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Sometimes it feels like a dream
Sometimes it feels like a dream
This is why I yearn.
A few years ago, I attended an evening creative writing class. One week, we were set the task of writing a piece that we would have to read out the following week. One of my fellow classmates was a slim, red-haired young woman, (early thirties), with whom I had got on with quite well during the breaks, particularly as we often did not agree with the lecturer and his cosy group of older ladies who seemed to make up most of the class. She was nervous about the prospect of reading her work out the following week and we agreed that we would get together during the week at her place so that I could help her and give her confidence. I turned up at her house, as arranged, a few nights later. I had never spoken to her about her private life and was surprised to find that someone as attractive and intelligent as she was lived alone. She offered me a glass of wine and then we settled down in her living room to go through our work. She appeared reticent to read her work first, so I went through mine and we discussed it. She seemed to admire my writing and was very complimentary, which, even for a much older man who should have been wiser, was flattering. She offered me some more wine, which I accepted, sensing that she was nervous about reading out her work. Eventually, after exchanging everyday pleasantries over our drinks, it was time for her to read. Her cheeks were flushed as she picked up the sheets of paper and cleared her throat nervously. She was sitting opposite me and when she began to read her voice was so faint that I had to lean forward to hear properly. Her short story, tentatively told, astonished me. It was about a woman who invites a much older man to her house to help her with some work, although her secret motive is to engage in a sexual fantasy with him in which he spanks her and takes her from behind. In her story, the young woman aches to be treated this way but dare not tell her boyfriend. As she reached the most revealing parts of her story I could tell that her throat was dry and she was having difficulty speaking. I was so close to her by this time and her desires were so plain that I put my hands on her thighs and began to move them upwards beneath her skirt. Her voice was husky, but she continued to read out the most graphic description of her fantasy. I was in seventh heaven as she leaned back on the settee, still reading out loud. Her thighs and silk-sheathed pelvic mound were responsive to my touch, while I marveled at a firmness of flesh that I thought I would never have beneath my hands again. Through her story, she had given me complete instructions for what she wanted and I set out not to disappoint her. First, I stoked her thighs and pushed her compliant legs apart. Then, I lifted aside the gusset of her panties and licked her until she moaned with frantic pleasure. When her hips began to bounce with urgency, I changed my approach. I became the admonisher. I made her kneel naked on the rug before the warm fire and spanked her firm buttocks until they were red. With every stinging slap, she moaned out loud. Then, I changed again and became soft and contrite, kissing her inflamed buttocks gently while she shuddered and begged me to fuck her. I refused and instead moved around in front of her and made her take my throbbing cock in her mouth. There was no tantalising foreplay or sideplay to her actions. She fucked my cock hard with her mouth until I exploded into the back of her throat with a force that I had not experienced in a long time. I knew from her blueprint that she wanted to be punished and I spanked her again while she, the unrepentant bad girl, urgently masturbated and cried out loud. The climax to her story was approaching. I gently pushed my cock between the lips of her wet cunt and into its grasping clutch. It needed only a few strokes to achieve the required level of lubrication before I withdrew and presented my aching prick to that other squirming passage. I had intended to be slow and gentle, but she impaled herself fully onto me with a cry of longed-for ecstasy. I squeezed her swollen tits, then gripped her hips firmly and gave her what she had described in her story, which was a hard and fast assfuck, while she gasped and swore and urged me on. I could hold myself back much more than I could when I was a young man and I could feel her shuddering climaxes long before I came, but when she felt me coming she cried out, "Spank me!" I obliged and we hung over the edge of a yawning precipice of soaring pleasure and pain until we both collapsed to the floor. We lay like spoons in front of the fire for a long time, before she said, "Do you mind if I read it again?"
She wasn’t at the next class and I didn’t see her again. Maybe she had got the writing bug out of her system.