A Flame in the Night

WHO'S TEASING WHOM?

Upon hearing my blowjob fantasy, you (female) are marveling at the particulars of the things I'd told you. Except, you're having some doubts about it, especially doubts concerning the real necessity of what I described. For a moment, you internalize on all that I said, asking yourself, "Can sucking it like he wants it, is it truly that special for him? Well, hmm, I'm not really sure about that."

Thus, it might be the suspicion you're having is caused from a conflict of reasoning: What's the point in me fussing over something so simple? Why have I made such a to-do craving undue attention be given to my penis? What other purpose or function will it serve? Fundamentally, you conclude: It's merely human nature to want gratification and pleasure. When you interpret it that way, it makes for a better argument. After all, guys want sex! That much you know, and that certainly makes plenty of sense.

So ultimately, you surmise, that my desires are categorically equivalent to those of other males, and following that line of reasoning, possibly my fantasy is not quite as essential, or maybe not quite as important as I portrayed it. Surely you figure, there's much more to what I like and want regarding sexual obsessions. Yet still, even though you doubt the significance of my blowjob craving, nevertheless you appreciate what you heard and want to respect my wants. After all, I had just shared my innermost secret and told you the true thing I desire and have dreams about.

Then, with this logic, you're not completely dismissive about my wishful story. In fact, fondly you decide to file away the details of my suck fantasy and store it somewhere within the recesses of your consciousness--just in case, perhaps--you think it's important to remember it later.

What's more, on the contrary, for me, having bared my castle-in-the-air sex scenario, I'm presently riding a new mental high. How refreshing it is to get it out in the clear and to express my carnal passion, my lust and sexual aspiration. Hence, with a similar upbeat spiritedness, I wait to hear a comparable story from you, a tale about your most desirous hankerings, or otherwise a narrative of something erotic you've wanted to experience.

Thus I straighten my back and lean forward, anticipating that you'll start chatting your version of something sensual and all-telling. And shortly later, I eagerly ask, "Okay, so how about you? Tell me a secret. Give me the dirty laundry about something you've wanted to do. What's your naughty sex fantasy?"

Immediately, you fold your arms and lightly nip at your elbows while considering how to reply. But pretty soon, with the clock ticking away against your favor, you find your heels tapping nervously against the floor. The blunt imposition to expose your confidential information is getting you more fidgety and worrisome the longer you ponder the issue at hand.

"Well, uh ...," eventually you stammer out something, and a flushness fills the insides of your facial cheeks as if the time to answer is about to expire. Then seconds later, abruptly you scream out and painfully admit, "Sorry, so sorry. But I just can't tell it to you--just like that!"

There, in that instance, the cheerful mood we've constructed swiftly deteriorates like an unstoppable avalanche free-falling down the slopes. And what was once amicable and productive is replaced by an awkwardness that seems to be weighing down on us.

Internally we sort through our circumstance attempting to regain some positive momentum. A few smiling gestures are passed back and forth, yet the cumbersome problem is still lodged between us. Unfortunately, then, we've lost our way and currently unsure about our next step. What do we say now? How can we recover from the inconvenience of this social mishap?

Suddenly my emotions are stunted and blanketed with a hazy fog. Desperately I want to remain optimistic as I labor to suppress my dismay. Moreover, indeed, I don't want to overtly signal that I'm holding any ill sentiments about your refusal to share. Yet, my true manner of outlook feels like ... well, it feels almost as if: I'm standing at the front door ready to buy tickets to the last show of the night, a show I really wanted to see. Then unexpectedly I'm told, "It just sold out." And like that--I'm feeling dejected!

Then, in summary, the mute untold revelation is obviously a downer, and I sort of feel shortchanged and deprived of getting a chance to glimpse into your inner personality. Furthermore, I'm still unsure of how to proceed or even what I should do, for I know I can't force you to divulge anything. That would certainly be a blunder to demand it. And although I'm discouraged by lowered expectations, nonetheless, I'm convinced you'll do more to acknowledge something about your sexual yearnings.

Consequently, granted what's happened--oh, then, I suppose--we can continue discussing the weather, ... or perhaps, I gather, I can tell you more about my running hobby. For example, I could carry on and on about all the miles I run per week on the treadmill, or even tell you what races I do throughout the year.

Yet otherwise, then again, if there's nothing else to do, I imagine we can go on ordering more coffee and tea, or maybe even have some buttered toast or dessert. However, in stark comparison, after being so, so comfortable only minutes before, returning again to having rambled conversations about the weather, or simply refilling our beverages, doesn't seem quite as appealing anymore. After all, I would prefer trying to provoke you instead, with more playful and suggestive questions like, "What color underwear are you wearing?" Or impulsively, I could canvas your opinion: What if I suddenly walk in on you and accidentally happen to see you in bed as you're fingering yourself--hypothetically speaking, of course. Then, what should I do if that happens? Should I leave quietly, to let you finish? Or should I stay, to help out? What are your thoughts about that?

But obviously, of course, polling your advice with questions like the later ones would be a lot more fun, except currently as things stand, it'd seem rather untimely to continue with those kinds of topics. I'd feel slightly uncomfortable prodding you now, and therefore I'm reluctant to ask you any more about personal circumstances. Thus, after gauging the alternatives, I'm determined to find a means to restore the intimate atmosphere we enjoyed not so long ago. Hence, I press my mind to contrive a remedy--an agreeable solution to fix this dilemma. Next thing I know, out of nowhere, this brilliant thought came to me, an approach that can literally save the evening!

Coyly then I ask, "What if you try to--write--your fantasy. Can you do that?"

Without waiting for an answer, I quickly gather up the necessary supplies. Some students are studying not too far away, so I go borrow from them a pen and a sheet of yellow memo size paper, torn from a notebook. Without delay, I place them both on the table and then I wait in silent limbo.

Cautiously, with the tattered yellow scratch paper laid down before you, you mull over the proposition and seriously consider my request. And after another moment of staring endlessly into that paper, you remain hushed and subdued with no clear indication about what you plan to do.

Meanwhile, I'm so gosh-darn curious to discover if my ploy will be successful. Like a spooked, startled chipmunk, with no tree to scurry up, I refrain from moving and sit stone-still as I watch to see if you'll be making the first move. Only there's nothing happening. I see no useful activity going on with that pen in your hand, until finally I hear you blurting out that you've made a decision.

"Well, all right," you mutter. And you begin to write!

In the meantime, I admire your hand strokes as you scribble down what it is that you have to say. Apparently, it'd seem that you may have always had something you wanted to express, but perhaps you were initially reluctant to share it. And now with your brand-new enthusiasm, surely at last I can see you publishing your thoughts.

But what's it that you're writing? Is it a sexual fantasy, a secret desire, or even a fetish? And maybe, perchance, it's so kinky and perverted that you'd feel shame admitting that it excites you. Well, sexual and carnal wants can be so darn crazy and unpredictable, so of course I want to know the whole lowdown of all you're thinking. Plus, the thoughts in my head fluctuate from one extreme to another, speculating on the naughty things you're jotting down on the paper.

Then, afterwards, I observe that you have finished. You've completed writing that secret wish. However, to my complete and utter surprise I'm left staring helplessly at the consequences of what follows next! As soon as you'd finished penning your confession, and without much hesitation and no other discussion, you fold the paper over and over--and over several times more, to be sure. Then, unfairly perhaps, with the paper pinched between your fingers, you reach toward me with a lengthened arm and gently you tuck that folded letter deep into my shirt pocket. And what's even worse, after that, in a clear and serious voice you sternly warn me, "Don't look at it! You cannot read this!"

Notably, my jaw drops and my eyes broaden considerably. I hardly know what to make of this unexpected predicament. And although I'm bowled over and flabbergasted, certainly I'm not upset. In fact, I'm quite tickled pink with this unexpected challenge you've created. And even as I'm processing my confusion, tentatively I bow my head and accept your condition.

"Trust me," I reassure you. I raise my hand to cover the memo that's inside my pocket, and I pat it a few times against my chest. "I will not look, and I won't show this to anyone."

Then pronto, like that, mutually we seem comfortable with the new arrangement, and once more we're back to enjoying our time together. In one form or another, we've both participated in opening up, taking risks, and sharing discretely. Thus between us, the emotional balance has been made right again since each of us has traded, by respective means, a few of our closely guarded cravings.

Nonetheless, even though your decadent thoughts are folded up and discreetly concealed in my garment, you've some misgivings about letting go of your closeted secrets so easily. On the other hand, my guarantee not to examine the contents has aroused you to get on thin ice and go forth with this venture. Besides, you figure this is a nice opportunity to explore my credibility and could serve as a test to see if I can be true to my word. So letting fate take its course, you entrust me with your confidential information, to see if anything wonderful will flourish.

Conversely then, from my perspective, with the folded letter lay resting in my shirt pocket, I feel an unusually heavy burden. I've a new and unfamiliar responsibility to guard the safety of your secret, and not only must I avoid telling anyone else, but I must also protect your secret from myself. Nevertheless, the mystery of what's inside your note continues to nag and haunt my conscience. Eventually, I start questioning whether I can actually keep my promise, but thankfully, there's a trust I want to gain. So again, I vow never to take a look.

And yet, although I've committed myself to doing as you asked, the unknown data in that yellow folded memo is like a jack-in-the-box with a sexy surprise waiting to spring out. No matter how much I want my trustworthiness to be unclouded, murky thoughts of that note continues to linger in my head. In other words, it's difficult to stop considering the message in my pocket with all the titillating and steamy prospects that it represents; yet, in spite of it all, I curb my lust and get centered well enough to continue chatting. And with the topic of fantasy and desires adequately uncovered, we move on to discuss other curious things. The subject: turn-ons and fetishes. You know the sort of stuff that turn our brains into mashed bananas, and the kind of things that gain zest in our groins.

And once again, I have an eagerness to share additional information. So in nearly begging demeanor, I query you by saying, "You know I once wrote a story about a night that drove me silly with a few of my turn-ons. Would you care to hear more about it?"

Then you agree to listen as I offer up another tale, a true story with many of my sexual weaknesses and pitfalls. So next, in brimming detail, I illustrate more of my personal fetishes with an amusing yarn full of turn-ons and succulent, luscious dancing.

--end of chapter three--

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