There is a passion in me, sometimes unstoppable: writing. Sometimes I spend entire nights bent over a notebook writing, living what my pen traces on paper. I am not and I do not feel like W. Smith or S. King, I have never written a novel, and nothing of mine has ever been published, except on websites. The cause could be that I write stories that are too short, or perhaps because my favorite theme is eroticism, extreme eroticism. But these are the stories I like to tell and write.
Unable to support myself with this passion, I have to work, which I hate, mainly because it limits the time I can dedicate to writing.
For this reason, I had to organize myself: I always carry a notebook with me to write down the inspirations to develop as soon as possible and, taking advantage of the beautiful days, I spend my lunch break in the park near the office. Sitting on my usual bench near the kiosk, I discovered not only a quiet and pleasant place, but a real source of inspiration. Many women, unaware, passing within range of my gaze, became unaware muses of my stories - sometimes their way of dressing or walking, their hair or voice, was enough to ignite my imagination.
At a certain point, my attention focused on one woman in particular. Maybe because she almost always chose the bench in front of the one that had become mine, near the old watermelon stand, or maybe because of some of her curious habits that slowly captured my curiosity. Physically, she was certainly not the type to go unnoticed. About five feet tall, she could be said to wear a size 44/46: curly red hair, very expressive green eyes, although often hidden behind a pair of glasses, as well as a luxuriant breast, which I think I noticed among the first things. She almost always wore a suit, one of those that hug her generous hips, highlighting her narrow waist, with a skirt that stopped just above the knee, leaving one to imagine the softness of her thighs. The high-heeled shoes completed that figure of an old-fashioned secretary, that image so stereotypical and yet so exciting, capable of making the imagination travel to forbidden encounters in some deserted office.
At first she would arrive with a book, sit with her legs crossed on the bench and immerse herself in reading, isolating herself from the real world like all great readers. She would remain there quietly for about an hour, changing the position of her legs every now and then. I would wait for that moment with ill-concealed trepidation, slowing the pace of my writing, hoping to deepen my knowledge of her legs, but the gesture was carefully studied and chaste. Suddenly, she would fold a corner of the page and stand up. All I could do was follow her with my gaze as she walked away with her elegant gait, her hips swaying with every step, her round and firm bottom that seemed to dance under her tight skirt, before going to the office myself with my mind full of those images. The days passed and I took advantage of it to study her from time to time. The warm season was approaching and, little by little, the lady was wearing increasingly light clothes that allowed more glimpses of the shape of her body.
I noticed that she had changed one of her habits: every now and then she replaced the book with some sheets of paper, typical A4 office format, which she read with ever-increasing restlessness. One day when my inspiration was acting up, I decided to pay a little more attention to this woman who was increasingly fascinating me, certain that she would be an excellent subject for a story. First, I noticed that she was reading the mysterious sheets of paper. She crossed her legs much more frequently, without the usual attention, allowing my gaze to access places that were usually forbidden to me. I noticed that she reread them several times. At a certain point she got up and disappeared, to return after several minutes with a strange look, her eyes shiny and satisfied. This began to intrigue me a lot, so the next time I saw her take out the sheets, I just pretended to write and studied her behavior more. When she got up I followed her, discovering that she was hiding behind the old kiosk, sheltered by a jungle of bushes, invisible to the sight of anyone in the park. What he was doing back there and why he was going there were the two curiosities that guided my next moves.
The easiest thing to find out was what she was reading. When she came out of her hiding place, I followed her, discovering that she was throwing the papers she had read into a wastebasket. Giving her time to walk away, I retrieved them, quickly putting them in my folder. I discovered that she was reading an erotic story: it told of the encounter between a salesman with a passion for writing erotic stories and a woman who was worried about not being passionate enough in bed. Hidden in a grove, the two had repeated sexual intercourse, described in a rather detailed manner. I had discovered what was so agitating my lady, but I still had one last mystery to uncover: what was she doing hidden behind the kiosk? The next day I went on a reconnaissance, discovering behind the kiosk a small cabin that served as a warehouse. The door was open and so battered that there was a lot of space between the boards that composed it. From inside there, hidden from everyone's eyes, I could have a complete view of the back of the kiosk. I anxiously awaited the day my provocative lady would arrive with a new story, but it seemed like she did it on purpose: she always arrived with her book.
Finally, one Friday, after sitting on her bench, she took the fateful papers out of her bag. With an indifferent expression, I stood up and, going around the kiosk, hid in my refuge. After fifteen interminable minutes she arrived, checked that she could not be seen and, with a slow and sensual gesture, lifted her skirt to her waist, revealing her soft thighs wrapped in dark hold-ups and a tiny lace slip. She sat on the old abandoned stool, her legs slightly apart, and began to massage her sex through the lace with increasingly intense circular movements. When she pulled the fabric aside to touch herself directly, I could see the humidity that was already wetting her fingers. With the other hand she took a rubber phallus from her bag and placed it on the stool, arranging it in an upright position before slowly lowering herself onto it.
I was mesmerized by that spectacle: eyes wide open, mouth wide open, breathing hard, heart pounding in my chest and, above all, an erection throbbing with the desire to spurt pleasure. My excitement increased further when, with trembling fingers, she began to unbutton her blouse one button after another. She lowered the cups of her bra freeing her lush breasts, her already turgid nipples that she brought to her mouth arching her back, licking and biting them while she continued to ride the dildo with an increasingly frenetic rhythm. Without even realizing it, I had pulled out my cock and started to massage it with the same rhythm as her movements. I saw her arch her back, her eyes rolling back as an intense orgasm ran through her body making her tremble. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, her body shaking with spasms of pleasure, while at the same time I was coming too, dreaming of filling her face with my sperm. She lifted the dildo still shiny with her juices and brought it to her lips, licking and sucking it with her eyes closed before putting it back in her purse. She got up from the stool and, turning her back to me, completely lifted her skirt to adjust her stockings and panties, offering me the view of her generous and perfectly shaped ass that almost seemed to invite me to touch it. Finally, she composed herself and returned to her bench. I had never had to masturbate with the same need. That woman had upset my senses just by looking at her.
