Wasn’t going to get laid? Yeah, right.


Brianne stood at the door of the suite the following morning with a basket in her hands and a smile on her face.

Her breezy sun dress betrayed any modesty as the morning sun shone through the thin fabric outlining her incredible tight body.

It was quiet except for the musical interlude of birds whose songs I didn’t recognize. I could hear the blood pushing through my veins in my ears. I was transfixed in her gaze.

“Good morning, Dallas,” she said as she reached forward with the basket.

I peered down and saw nestled in the bottom an assortment of fresh fruit: mangoes, papaya, dragon fruit, pineapple. Luscious and juicy, I thought to myself… much like Brianne herself.

I took the basket and let it hang at my side.

“I am going climbing today. Want to join me?” Brianne’s eyes glowed like fire.

I wasn’t going to join her, though I could really use a workout. My mind immediately went to a different kind of workout but I was in Hawaii to write, and I was determined to  write that novel or die trying.

“I have actual work to do, Brianne. Thank you, but I’ll decline.”

Her smile didn’t fade at all. “Well then, perhaps I can join you for some breakfast before I go?”

She pushed past me in the doorway and entered the suite. The sun was filtering through the muslin window coverings offering a diffuse light through out the room but somehow Brianne made it even brighter.

Turning towards me, she reached her right hand out. I handed her the basket. She giggled.

“Your other hand,” she laughed as she dropped the basket to the floor.

I placed my left hand into hers and she backed up against the wall. Though she was wearing heels and I was barefoot, I was still a good five inches taller than she was. She looked up at me, breathless. Her lips parted.

 

There was a time when I thought G. was a god. His scent drove me crazy and even the taste of his mouth was enticing. That memory flashed in my mind as I bent down to kiss Brianne, savouring the taste of her mouth. It wasn’t minty toothpaste or spicy cloves or cinnamon or anything tangible, but a sweet essence that came from her core. Maybe she was one of those women who only consumed raw vegetables but never onions or garlic. A guy once told me his past lover only ate greens and fruit and always had the most amazing breath.

That was Brianne and I noticed feeling a little bit self-conscious about my own breath as our tongues darted against each other and her saliva mixed with mine. She didn’t seem to notice that I tasted of coffee this morning.

I felt that old familiar flood of warmth spread through my body and my thoughts quickly turned from salads, fruit and coffee to the tight warm skin beneath my fingertips. Brianne’s hands were cupping my breasts and her thumbs rubbing my nipples underneath my satin pjs.

I returned the favour, ticking the outline of her breasts with my fingertips. She pulled away briefly and reached down to grasp the edge of her dress. She never moved those liquid eyes from mine as she pulled her filmy dress over her shoulders and head. She stood before me, her tanned and lightly freckled skin contrasted from the tiny pale pink panties she was wearing. My mouth went dry.

Her expression was more serious now as she looked me up and down. I figured she wanted me out of my pajamas so I willingly obliged. That feeling of self-consciousness again as I realized I hadn’t taken my morning shower yet. I argued in my mind. Get over it.

Why did I suddenly care so much, anyway? My thoughts turned to the pain of Y.  betraying me and I felt the wind leave me, like a punch to the solar plexus. Be careful…my ego was telling me. Don’t get too involved, then you won’t get hurt.

“Fuck it”, I said and deepened our kiss. I turned Brianne and pushed her against the bed and leaped upon her, my nakedness pressed against her and those tiny pink lacy underthings she was wearing. I reached down and pulled hard against the fabric at the crotch and they fell apart in my hands.

“Ouch,” she murmured and fire lit up her eyes.

“Did that hurt you?”  I asked, but tried not to give a damn either way.

“Not really.”

I clamped my mouth over hers and  then worked my way down her body, which at five feet didn’t take very long. I was dipping the tip of my tongue against the top of her slit when a knock at the door stopped me in my tracks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bisexual and Proud of It!


I love to eat pussy.

Maybe not as much as I like to suck on a nice, hard dick, but I do love women and there’s something inherently sweet about my mouth on a beautiful woman’s lovely bits. I especially love it when a woman has been waxed and it’s not her first time under the esthetician’s expertise. That soft, smooth curvy area where her upper thigh meets her full labia is incredibly arousing to me. Some women have a strong scent there and others it is very mild. Brianne’s secret spot was lightly scented like the rest of her body with a soft flowery smell that reminded me I was in Hawaii. Not quite plumeria; maybe with a touch of orange blossom and rose. 

Brianne left that first day and I am vaguely proud to say I made her squeal. Perhaps she is not as experienced with women as I am, maybe she is. I don’t know. What I do know is that she left with her essence on my face and a smile on hers and I knew that I would see her again very soon.

My first night I walked from the palatial home where I rented a suite to the beach, less than a block away. The sand was still warm even though the sun had disappeared into the vast, endless Pacific Ocean. I could still detect the scent of Brianne on my face; her perfume on my chest. 

I walked thinking about how fortunate I was in all ways. Suddenly burdened with money and an exotic sex toy! I laughed out loud. Then I heard the voice behind me. 

“What’s so funny?” 

It was a deep voice, the timber reverberating in my bones. It had a faint accent of…South Africa? No, Australia. I smiled to myself before I turned around. 

“My extraordinary good luck,” I said. 

Jarrad was well over 6 feet tall, so I was able to look up into his eyes. They were so dark they must have been black. His head was shaved but he had just the right sprinkling of chest hair between his nipples. His torso was quite firm with well-defined muscles. He stood before me in below-the-knee board shorts in a glowing green color that one could see from miles away. I now laughed at his clothing.  He didn’t seem impressed. 

“Luck at what, gambling or something?” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Handsome, but I’m really not in the mood.” It was true. He was highly arousing, but still, I was in Brianne-land and didn’t want to leave.

“Whatever.” He turned and walked away. I watched him go. 

The next morning, I saw Jarrad at a near by restaurant. He sat alone sipping his coffee, reading something on his iPad. I picked up my own cup of Joe and walked up to his table. 

“Good morning, Mr. Handsome.” That was lame, I thought. 

“Good morning, stuck up bitch.” His reply. “I’m only joking, of course.”

“Of course.” I was annoyed. And getting turned on. He had incredible dimples, which I love on a guy (not a girl). His eyes were indeed black but his skin was only moderately tan. His teeth gleamed brightly in the morning sun. He was hot and I wanted to see his cock. 

“Join me.” It was a statement, not a question. 

“Find me. My name is Dallas Cunningham. I’m staying nearby. I’ll make it worth your while.” I turned and walked away. I could feel his eyes boring into me. And for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t sure that I was going to get laid. 

 

 

Suddenly Sunny continued


Emily left me with a fortune.

What I saw on her computer, well, I won’t go into any details. Let’s just say that I’ll never have to work another day in my life. I navigated my way through her notes and various accounts. I realized that my aunt, my friend, had only me in her life and it was her life’s work that blared obscenely in my face on her computer. There was one caveat; I had to finish writing a novel. Any novel.

I have stacks of journals and boxes of papers; legal pads and thousands of words on my Pages app. I’ve never, ever submitted anything for publishing, aware of the fact that my writing is mediocre at best. Emily’s single condition for me to have all her money was to finally finish a novel.

So I wrote.

I bought a plane ticket to Hawaii. Why Hawaii? Because the first thing that happened to me in Hawaii was a plumeria lei was placed around my neck. Plumeria is my favorite flower. Good memories come from Hawaii. It was there that I decided I would write my novel.

When I arrived early in June, it was steamy hot already. I dressed casually in a short dress, my long blonde hair piled on of my head. The gorgeous petite Hawaiian girl who placed the lei around my neck as she led me to my awaiting car made me even hotter. She was my personal concierge, there to make sure “all of your needs are taken care of.” Her words.

I smiled. She smiled. She looked at my mouth. I looked at her mouth. Her teeth were perfect and her lips were the color of a crimson sunset. Her eyes all syrupy with lashes a mascara company would kill for. Brianne was my concierge ? I liked this.

Since I was there to write, I had booked a large suite with a large west-facing window overlooking the ocean at a small privately owned home. The cost was ridiculous but I could afford it. I had Brianne and a personal assistant (what the hell was the difference?) at my disposal. I could have a massage anytime. The chef would prepare whatever I wanted. I was in heaven, but my eyes were all over Brianne.

Brianne. Just thinking her name makes me smile. Let me tell you about Brianne.

Brianne was half-japanese, half-brazilian and was born on the Island of Hawaii. She stood a full 5 feet tall and had a cute shoulder length choppy sort of hair cut that shone nearly blue it was so black. Her eyes were like pools of syrup that dripped with sex appeal. Her skin, a deep olive-tan was sprinkled lightly with freckles. She was absolutely stunning, this pixy of a delight. Her small chest was maximized by a push up bra, it’s lacy design barely visible below the neckline of her cobalt blue dress. Her little legs, so tanned and toned were actually quite ripped with muscle. I later learned that she was a rock climber, and she had to body to prove it.

Brianne led me into my suite and handed me her card. She reminded me that she was there for anything I needed. I sat on the bed. I gestured for her to come to me. She didn’t even blink; her stride was slow yet confident. She pulled her dress off over her head and brought her beautiful breasts to my face. She smelled very floral and clean and her underclothes were off her and she was on her back on my bed and I devoured her pussy with the intensity in which I eat a mango. All juicy goodness, this girl was sweet and perfect.

I nearly forgot all about Y.

 

Suddenly Sunny


My Aunt died. 

It was a sudden death; killed by a drunk driver while she was driving to a tutoring class which she volunteered to teach at a local University. Why in the world someone would be driving drunk at 11:52 in the morning is beyond me, but I had to face the fact that my favorite “aunt” was gone. 

She wasn’t really my aunt. She was a women 6 years older than me whom I befriended at a yoga retreat many years before. She had no family, so she “adopted” me as her niece. I loved the arrangement, and I loved to share stories of my life with her. 

She left no one behind. She was never married, had no kids of her own. Didn’t have any pets. Not even a cat.  She loved to travel and felt that leaving a creature behind would be cruel. She had a wonderful light about her. Just being around her made me happy. I felt an emptiness in my life when I learned she was gone. 

I was phoned by her attorney shortly after I had her remains cremated (something I promised her I would do in the unlikely event I was there for her death). He called me into his office. 

“Emily left you everything,” he said matter-of-factly. He handed me a thick Manila envelope. He had me sign some papers. He went into some details which washed over me and flowed into oblivion. I just sat in his office on his comfy chair staring at the collection of documents in my hand. Eventually he stood, I stood and I left his office. 

I sat in my car and opened the envelope. There was a password for her personal computer.  There were account statements from her banks, some papers I had just signed agreeing to accept property. There was a small slip of paper folded into thirds. I opened it. The note was hand written by Emily. It said mSecure on it. Underneath were a series of letters and numbers. I put it back into the envelope. 

The trip home was long and tiring. It was the last day of May but the weather betrayed the date. Dark storm clouds gathered overhead. Fat raindrops hit my windshield with purpose. I became entranced by the motion of the windshield wipers. It seemed a month had passed as I drove the 65 miles home. 

Once in my cozy apartment, I sat on my plush blue couch and stared out the window. I held the envelope in my hand and wondered about life in general. God, its a short trip for some people. Emily was a saint to my devil. Why did she have to die?

I opened my computer and searched for mSecure. Turns out it is some kind of security system for Macs. Days later I arrived at Emily’s and opened her computer. I typed in her password and searched her applications for mSecure. I entered what I expected to be her password. Soon I was looking at my Aunt’s private life in digital form. 

There was a folder marked “Dallas”. I opened it. My breath caught in my throat. 

 

Back in the saddle again…


There are things which are fully out of one’s control. My lengthy absence being one of those things. 

The best part is, I had such luscious experiences over the past months that I simply cannot wait to write about them. Is anyone out there still reading? If so, I hope my coming posts will wash away the hurt from my absence. 

 

Wet, tired and sore


I did it.

I managed to make myself so sore and tired from fucking that I think I might have worn my pretty little pink parts out.

I spent months trying on men for size. Some of them I could barely see or feel inside me. I wondered about that. Does a slut like me feel less tight to men as time goes on? I sit on my dark blue couch. I pull my favourite purple vibe from my stash of sex toys and I squeeze my pelvic muscles together. I insert the slim vibe, pushing and squeezing. It’s not going in all that easily…

I believe that men, particularly those older men whose hard-ons are not all that hard anymore might get just a little more limp as they pull their condoms on half-erect penises. If I squeeze my muscles tightly enough, they might just wimp out of their rain coats and fail to fuck me as I deserve. Those men, those older, over-weight, balding men who cannot get hard enough for me don’t make it to dinner….or dessert for that matter.  They try, oh they do try. But they fail to fill me with the solid flesh my core desires.

There is a particular part of me that is exceptional to those men who can satisfy me.

After fucking, if I have an orgasm, I crave cooking.

I will let him sleep on my plush bed and I will go into the kitchen and spend his nap fixing an incredible meal for him. I have thought about this in the past and have come up with a couple of ideas why I crave cooking after sex.

For one, I am usually hungry. My appetite for food is limited during the early hours of any day and by the afternoon and evening, my stomach is painfully empty.

The second reason I cook for sex is that deep down I feel that if I keep a healthy fucker with a full belly, he can fulfil my future desires with energy to spare. These men who make me cum seem surprised the first time I allow them to slumber in my bed. They awake after half an hour or so to find my place filled with the enticing aroma of a freshly prepared meal. Home cooking can often seduce a man intimidated by my long, blonde hair or my unusual  height.

I’ve been told more than once (particularly in the past couple of months of sex, sex and more sex) that I am intimidating. Is it my beauty? Perhaps. Perhaps it’s my confidence, but I doubt that. I cannot be too intimidating as my sore, wet pussy will attest.  Thankfully for more than one man, I like to cook after sex.  But I’m tired and sore now and might take a break from sex for a while. Until then, I will write about those who made it to dinner.

Fuck Them All


The days following Y’s departure from my life passed in a sticky blur.

Stinging from the hurt, I went out and did what I knew best: I fucked.

I picked up logger-types from the local pub.  Sex in the front seat of a Ford F-150 was complicated. Fingers pulling at my shirt, my hands fumbling with belt buckles, I couldn’t seem to fill myself with enough cock so I went from guy to guy. I was angry at Y; I was hurt and wanting to prove to her, to myself that I didn’t need her. That any man in town would want me and that I could fuck anyone, at any time.

That is just what I did.

I might have even fucked some guys more than once. I made up for lost time while involved in that monogamous relationship. I fucked nearly 50 guys in the first three weeks after Y left me. Some of them were really great. Others just looked great.  Some I didn’t even care to ask their names. I just wanted dick and I wanted  a lot of it.

It’s precisely what I got.

I fucked them all, and I still hurt from Y’s betrayal.