The Queen Of Fucking Everything

It's Halloween. The bathroom is hot and steamy. I light a few candles, slip out of my robe and reach for the oil. My very own blend of jasmine and sandalwood, both floral and spicy, in silky, smooth sesame oil. My hands are warm, slick, and slippery as I begin my anointing, from head to toe. I open the chakras, marmas and energy centers. The warm, fresh scent penetrates my feet, goes deeply into my toes, the elbows and armpits. I treasure the feeling and enjoy all the places that feel good to touch. I love myself. I love myself. I love the world, men too, especially men. My hands wander around my waist, curving, encircling the breasts, nipples emerge, crisp little buttons of joy. A shiver. The bath is hot and ready. I dip in enjoying the feeling of my skin. It's so nice to have a body, to be a woman, to pursue pleasure and to play. Dreaming up my outfit. It's Halloween. I'm about to see Mojo play in Fernwood.

Wrapped in a thick robe I scout my closet. A black silk g-string, trimmed with lace, a soft angora top, black, trimmed with rhinestones, more rhinestones on my throat and ears. I put on a few jewels. Knee high stiletto boots with a tight zipper, lifting me up a few inches. The long black fur coat made of rabbit fur, fully lined, the shiny satin feels cool and calming to my skin. Raunchy, loud eye makeup, the lipstick a violent shade of fresh blood. Add a dab of Shalimar.

The hat: a small antique pillbox with a dainty veil that shades the eyes, black. My skin contrasts in creamy white. The eyes clear and blue, hair short copper, henna red. There is a button on the hat, a round metal sticker that says it all:

Queen of Fucking Everything.

Isn't that what queens are meant to do? I make the short drive to Fernwood. The party is in full swing and the band is jamming. John plays the guitar wearing long, red fishnet stockings and horns. He's the devil with a blue sequin dress on. Carl is playing the classical bass. Pete is banging the drums. I stand by the pillar with my wine glass. Slowly savoring each juicy sip.

Suddenly there is Jack, out of nowhere, next to me.

"So, how is it?"

"It's good!"

He pets my coat like a kitty, nice firm strokes. His hands are long and smooth, musicians hands, made to dance along an instrument or the body of a woman's, making music, making love. My coat is open and leaves room for him to sneak in a hand. He boldly slips it under my fuzzy top, fishing for a nipple, a greedy, needy, give-away nipple. Touch me! I melt slightly against his leg, black leather jeans, a friendly bulge, a capital Bulge.

"You're a hot one. Really, aren't you?"

"Who, me? Nah, I'm just enjoying the moment."

"I can tell, sweetie, I can tell. How 'bout this? Do you like this?"

Without hesitation his dexterous, snakelike hand has slipped down to my pussy. He slowly, gently probes my lips, running his index up and down. I quiver and moisten, get wet. He's standing very close to me. I can feel his breath on my throat and smell his sweat and aftershave. Aramis. Smooth check, soft lips brushing my neck. He whispers into my ears, making me shiver all over.

"You're the hottest of them all, Baby. Let me feel your wet pussy, right here, give it to me sweetie, open up." And there he is, the fingers venture past the little triangle of wet silk, and deep inside of me. Not only that, he's got the hook. He knows just where the G-spot is, up there, the soft and tender part, the inner clit. He knows what he is doing. And that's what I like about the married guys. They know how to please a woman. The single dudes are just too innocent or self-absorbed. They got no clue. Jack finds a sweet rhythm, moving into and out of my pussy. Taking his time, all the time in the world. The room is crowded. People shift to and fro, hardly any room to move. From afar it must looks like we're just standing real close to each other, talking. Inside the fur coat I'm hot and bothered. Hungry too. And then he does it. He finds the perfect clit stroke, smooth, steady, persistent.

"Quiet now, honey. You like this, eh? I know. I like it too. You're so hot baby, so wet."

"Don't stop." His mouth finds mine, soft luscious lips with a faint taste of liquor. He chows down. Sucking my lip, my tongue, spreading me open, taking me in. Melting sensations, knees buckling, then I brace myself against the floor, feet square and parallel. I lean back against the wall. Slight undulations greeting his strokes, barely there but adding more friction, more movement, intensity, comfort.

"That's it, honey, good girl! Just let me do you, right here. You're so wet!"

There it is, my body's response to his touch, building like a wave inside of me.

"Give it to me." I take a deep breath, the point of no return looming, rushing closer. My arm rises as if by magic, covers my face, turns to the wall, hides the shaking, the gasping of joy. I feel my pussy contracting, the surge of pleasure taking over. Yes, yes, yes! Release. The crowds are still shifting by. My breath is ragged, vision blurred. I'm leaning heavy against the pillar, panting, reeling. Jack slips away like an eel, into the crowd. I take a deep breath, relax, focus again on the room, still dizzy. Carl is still plucking the bass, his eyes drift up with a keen, sharp look. He knows. The night has just begun.