for him to decide how he would like to proceed.
His body is frozen. His shyness becomes more apparent. I lie there staring right at him with my eyes half shut, biting my lip. I begin to squirm on my own accord, my own rhythm. His gaze doesn’t move from my eyes. I know his peripheral vision now sees me touching myself.
He too begins to bite his lip. I know his cock is hard. The question still remains, what is he going to do with that growing cock? I hope I’m not disappointed.
At that very moment, he takes off his shirt, followed by his jeans, and stands in front of me, giving me permission to spend a few moments to admire him.
HOLY FUCK! He is a piece of Art. His body rigid in all the right places.
He crawls into bed and I wrap my arms around his neck and legs around his ass. This beautiful specimen of a man fits ever so perfectly with my curves. I bring my lips to his and gently touch them with mine. His lips are soft, but his cock isn’t. I continue to squirm. Fuck, this is hot! I begin to apply pressure onto his lips, wildly traveling my tongue in his moist mouth.
His cock is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. I spit on my fingers to moisten his cock and guide it into my pussy. He releases a sigh followed by a moan.
His long girthy cock makes my pussy wet as he begins to thrust to his own beat in and out, in and out.
I spread my legs further apart, allowing his cock to enter me deeper and deeper.
This tempo is slow…and I feel all of him. My hands caress his muscular body, examining every part of him, touching him everywhere, painting outside the lines as the passion in me unfolds.
As he lies on top of me, I enjoy each thrust and show it through my high-pitch moans. Yet, something changes. He begins to pick up his tempo, thrusting faster and faster. The amateur lover needs instructions. Porn does it all wrong. I put my arms around his neck and draw him closer to me and whisper into his ear, “Slower.”
He begins to slow down, but apparently his slow isn’t my slow. So, once again I repeat my instructions to him. He still doesn’t comply with my tempo. I stop him mid-way and ask him to pause while I grab the metronome from my side table drawer.