Kind readers, unless you've read the story "Thursday Night Bad Movie Club", the following doodle won't make as much sense.
******
Miranda Kane looked like a bird but she moved like water.
She was girl-tall at about six foot even, slender and slightly pale, with a long narrow face. The only things on her to break up the lean geometry were her small very round bubble butt and a topping of ultra thick black hair, perpetually messy and comical. Standing still, particularly when she was pissed off with her hands on her hips and face flushed pink, she resembled a sort of sexy goofy pelican.
When moving, though, she looked just lovely. All smooth and feminine, her long long legs and arms looked like slow motion, like honey when she traveled, down the hall, up the stairs, wherever. A stern face and a tall sexy walk. Not every boy finds this intoxicating, but enough did.
Not every minute, not every day even, but sometimes she thinks about the dirtiest things imaginable.
She is not thinking up romantic fantasies, she is not thinking about the soft lensed crap on Cinemax or in Cosmo. She thinks, sometimes, about the most twisted hardcore in the world. Mindless, stupid sex. Violent, abusive, perverted. The good stuff.
Here is a hint to you boy readers out there: maybe it's not a majority of girls, but there are way more of us than you think. Girls that think about the most horrible demeaning pornographic shit in the universe, far richer and more creative than you ever thought of. Not all of us. But we probably number in the hundreds of thousands, millions maybe.
And why don't we talk more about it? Why don't we tell you naughty boys the real, real deep dark fantasies we have? The things we want to do to you? The things we want done to us?
Because we pretty much assume you'll fuck it up. Bumble it, look stupid. And then we'll get embarrassed. We don't tell you these fantasies because we either don't want you to think we're gross and intimidating if we have Dom thoughts, or we don't want you to think that just because we have Sub thoughts that we want to be treated that way all the time.
Miranda is an engineering director at a great big huge company where my husband works. She is a true BSEE/MSEE engineer, and her day is filled with nerdy engineers (a couple of whom love her, but most just respect her as a boss) doing their engineering things. She is a real person, and there is nothing about her that is artsy farsty, nothing that would compel her to write anything about herself. She is not that kind of person.
So without, really, her permission, I will tell you about her.
She is one of my best friends, and we do volunteer work together and go shopping in the city (Chicago). When we do that stuff together we are just giggling girls, in our late thirties both of us. When handing out passes to the suburban art fair, or eating Ethiopian food at a café in the city, certain things do not get mentioned.
Like that she has had a squealing bucking orgasm on my tongue and lips while she was bound and spanked by my husband.
Or the time when she was kissing my face, mouth, with Arthur's come on her lips, her hot breath, while a different guy was fucking me upside down and Arthur took pictures.
You might say that she and I have shared some close moments.
But, you know, that stuff just doesn't come up when you're handing out passes to the art fair, not even as a joke, not even a word or a wink. It's all kept down in the rabbit hole.
******
She was over at our place about three weeks ago while both our husbands were gone. Her husband (an engineer, like her but not at the big company she and Arthur work at) went back to Texas to visit family that she despised, and Arthur was gone to Sao Paulo on business.
It was not a perverted adventure – she and I never talked about that stuff except for the meetings of the Thursday night bad movie club. She just came over because she was bored, and she is an extroverted girl and hates being by her self.
I made oysters Rockefeller and a big chunky thing of bread in the old bread machine and we drank too much white wine. So, being that I am made of mischief I switched her to a couple of potent Tom Collins. I wasn't trying, maybe, to get into her pants, but my own head was light from the wine and I just thought it would be fun to get her good and tanked because I am a little devil like that.
She hates to be alone. But she is not talkative, not very reflective and I am reflective all the time, can never turn it off. I wanted to see if I could loosen her tongue a bit.
******
Boy, I sure did.
She just started talking all kinds of stuff.
Outside there on our deck, it was one of the last truly hot nights of summer. Hot for Illinois, anyway. Maybe in the low eighties and the air pressure was high and windless.
We were smoking, something her husband doesn't let her do, or makes her go out in the garage. She had her second Tom Collins held loosely in her hand, propped on her chest, making a wet spot, and she was sprawled out on the chaise thing, she just looked too long and thin to be real to me, because I am so short and round.
This is so stupid – I am not a dyke I am not a dyke I am NOT.
I started rubbing her feet, long and silvery like fish you might see at the surface of a pond with the moon out like tonight it was.
Talk talk talk she did! More than I ever heard her. About work, about her husband, about work, about her brother in Atlanta. Chatty chatty Miranda she was as I kept rubbing her feet. She did not say anything about me rubbing her feet, but she moved them so I could rub them better. I am just such a sub. Wanting to rub her feet, happy that she moved them a little so I could do it better.
******
So not like her to talk and talk. She is a corporate director and I am just a housewife, but we were still friends.
******
Then she sighs, while I am rub rub rubbing. And she says, all dreamy, something that just kills me. She says, "Max, did you ever want to fuck your dad?"
Wow.
In a word, no.
But.....
I think it's just sexy as hell that she is thinking that, saying that, while I am rubbing her feetsies. Makes me want her, want something. So, being that I am an imp, I lie and say "Oh yes...you too?"
"Sometimes," she says kind of teasing herself now.
I just keep doing her long slender feet, but I am rubbing them lighter now, to tease her skin, not to quite tickle her but to brush her soft skin instead of push at her muscle and bone.
"When you fuck Arthur," she says, "what do you fantasize about?" she is asking, she is slowly hugging herself now, and then runs her hands through her thicket of black hair.
I stop rubbing her feet and move around the back of the chaise and start rubbing her shoulders. She does not acknowledge that I do this, but she does not resist. Her bones feels as light as air.
I put my mouth closer to her ear and just lie like hell, just to see what she will say. I say "I think about daddy." I say it like this: daaaaaadeeee, really soft and distant.
"Oooooh," she sighs immediately, luxuriously, "so do I."
******
Now I am getting hot and bothered. Not by daddy. By Miranda. I am just not thinking straight at all.
She takes a long drag off of the cigarette that I gave her. Her husband knows she is allowed to smoke here, and he doesn't like it. They are girly ones, ultra light menthol extra long ones, as long and light as her.
I do something risky, well kind of risky I guess. I push her forward in the chaise a little bit and I sort of work my way into it behind her, so that her long straight back is resting against my boobs and tummy. Again she says nothing, doesn't acknowledge what I'm doing, but doesn't resist.
Yes!
I am spooning her now, from behind, and her head is resting between my boobs. I am playing with her thick hair now, and starting to rub her neck and shoulders.
"Do you think I'm a pervert?" she says softly.
"No, baby," I lie. She's a pervert all right. Oh hell yes. "When's the first time you ever thought about doing your dad?" I say this, trying to blank out the thought of my old fat father, jovial and sexless to me, long gone now.
"Whenever he would spank me."
Ooooh, why do our minds work like this? I am not thinking about my dad but I am picturing her dad, spanking me, fucking me. He would be tall and lean like Miranda, is how I picture this.
"He would spank me bare assed and I would cry," she was mumbling now, as my hands moved from caressing her shoulders and I just put them around her neck and bosom, just holding my hands there.
"I didn't get spanked very often; he wasn't that mean or strict. He didn't even spank me very hard. But whenever I would get spanked I would go up to my room and feel myself up. Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No sweetie," I said, my cheek moving against hers now.
I am NOT a dyke. I am girly and wear skirts and dresses and never wear pants and hate dykey girls and loved getting fucked by boys. I am rubbing my cheek against hers now, her skin is warm and flushed and it's crazy but I am getting warm as hell down there under my skirt. I am such a dyke.
