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Just some shit I wrote.
Just some shit I wrote.
She removed her clothes and crawled into bed, enjoying the coolness of the sheets against her skin. One long slow stretch, and then she rolled over to enjoy what had become her nightly ritual. Watching him. A most beautiful creature on the cot next to hers. She found his unusual sleeping positions, and sweet expressions entertaining and intriguing. He was smiling slightly as though he had a secret. Just as she began to drift he rolled onto his back and straightened those long sexy legs. A sound that was half moan, half sigh escaped his lips. Any thoughts she had of sleep left her. She instantly became his rapt and silent witness. He ran his hands across his face, his lips, his throat. There his hands began their slow descent. This vision before her was sensual beyond her most intimate imaginings. Not in her wildest dreams had she envisioned a man capable of being so primal and…
He was an artist.
She watches his two fingers walk a path across his body, each one moving slowly lower. His cloths did little to hide his erection as his hand began to travel its length. His hips thrust forward, head back, lips slightly parted. He rubs a slow circle, then softly, slowly he grips his shaft moving in one long smooth stroke. His back arches, his hand squeezes. The sound of his sharp intake of breath mingles with the sound of her nails digging into the sheets beneath her. He raises his hand to his throat and repeats the pattern, fingers tracing the same slow path across his body. Her entire body pulses as she watches, her breath becomes shallow. Her tongue traces her lips and fingers. Her teeth gnash the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. Hot and wet she begins to flow. Her thoughts (stroke, squeeze) run rampant (slow, hard). She thinks he’s a truly wicked tease. She cannot look away, she doesn’t even blink.
A torture, both cruel and sublime.
The two feet separating them felt vast and empty. She wants to cross that void, to be beneath those hands as she traces that path across his flesh with her own. She wants him to stop and go on forever; invite her, deny her. She wants to tie him down and take him. Fill herself with him. Taste him, drink him in, and devour him alive. His hands quicken their pace. Hers begin their own journey, making small circles around her nipples. Fingers pinching rigid pink tips, her body undulates against her mattress.
Her desire lacks his grace.
She presses one finger hard against her clit, in a vain attempt to calm the throbbing sensations coming from deep within her. Sensations so strong it was almost painful. Trace, rub, stroke, squeeze. Harder now. Trembling she realizes her thighs are saturated with her need. She thinks about the way she responded when he touched her there. Trace, rub, stroke, squeeze, ohh. Her want is fierce and intense now. She wants to be his. His slave, his mistress. Anything (touch me) everything (yes please) rub, stroke, squeeze, ohh.
A man enters and approaches the cot next to his. For a moment this interloper is her mortal enemy, (GO AWAY) but the beautiful one does not stop his divine act of self pleasure. Has not ended her torture. The man looks to his right and sees him. Trace, rub, stroke, and squeeze. The man lowers his head and walks away. She smiles.
Her stare is now one of disbelief, as she realizes that he really was sleeping the whole time. This incredible torture was accidental. How could a man be this fucking hot in his sleep? Is he like this all the time? Does he ever watch himself in the mirror?
She wants one night to be the woman he takes his time on. Trace, rub, stroke, squeeze, ahh. Slow, hard, mmmhh. She’s mindless with need now. Trace, rub, stroke, squeeze.
There is joy in repetition.
Trace (more please), rub (stop), stroke (don’t ever stop), squeeze hard (YES PLEASE.) She wants to cut the cloths off his body and watch him cum. She can’t take it any longer. Just as she decides to go to him, his dream ends and he rolls over. Leaving her soaked; shaken, and unable to sleep.
Finally she closes her eyes.
LiquidRant # 13
The Cure for Road Rage
I have the cure for one particular type of road rage, the kind that occurs in traffic jams. Do you hate them? Cars crawling at a snails pace as far as the eye can see. There’s nothing (but that crap you hate) on the radio, and you forgot to grab your CD’s before you left. Your low on gas and there’s no sign of an exit. It’s either blazing hot (and you have no air conditioning) or it’s freezing (and your heater’s broken.) It makes you late, ruins a good day, and turns a bad day into complete and utter shit. You contemplate the realms of hell, and you’re sure this is one of them. You can actually feel life passing you by as you sit there waiting. You contemplate the hours of your life that will be wasted in traffic.
A man on a motorcycle smiles as he passes you, safely navigating between and around the nearly parked cars. You should cheer him on; but you don’t. What you really want to do is catch up to him long enough to knock him over, and ride off into the sunset on his bike; laughing like a madman, giving the finger to all the hapless fools left in your wake.
But you’re still just sitting, and there’s this random asshole on the left giving you the stink eye, like this is somehow your fault. You briefly entertain thoughts of his demise. But then the better part of your nature takes over and you philosophize. Perhaps his need to find someone to blame is a result of an unhappy childhood. Perhaps he’s a control freak like his mother. Maybe you remind him of the guy currently fucking his wife. Maybe he’s still in mourning for his hamster that died when he was six. Maybe all he needs is a little sympathy and understanding.
Then you come to your senses. Fuck that guy; maybe he’s just a prick. Perhaps he should be beaten about the head with a tire iron. You’re glad you don’t have a gun, and you hope he doesn’t. Either way, you’re pissed, he’s pissed, everybody’s pissed (well almost everyone) and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
You look around again. The chick in the car behind you has her head back with a smile on her face. What’s her deal? Is she a Buddhist or a Taoist, or something? She’s rocking slightly with that damn smile still on her face, maybe she’s diggin on some tunes (that she remembered to bring with her). Maybe she’s on something. Whatever it is you want some to; ‘cause she looks happy, and you’re fuckin miserable. Hell maybe she’s stupid and has nothing better to do anyway. All good theories, but that’s not it. I know because I’m that girl, and I have the cure for road rage.
I discovered it on my way back from the mall, when I was stuck in a particularly nasty traffic jam.
I was stuck and my car was going nowhere, so I began to look for something to entertain myself with. I did kick on some tunes, but I was still bored out of my skull. I looked in the back seat hoping I had a book or a magazine. No such luck. As I looked into the bag containing my newly purchased black vinyl thigh highs I remembered what I had bought at Spencer’s. I quickly dug through my purse and pulled out what appeared to be a tube of lipstick in a shade of pearly pink. Purrrfect. I removed the clear cap and twisted the base of the tube until the tip was fully extended, as I did so, the humming sound emanating from it increased. I ran it across my lips, (it tickled) I ran it over each nipple, (it tingled) and when I was sufficiently hot and wet, I pulled up my skirt and slid my panties to the side. I searched briefly for the right pressure and rhythm, I then became the happiest person in the traffic jam. I have the cure for road rage, in my glove compartment. When the batteries run low I just use my hand.
I think you should try it, in fact I think everyone should. In every traffic jam, everywhere around the world. It’s the perfect time for a little self love. Its’ not like you have anything better to do while you sit and wait for traffic to clear. Get rid of all that negative energy, and replace it with a calm sense of well being. If you’re shy, tint your windows.
I’m not saying it will cure everyone, just those of us flying solo. (Or with partners who would rather watch than assist.)
There are instances where one should avoid “the cure” a few examples are as follows:
On family road trips.
With a van load of church members present.
In the back of a police cruiser.
Next to a school bus full of children.
If you’re severely arthritic,
if you regularly fall asleep at the wheel anyway.
If that’s not the case go ahead, kick your seat back a little further and practice the timeless art of self love.
Imagine, mass masturbation for the purpose of relaxation. Highways filled with happy writhing bodies. Can you share my vision for happier highways? Are you with me on this one?
Yes? No? Either way my advice stays the same:
The first chance you get,
GO FUCK YOURSELF!
LiquidRant # 2
6/1/2006 10:07 am
I think you solved road rage...for women at least I am all of a sudden ready for a road trip!|
6/9/2006 8:04 am
That was hott! I can't wait to read more.|