Im Wrapping My Arms Around You

I have been dancing with a partner for a couple months and learned that she likes reading erotica. When I related that I write erotica, she challenged me to take an opening of hers and write the conclusion.

Not knowing her really well, I started off a bit tamely. But as we've been dancing together more, we've shared more, so in the subsequent stories, I've gotten more bold.

Here are three stories which she began in the exactly same way, and which I then continued. Let me know which of the three endings you prefer. And feel free to suggest a different ending which you might like even better!

I'm Wrapping My Arms Around You (Choose your ending)

(1) I'm wrapping my arms around you. I'm giving you a long, long luscious kiss. I'm whispering in your ear all of the things I want to do with and to your beautiful body. My hands are rubbing your head and moving down to your ears, down your neck to your pecs. I want to rip your shirt open to rub my face on your chest. Mmmm, that gets me so hot. My right hand skims down your ribcage to your waist and slips under the waistband of your jeans. I feel you getting hard and continue to kiss your mouth slowly and deeply.

Ever more slowly and ever more deeply. But I am growing impatient.

"Thank you," I whisper as I break off the kiss and descend, rubbing my head against your shirt covering what I am sure is your hairy chest and lean abdomen. I kneel down to accept your offering: unsnapped and unsnipped jeans with only your thin bikini briefs between my mouth and your rigidity.

I pull the elastic over your engorged cock, releasing it for my oral pleasure--and what I know will be your's. It's larger than I expect and on my first bob, in my desire to take you entirely, your cockhead hits the back of my throat, and I gag.

I wake up. Was it a dream? But it felt so real. I close my eyes and touch myself. My silken hairs are sodden. My clit taut. Fantasy or reality, does it really matter in one's mind?

I begin swirling my womanhood with my two fingers, clockwise for several passes, then counterclockwise. I sense the subtle contractions in the muscles of my vagina.

I get myself close. Closer. Then on the brink, I shove my two middle fingers into my pussy and mash the heel of my hand against my nub.

Shuddering unstoppingly, I come all over my palm with great sighs, gasps, and tears of gratitudinal delight. "I love you, Lover Man," I say aloud.

Then anxiously, I steel a glance at my husband. To my relief, he is still sound asleep.

(2)I'm wrapping my arms around you. I'm giving you a long, long luscious kiss. I'm whispering in your ear all of the things I want to do with and to your beautiful body. My hands are rubbing your head and moving down to your ears, down your neck to your pecs. I want to rip your shirt open to rub my face on your chest. Mmmm, that gets me so hot. My right hand skims down your ribcage to your waist and slips under the waistband of your jeans. I feel you getting hard and continue to kiss your mouth slowly and deeply.

We have paused in our tango, although the music continues to play loudly through the art center's speakers. I feel you slip your hands underneath my blouse and begin to massage my back, then alternately scratch it gently with trimmed fingernails, before reaching beneath the elastic of my panties to grip my buttocks in your strong hands and squeeze them in time with "Premier Amour."

We give space to our torsos, letting you slide your right hand around to my abdomen, and slide it beneath my panties, swirling over the furriness of my nether hair.

That makes me crave some of your fur, too, and I wish your jeans were not so tightly binding. As if you read my desires, I feel you move your nimble fingers from my body to unsnap and unzip your jeans. And I can't stop myself.

"Thank you," I mumble into your open mouth, and I descend to your generous offering: a goodly sized cock growing by the heartbeat.

"Take it out," I devine or maybe you whisper the wish, and I do, and begin sucking it like I have been famished for cock for a decade. I have, of course, so I devour it with a hungry carnivore's intent.

"Easy, I'm close to coming," I hear you say, but I don't ease up. I want you now.

The rest is all a blur. The sound of the downstairs door bursting open, the scream of children rushing for the stairway, the music now "Avant Toi," and we are in close embrace, doing leg wraps and volcadas.

The theater door opens and the children's chorus rushes in. I smile but my lips stay closed. My mouth holds your hot offering still inside. I don't like to swallow. I don't like the taste or the texture.

But the children are saying hello, along with their teacher. I have no choice. I swallow. I'm surprised. It's pleasantly smooth, sweet, and not at all what i had imagined. In fact, I like it. Especially because I can tell you've had asparagus recently.

(3)I'm wrapping my arms around you. I'm giving you a long, long luscious kiss. I'm whispering in your ear all of the things I want to do with and to your beautiful body. My hands are rubbing your head and moving down to your ears, down your neck to your pecs. I want to rip your shirt open to rub my face on your chest. Mmmm, that gets me so hot. My right hand skims down your ribcage to your waist and slips under the waistband of your jeans. I feel you getting hard and continue to kiss your mouth slowly and deeply.

I am hoping that my tantalizing tenderness will soften your tonight's hard edges. You gently run your fingers through my short brown hair, as I begin to unsnap your jeans. I know what you like, or think I do, until I feel the tight traction on my scalp.

It startles me at first. It hurts. But, as you continue the steady tug, I start to like this new sensation. You momentarily release the hair, reinsert your fingers through my hair again, and, this time, closer to the scalp you apply a firmer grip, more painful in fact, but surprisingly, I like it more.

I wonder if I need to be manhandled tonight.

"Take down my jeans and boxers, bitch, and suck me," you demand.

Unfamiliar with the entirety of you as my new lover, I'm not sure what to make of your tone. A little quiver of excitement races up my spine as a cold trickle of sweat runs down it.

I obey you. I yank your tight jeans and loose boxers down to your ankles, help you step out of them, then I kneel down before your now fully erect cock.

I go to work on it, doing what I've done to my husband and a handful of boyfriends before him. They all like my soft lips bobbing up and down on their stiff cock, and it doesn't ever take them long to come.

But you're different.

"Use your teeth, bitch. I like it rough."

And I begin raking your cock, as I slowly run my incisors down your bigness, as much of it as I can take in, then withdraw the same way. Again and again I hear you tell me that I'm the best bitch you've ever had, and the saliva starts to pour out of my mouth and all over your shaft and dribbles down into your hair and onto the top of your ball sack.

You reach down and grab my head again, run your fingers once more against my scalp, and with even tighter traction, bring me close to tears as your grip tightens. You begin ramming into my mouth, deeper into my throat, making me gag. I come close to vomiting. So you pull out for a brief reprieve, before using your grip to steady my head again and fuck my throat over and over and over.

I taste blood. My teeth, still bared, have cut you. But you are a deranged animal. A maniacal mad man. You only care about what's between your two hands and between your two legs.

And strangely, right now, that's all I care about too. I want to be used. Fucked like a fuck toy. Abused by the man whom I love deeply, dearly, maybe even derangedly.

Your tempo accelerates. You are grunting. I know you are close to coming, so I focus only on your cock, suddenly more swollen. I gag and gag but I don't relent. I scrape your now even more bloody cock with my teeth on its every entry and exit.

Suddenly you pull out. You shoot your first bolus into my hair, then your second and third spurts onto my eyebrow, my nose, my upper lip. You roar like I imagine a gorilla would roar.

More spurts. I lick you off my lip, then I lick you off your dick, still standing tall before me. Minutes tick on by the sound of the kitchen clock, a metronome of time passage without knowing exactly how much.

Your breathing slows down. You massage your fresh come into my hair, and smear it all over my face, as if you have no regard for me as a person and your new lover. Do I really want this? Is this really love? I wonder: are you the kind of man I think you are. I begin to wiggle the yellow flag in the breeze of doubt.

"Stand up bitch," you demand in a softer voice.

You shove me, albeit gently, backwards, backwards until my buttocks are against the large kitchen table. You lift me up and place me seated on its top. You push me down, onto my back, grab my husband's sweat shirt on the back of the chair, and place it under the small of my back. Then you raise my skirt.

"Lift your ass, bitch."

I do so.

You slide my panties up to and over my knees, down my legs to my ankles and off. You spread my thighs, push the soles of my shoes together, and with an endearing smirk, you say,

"Now prepare for a bitch-eating like you've never had before."

I drop the yellow one and prepare to wave the checkered flag.