I consider myself a writer, not a very good one, I haven't the experience or the imagination to be a good one but I get around that by having props, actual people to write about — people who individually trigger my imagination and, most importantly, provide me with the characters I need for my stories.
That's why I have the job I do, an easy job, one that requires no real skills except being organized and diligent. My job places me among a team of people, 21 in all, 21 people I watch coming and going and working and horsing around. They all find their way into my thoughts and from there onto my pages.
I've been in this office for three years, far longer than my other three jobs, similar but the people were not nearly as interesting as these ones so I had to leave for this greener pasture.
I was never missed from my old jobs and I won't be when I leave here, although I have no immediate plans for that. I am quiet and retiring, a little frumpish and decidedly homely. I would be taken for granted if people were aware of me at all ... they aren't because I don't want them to be. I want to be left alone with my thoughts, many of which are about them, either in the contemplation of sex or in the throes of it. I write erotica, it keeps me sane. And interested. And, frankly, it's fun.
I write about lives other than my own, other worlds than my own, other possibilities than my own, it's a way for me to step outside my cloistered self and into all kinds of impossible situations that come alive in my stories — in effect, my characters take me with them.
I have written maybe 50 stories, they're in my computer like corpses in a funeral home, lives that were once vital to me, consuming me and consuming hours of my time, but lives that are now moribund, only to be occasionally revisited ... like looking through an old photo album.
Well, not entirely true. Some of my characters resurrect themselves from time to time, rise from the grave to entertain me once again.
Like Harold. He is off in the distance to my right, past the cluster of cubicles over by the window. He's in a cubicle too so I can't see him but I know what he's thinking, contemplating, I can see this with my mind's eye.
Harold, I know, got married last year, I wrote about his wedding and his honeymoon. He had a wonderful time. But the marriage can't last, at least according to the story I'm now writing about him.
The penis that now lies long and slightly twisting left between his legs was little used for fun before he met Brett in a pub on a Friday night about 18 months ago, 6 months before their wedding. She was there with others, all with no possibilities. He was a few tables away, about as far away from Brett as he is from me in the office. Brett is bold and audacious and out-spoken, a real turn-off to men because she is intimidating, if not just plain scary.
In my stories a lot of my introductions are complex and subtle, this one wasn't. When people in the pub had had enough to drink and were wandering off she wandered over and sat down beside him.
"I was looking around this place trying to find the one guy I'd like to get to know. You're it." Is he married, did he have a steady girlfriend — let him explain himself. She was looking for that flattered look she knew how to wrench from the unsuspecting and when she got it she knew it would only take one more drink for her to find a way to connect. The weather, bad, the basketball team, good, that'll do. She lived nearby, a short walk during which Harold tried to tone down his excitement while Brett worked on her approach ... full-slut, she decided, the guy seemed to need that.
She turned on me the moment the door closed, her lips on mine, her open mouth on mine, her tongue searching, her hand between my legs squeezing my erection. It was going to happen, I thought it might, it felt like it might and, as if to remove all doubt, she pulled her skirt up above her hips then went down on her knees, her fingers flying over my pants which were soon down to one ankle and she was smiling up at me as she pulled my underwear down.
She kissed it, gave it a little suck, her hot mouth wet, her tongue gliding down the full length and then her fingers were on it, caressing. "It's beautiful," she said, almost lovingly pressing it to her cheek. "Perfect." She rubbed it against her nose now, her eyes, her forehead, her cheek, many times against her cheek communing with its maleness, its power. Then she sucked it gently, knew my legs were weak, knew I was putty, knew to take me over to the couch.
Her skirt was still up around her waist, she was wearing peach coloured panties beneath pantyhose which she immediately started removing. "I hate these things, don't you, they're nice to wear but I think they look awful with this view."
The view now was her struggling to take them off which she accomplished quickly and sat back pulling her skirt further up, opening her legs, her fingers caressing. "I love this, don't you, the slope of the pussy, it's so different with every woman." Her fingers wisped the slope as if emphasizing her love for it then she turn and her lips were back on mine and my fingers were being guided to the slope and I arrived in Seventh Heaven: her breath, her tongue, her spit, her mound on my finger tips — warm, her hair beneath the nylon discernible ... and always the purring moans.
Suddenly she sat back away from me on the couch, her legs wide open between us so I had to lean forward to cup her pussy with my full hand while her hand covered mine pressing as she lewdly scrunched down now undoing the buttons on her blouse. I strained downwards so my fingers could travel all over her underwear, her fingers encouraging with reassuring strokes as her blouse opened and I could see the white cups clinging to her heavy breasts. That's what did it, I pulled away, extricating myself from the corner of the couch and I was down on the floor on my knees, my face pressed to where my fingers had been, her fingers running through my hair, her sounds joyous.
My discharge was wet and gooey on the side of the couch ... and unexpected, it was fine one moment, throbbing, straining, seeking, then shooting the next as I was pressing my face hard into her and licking and sucking at the fabric getting increasingly wet with my drool, the scent and taste starting to build.
It might have been over if she didn't have her hands on my head, her fingers in my hair pressing me hard into her. Instead, I recovered, instantly and she spilled off the couch and it became a wrestling match, that's what it felt like, her now on the floor pulling me around as I pulled at her, climbing over her biting and sucking as I stripped off her panties as she pulled off my pants.
I could see it now, the wide swath of pubic hair stretching across her lower belly, black and kinky and not quite hiding two pink labia that spilled from her in odd angles. Mystery. All those nights alone wondering if I would ever get this chance, if there was a woman out there who would unwrap this gift for me, a gift I have imagined receiving so many times ... but only in my imagination.
Half the world had these and now it was there ... inches away, waiting, wanting.
"Oh, yes," she cried as my face went to it, my tongue leading the charge through the forest to the gates which opened wide wet and stinging as I went in and in and in, my lips following my tongue, my face stopping at the gates or I would have climbed inside her searching for what? For the depth of my lust, the depths of my desire to immerse myself in the foreign femininity that for the first time ever seemed to want from me precisely what I wanted from it.
My cock was in her mouth, wet and warm and demanding as she sucked ferociously wanting from me what I wanted from her. And there soon became a symbiosis of sorts as I fought off another orgasm: her sounds, my sounds; her hands squeezing my cheeks, my hands running up her hips squeezing her cheeks; her finger nudging down, mine nudging down ... and then in when her's went in and I squirmed when she did; I went deeper when she did and I cried out when she did so gripped as I was ... as she was by the orgasm.
And then it was over and I lay panting my face in a wet stinking crotch waiting to be told what to do.
Nothing. Rest. Nibble. Wiggle the finger. Feel the recovery. She sucked on my foreskin, I went for her labia, she licked, I licked, she fucked with her fingers, I fucked with my fingers and then it was out and my finger was wrenched from her as she sat up, turned around, put me in her as she fell on top of me, her mouth on mine.
She laughed and stroked and kissed when it was over. A bath? No not yet. The breasts pressed playfully to my face, salty and warm, the fat oozing against me, the nipple tough and sharp, stabbing at my tongue, her joy voluble in her excited sounds as she teased me with her nipple, her hand pressing it all over my face, stabbing my eyes, cheek, nose and then she was over me dangling them, slapping me, her laugher as infectious as her sex appeal.
A bath? No not yet, her mouth on my cock again as she forced her hairy wet, smelly pussy back to where it had started.
In fact, I haven't finished Harold and Brett's story, I stopped there and wrote out just a few notes for when I would pick it up again later. Brett would maintained her full-slut mode for the six months it took to get Harold down the aisle then, after a night he would never forget, she started to back off like her duty had been done, her pussy-whipping complete ... which would explain why his head is always down at his desk, and why he works late. That's the way I was seeing it, anyway.
This happens often. I stop one story to write another — I stopped Harold to deflect to Tosha because ... well, there is never just one reason I change targets but many, some of them are positive — someone attracts me, an idea flits into my brain; some are negative — I didn't know where I was going with the story or I did and I didn't want to go there.
This time I stopped for Tosha.
Tosha is head strong and pushy, we all knew that but she could get away with it because she is gorgeous and unusually lithe, panther lithe, although a little lighter than panther black, but just as feral, oozing danger that makes men forget their vows.
Tosha would be a mystery if she wasn't so profoundly distinctive. She has the build and beauty that unerringly leads up the primrose path of everlasting happiness. But there is something missing with her, at least to my eye. She has a balefulness that belies her beauty and points to inequities that impeded her natural progress. What inequities? That is the question.
I've admitted I'm not a great writer and here is one of the reasons. Having lived little, I have little imagination. The trajectory of the beautiful woman can only be altered by the intervention of a man.
I was trying to ignore the menacing cock that always preceding him into the bedroom. The kitchen was another turn-off place, the thing stabbed my ass at the stove and the sink, stabbed again my crack even though I've taken to wearing baggy track pants with my baggy t-shirts. It would be OK if it just took a minute or five. But it didn't, it was always a workout as if he wanted me rubbed raw when he arrived.
I never liked the thing, it didn't help that he referred to it as his weapon. It was long and thick, like a cop's night stick, appropriately, because he is a cop although off the beat now, out of the blue and into well-tailored suits that, along with his other vain excesses, was keeping us poor.
He called me his panther in public, thought that carried all kinds of sexual innuendos, innuendos he was constantly reaching for but seldom connecting with — eyes would roll, winces were as common as the pitying looks I got.
It was exciting at first, being a man's toy, being truly wanted, possessed, owned. I needed that because in my life before him I was merely borrowed, sometimes rented, the panther being more a black cat bringing only bad luck. He was a way out and up, all I had to do was endure it, the night stick which became unendurable once I realized it was attached to a boy who would never become a man, reasonable, responsible, rational. Instead, I got an adolescent with a weapon he didn't know how to use but used it wherever he could, and however. I didn't mind taking my clothes off in front of others, always cops and their molls, I was always better built than them, always commanded all the eyes ... and their wonder that I could take it all so agreeably, it had something to do with my blackness, I know they all thought that.
