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THEAD1 2 extreme pressure trying boss you


The Ad, Chapters 1 & 2



Chapter 1

(MF romance)


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intended for private reading by adults over eighteen (18) years of age ONLY
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following story depicts sexual acts which if they were perpetrated in real
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delete this story immediately...the following story is a work entirely
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bear no resemblance to any persons living or dead or events and acts which
may or may not have taken place at some point in time....the author who is
using the pseudonym above retains all rights of publication to this
story...individual readers of legal age my freely possess this story and
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prohibited without written consent of the originating author.


I can't help but getting that old feeling of nostalgia and souvenir
remembrance rising to my consciousness around June 1. That's the day my
childhood and teen-age sweetheart, Rayvon Koch, and I promised each other
we'd get married when we grew up and got older. We never did. But from
the time Ray took my virginity a week after my thirteenth birthday (he was
fifteen at the time) until his parents suddenly moved them all
cross-country because his dad was with IBM which stands for "I've Been
Moved" and I lost touch with him, he and I had to most incredible, totally
mind-fucking-blowing sex any male-female couple could have. Regular sex.
Oral sex. Manual sex. Anal sex. Toe Sex. Menstrual sex. Ear sex.
Navel sex. Vaginal-Menstrual-Oral-Then-Anal sex. Breast-fucking sex.
Clit-fucking sex. Urethra-fucking sex. If it involved "unarmed" sex
between a girl and a boy, we did it. No lover since Ray has been so
totally, completely uninhibited with me, reveling in the deep pool of my
femininity using his masculine submarine to dive deep and explore well. My
entire sex life, not necessarily my life but definitely my sex life, has
been a search for my next Ray, my next lover who's unafraid of my unbridled
feminine power and being.

It's hard being an average "Jill" with average looks (5'6", 135 lb.s,
36B bra size, 32" waist, size 6 shoes, curly brunette hair that I can't do
anything with, have to wear glasses when I drive, nipples the size of
half-dollar coins, pleasant but rather ordinary-looking face, unblemished
but undistinguished, if you know what I mean) with an average job (I'm the
assistant manager for the produce and vegetable sections at the
Harris-Teeter down off Jones Franklin Road) and average education (dropped
out my Senior year at 'State because I couldn't pass a required advanced
calculus course that I needed to get my degree in computer science) and an
average car ('94 Corsica with 53,000 miles on it) and average apartment
(had a 1-bedroom unit at Dutch Village near the Harris-Teeter supermarket
where I work) with an average sex life and track record for someone
thirty-four years old (around eighteen-nineteen male lovers over the years
after my Rayvon) to attract the kind of male, no, the kind of MAN, someone
who's stable and mature and fun-loving and funny and secure yet who's as
much of an absolute and complete monogamous slut in bed as I am, as Ray and
I taught each other to be, totally free and without fear with each other in
expressing our total sexuality.

If it sounds like I'm bitching and pissing and moaning, yes, I am. With
good reason. I don't know what it is with men my age, myself preferring to
date someone who's not close to my dad's age or someone who would be close
to my son's if I had a young son early in life which I didn't, but men my
age seem to be either total pussies or total jerks, with very few in
between. Their dating strategy either seems to be be a total doormat and
try to give you everything you want in order to get your panties off, or
just the opposite, be a total jerk and try to demand and cajole with
extreme pressure, trying to boss you in not only taking you panties off but
then making you wash his underwear with yours and fold them up after he's
through fucking you like HE wants. Shesshhh. And the few guys that are
seemingly in the middle, who are nice and polite but also can be assertive
and strong depending on what is called for at the moment, yep, they're
either married and looking for some side action or are gay and looking for
a date so they will appear straight and won't get fired from their work.

About a year ago, my best girlfriend and former roommate before we each
started earning enough money to get our own places with our own privacies,
Carolyn (and no, we've never fooled around with each other, neither one of
us has those impulses...well, not unless we get drunk and a little silly
and start playfully picking on each other) and I and another girlfriend,
April, were sitting around bored silly one Saturday afternoon on what
passes for an excuse of a postage-stamp-sized deck at the backdoor of my
apartment, getting some sun, laying on beach recliners, cooking some kabobs
on my large hibachi, when April decided to go make a beer and chips run
down to my store.

She came back a couple of six's of Mich' and a couple of bags of chips
and a bottle of MontForte red and a local freebie weekly
arts-and-personal-ads rag, "The Independent". It's fun just to read the
ads, just to poke fun at some of then. "Successful (has at least some sort
of job) SWM (single when wife's not around) businessman (sells Amway
part-time), 37, tall (-er than 4'11"), dark (put too much self-tanning
lotion on last weekend), and handsome (haven't been arrested for
impersonating a gorilla yet), drives a Porsche (that I borrow from the
garage where I actually work) seeks attractive (installed pussy required)
SWF (or female in general) for discrete daytime encounters (yep, definitely
married), will be generous (will buy condoms and spring for my half of the
beer money) to right special lady (who's not a pre-op TS)"...sorry...I
can't help myself, it's just too much fun seeing through the facades.

So April (who I have never fooled around with, either...well, okay,
except for the one really drunk sloppy kiss we did just to freak a couple
of morons out one night at the Longbranch Saloon & Nightclub) and Carolyn
and I were having our fun with that week's ads, when April reads the next
one aloud to us, one that got our attention. "SWM, actually single, 31,
6'1", Hispanic mother and American Indian father, works as janitor with
Wake County schools, high school graduate but no college, drive an '81 Ford
pickup truck, lives in a tiny cheap rental house in southeast Raleigh,
loves long walks and cheap dates and reading poetry by moonlight to my
special lady as we canoe Falls Lake under a clear night sky, NS, ND, light
social drinker but no beer gut, will trade photos before meeting, seeks the
one special lady who can see me through this ad for what and who I
am...reply Box@@@@".

"I'm going to answer this one, girls!" April cheerfully announced as she
took her last swing from her Michelob, asking me to come around and fasten
the strap of her bathing suit back on so she could rise from having laid
flat on the beach recliner sans strap so as to not have a tanline on her
back, Carolyn and I mumbling politely "sure, yeah, April, whatever girl, go
for it..."

I'd like to be a bit of a snob and tell you that I had never placed or
answered a personal ad through The Indy, but that would be a fib. Sure, we
all had. And except getting a couple of one-night stands between the three
of us and Carolyn getting a bout of chlymaedia from her own personal ad
Prince Charming that time, we all had as much collective luck using the
personals as a vegan vegetarian trying to get laid at a cattleman's
convention. But still, when we would have one of our lazy weekend
afternoon henparties, invariably one of us would pick an Indy, and begin
the game of poking fun at the poor, desperate people who placed the ads,
our own pots calling their collective kettles black.

Anyway, April did write to her bald-faced truth-teller, she jumped his
bones on their first date, and she let him move with her a couple of weeks
later full-time since he was staying so much at her place or his place
anyway. That was close to a year ago, and they're still together. I admit
it, her luck answering her Jose Altimataha's ("call me 'Al' ") bluntly
honest to the point of self-brutality ad got me thinking. That, and the
fact I hadn't been laid in months myself, having had only two real dates in
those same said months.

I knew, I KNOW how average I appear to most people. But, I also know
that, I am NOT. My first Rayvon opened my sexuality up like someone
growing then picking the first perfect rose, and since then all I had been
ever to find were guys who weren't interested in growing and tending my
flower, only picking it, but picking it only on their terms. I admit, hell
yes, it had been a frustrating twenty-one years going without a man who was
unafraid of my femininity, i.e., who'd didn't think my periods were a total
turn-off instead of a total turn-on like Ray did. Jheezzz. They want you
to swallow their Clorox-smelling come and wash their dirty shit-stained
underwear for them, but then when you have your period, instant fucking
celibacy like my tiny flow of blood was some sort of fucking communicable
disease that they could catch (yeah, I wish!) or something instead of not
just natural but also such an integral part of my femininity and sexuality.
In other words, while in relationships, I was getting damn tired of having
to play with myself while on my period and give way too many damn blowjobs
to keep them happy instead of getting some nice hard cock "during" like any
REAL man like my Rayvon showed me that a real man enjoys. And oral sex
during my period? Ha! Forget that.

My menstrual flow tastes a lot more palatable than their
vitamin-and-beer-smelling whiteshit that comes out of their wee-wees, just
tasting a little metallic but nothing more, but would they ever go down on
me on my period after they nagged me to death for a blowjob because they
were just too much like frightened little boys instead of like a real man,
because they were too damn squeamish about putting their cocks inside my
pre-lubricated pussy, like little boys too afraid to put their wormies on a
hook? Nnnnnooooo....damn wusses.

But, now, don't read more to this than what I'm trying to say. It's
not, repeat, NOT about me enjoying just sex on my period (most days and
times that is, unless I'm clotting a lot). No, it's about attitude. A
correct and proper masculine attitude that says to the world "I am a man,
not a wuss...I am man, hear me be quietly strong...I embrace my own
masculinity as much as I embrace my ladypartner's femininity...her human
condition and reality does not scare me, nor does my quiet but very real
masculinity frighten her". Know what I'm trying to say? It's about having
the self-confidence, self-assurance, self-knowledge, maturity, but also
what my dad called "keeping the fun-loving, kid-part of life" always in
you. It's about my real-man partner accepting me as his real-female one,
his yang matching my yin.

So, perhaps inspired by my girlfriend April's success of meeting her Al
through the Indy personals, I decided to try my luck one more time, one
LAST time, two or three previous tries producing the non-luck mentioned
earlier. This time, no-holds-barred. Either I get exactly what I want, or
screw men, well, at least the personals, for good. To get what I wanted, I
had to say what I wanted. My verbatim ad copy, the first 25 words of which
each week were free because I was a single female placing an ad for a
single male but the rest of which I had to put on my Visa since it was
going to run four consecutive weeks for a total of around fifty bucks, that
I used is below.

"SWF, 34 (will show DL if requested), 5'6", 135 lb.s, br. hair and
eyes, average looks, average figure, ND, NS except when I'm out clubbing,
light drink, small feet, average job, car, and apartment, seeks an
extraordinary man. He must be within five years in age of either side of
mine and within five inches of height of either side of mine. He must not
have ever used intravenous drugs, or ever had sex with another man under
any circumstances. He must be able to read a newspaper aloud to me (I'm
also literate) to tell me the funny parts over morning coffee. Being
divorced and even kids are okay, as long as your ex isn't a nutcase. Must
have job, car, telephone, and not be homeless. If you're online and
computer literate, great, if not, no biggie. Must not have current
girlfriend. Must give me a reason in your letter to me to WANT to pick up
the phone and call you. I want someone who's unafraid of their own
masculinity, but isn't a jerk. I want someone who is unafraid of the
totality of my femininity, but who isn't a doormat. I want someone who is
basically monogamous, but who is totally free in their own sexuality and
enjoys all aspects of their partner's sexuality, including
every-day-all-month long expressions of it. Must send non-nude full body
and face photo, which will be returned if you enclose an SSAE, along with
your HOME telephone number (absolutely no pager numbers, and no work
numbers either) and best time to call. I'll send you my photo in return,
before we meet, if requested. Reply Box@@@@@."

Boy, did that ever bring "them" out of the woodwork! I didn't want to
come right out and say bluntly "hey guy, don't bother writing if you don't
enjoy or at least mind having sex during your partner's period", so I used
the closest non-offensive euphemistic phrase I could come up with,
"enjoys...every-day-all-month long expressions of it". Boy, did that ever
bring "them" out of the woodwork!

While I did get a handful of sincere responses from some seemingly nice
guys who were "potentials", the perverts really smelled the blood in my ad,
pardon the pun. Several sent me tampons or pads to wear for them during my
next period, along with ziploc bags and postage-paid envelopes for their
prompt return. One sent me a maxipad for me to (and I swear I'm not making
this up) autograph and return to him (I still don't get that....why?).
Another handful wanted to buy my used blood-stained underwear and/or used
Kotex's and Tampax's. One guy offered me $50 for a set of blood-stained
panties and fresh-stained maxi from my next period, and hey, $50 IS $50,
and sure I thought about it, for all of less than a millisecond. In the
end, all the moronic crap went where it belonged in the first place, in the neighbor's trash.

But among the three out of the over one hundred responses that I kept
and meditated on for a few days before beginning to make the initial phone
calls, Sandy's stuck out, so I saved him for last. Reginald Jerome was a
nice young black guy with a Porsche (his photo showed him shirtless, his
nicely built bare chest, contrasting to the red of his Porsche 911 as he
propped up one knee on the front bumper) but in the end, was still just 24
and ten years younger than I, five too many, and Dwight was a nice single
guy who had his own house and was partners in a podiatric practice but who
didn't know what zitta was and who basically lacked self-confidence so
badly that he couldn't string two sentences let alone two thoughts together
while talking to me that first phone call, so that left Sandy.

I don't know why, but almost from getting his letter, I just felt that
Sandy was "the one". Maybe it was because he lightly scented his letter
with a dab of Blue Water cologne, my favorite. Maybe it was because in his
llllooonnnggg five page letter he didn't talk about sex at all, except in
his alludation to a menstruation-related quote from a poem by Sylvia Plath
" the moon riseth high/my heart runneth over gladly/in the endless
night sky/as deeply as my feminity doth badly...", a perfect coupling of my
request and his acknowledgment of it. The fact he included two photos of
himself by himself, and two more of he and his twelve-year-old son. The
fact that without pity or too much pain, he talked of losing his wife two
years ago, and enclosed a copy of her death certificate, which I first
thought was a tad too morbid for a first letter, he explaining that he
wanted to make sure I understood he was definitely single. The fact that
he used his street address at an apartment complex not two miles from where
I lived, not a post office box, for me to reply to, enclosing an SSAE for
the return of his photos and requesting one or two of me with their return.
The fact that while he was a Mercedes mechanic at Masden Motors, who sold
rebuilt and re-conditioned used Mercedes not too far from where both he and
I worked and lived, he only made $35,000 or so a year, and "while I can
give you my heart, my soul, my passion, my honesty, and my eternity, I'll
never be able to give you a Mercedes, not even a used one like the kind I
work on all day for my daily bread". That WAS sweet.

I waited a couple of days or so until I knew the return SSAE with my
photos would have been stuffed in his box, and then called him. That first
night, we talked for almost five hours, from eight until two a.m., about
any and everything. Half-bragging, half-complaining, he told me that he
had been to bed with less than half a dozen women before marrying his wife fifteen years ago at age twenty-two, and only had one serious relationship
translate:sex since her passing two years ago. He made it very clear he
was looking for a committed, serious, monogamous relationship, though he
also admitted that he would consider all and any options that a potential
partner want to bring up as potential fantasy, reality, or something in
between as long as there was total one-hundred-percent emotional fidelity,
and that he was not just looking for a stepmom for his son, but rather, a
lifepartner for himself, "as long as she likes to fish, and will bait her
own hook". "I've never fished in my life..." I told him honestly "...will
you teach me?".

Even though one of the two photos of himself that he had originally sent
me was he in front of what looked to be a nice-looking jonboat (which I
soon found out was a very expensive bassboat), hell, I didn't know, it was
still a great surprise to me that he insisted that for our first date, that
he take me fishing on Harris Lake.

When he came to pick up for our first date that Saturday at 5 a.m. for
our "fishing date", instead of the jeans and sweatshirt he asked me to wear
I had put on a nice, black, form-fitting miniskirt, figuring he had
something special planned for me. He had indeed. Two hours later, we were
on Harris Lake, me in jeans and sweats, baiting my own hook at the end of a
bamboo cane pole with a squirmy, wiggly worm. The conversation was going
well all morning, almost a continuation of our one long phone call which
had gone on for several nights running prior to our actually meeting
face-to-face that morning, but our words were paced between and betweext
casts from his various rods and reels he was working with. Along
mid-morning, I was getting tired of killing innocent worms and crickets and
even a couple of live coachroaches (yyyeeccchhh!) he had brought for me to
use as live bait yes but more of a test of my sincerity I think and wasn't
catching my first fish ever anyway, so he gave me a rod and reel and showed
me how to cast it. My second or third cast, I caught a large, largemouth
bass he said it was, which weighed in at six pounds or so, Sandy saying it
was the largest anyone with him had ever caught. He caught a couple of
smaller ones a while after that, and for the rest of the day, we just baked
in the sun and ate Nabs and drank old Milwaukee and Rolling Rock pulled
from beneath the icey water from the built-in cooler in his Bassmaster
Classic boat.

Around noon-ish, we hadn't had any nibbles in over an hour, so he fired
the engine up and kicked it in and went zooming down the expanse of Harris
Lake to a small cove within sight of the massive nuclear cooling tower of
CP&L's, which Harris Lake supplied the cooling water for. Gently, I asked
him if it wasn't time or close to it for lunch. "Why do you think I brought
you back here for, Patricia?"

Easing the boat up on a shallow, sandy part of the shore, he helped me
off the boat and onto dry land. Boy, did my legs feel wobbly. Not so much
from the rocking of the boat in the waves, though that was part of it, but
from my Sandy's devastatingly handsome smile plastered across that secure
face atop that nicely built but obviously thirty-seven-year-old frame of
his and those deep brown almost India-ink-black eyes as he smiled and
talked with me as we stretched our legs walking along the shore, his arm
reaching and pulling to him. As a crazy seagull a hundred miles too far
inland buzzed us looking for a handout from us or dead fish that we might
throw to back in the lake, my arm clutched at his waist, and he planted one
on me. He didn't try to do the tongue thing. He smiled through his kiss
of me. I kissed him right back, and smiled, my tongue licking his lips,
not piercing between them. We turned and hugged and kissed for a moment,
connecting. Damn, he felt good holding me. It felt great being held, held
and kissed like that. I didn't pull away until I felt that roll of dimes
start to grow into quarters inside his pants pocket.

Leading back to near the boat, he pointed to a faded, worn old blanket
laying on the ground in a clearing under a big oak tree near the shore.
Lifting it up, a picnic lunch, no, a picnic buffet awaited us. He must
have gotten up at three that morning to make his way to this isolated spot
and set everything up. Impressed, yes, more by the fact that he had gone
to all that trouble just to try to impress me. Sweet.

Champagne, a decent domestic, inside a small Igloo cooler along with two
fluted glasses. Inside a larger cooler, several kinds of cheeses and deli
meats. Inside a woven picnic basket, several pieces of chicken he
confessed that had been bought from the Colonel, a loaf of French bread,
and a couple of different boxes of crackers. Nice. No, not nice.
Perfect. Popping the plastic "cork", he insisted I have the honor of doing
the toast. I felt like offering "to us", but this was our first date, my
rising hormones and horns for this man aside. So, I partook of "to a
perfect day with a nice new friend, and many more hopefully to share".
Glasses clicked. Cheeses and meats and crackers were shared, feeding each
other. My sweattop was getting hot, as the heat of the day was rising
along with my desire for my Sandy. So, it came off. He looked a tad
shocked for just a second, realizing quickly that I had put on a bikini
swimtop and not a regular bra underneath, almost looking disappointed for a
split-second, poor thing.

Despite having slathered on half a bottle of SPF 35 sunscreen earlier
that morning, my arms unaccustomed to being out in the sun all day were
started to show some redness where my short-sleeve sweatshirt hadn't
covered. Sandy noticed them and noticed my slightly less-stage of dress
and offered to lather my arms and my newly bare lilywhite almost pale skin
up with more sunscreen. His lathering up of me turned into a slow, sensual
massage of my back and neck. His hands opened my backclasp of my swimtop
open, as my folded arms held the front part of it in place still, covering
my breasts from his view, not teasing, just not letting things get out of
hand. His strong, somewhat rough hands from grinding his living working on
his Mercedes millstones during his workdays worked their strong but tender
magic into my back and neck muscles as he continued to lather enough
sunscreen on me to protect me if we had been on Mercury instead of Earth. I
didn't mind. His attentive touch felt sssooooo good to me, not having been
touched in sssooooo long. As he leaned in and began trying to nibble on my
earlobe as his hands reached around to try to pry my hands away from
holding my swimtop tight to my breasts and away from his eyes and touch, I
bounded standing up, telling him but making sure I used the right tone of
voice not to discourage him too much that "this is our first
date...Sandy...I like you, I really do...but not...this much on our first
date...I only meet you four hours ago, Sandy...I hope you understand".

He seemed a little miffed as he knew he had to feel and a lot
disappointed as I also knew he had to feel, but my Sandy was a keeper, and
I wasn't going to let him get away by breaking the line by trying to reel
him or let himself be reeled in too fast. Later that afternoon, as the
fish continued to refuse to bite any more and the sun began baking us, I
asked him to retreat to a shady cove I noticed on the other side of the
lake. In the shade, as we both fished beers from the cooler,
simultaneously bending kind of down and to one side, our mouths came
dangerously close to one another. Rising up a tad, I planted one on him.
God, how I wanted him.


The Ad, Chapter 2



God, how I wanted him. I just wanted him to kiss me back with all the
passion that I felt rising in me, throw me down on the floor of the boat,
and take me right then. But my Prince Sandy, after being gently rebuffed
earlier from proceeding further, wasn't going to take the chance of being
rebuffed again, not today. So, I let him get to second base. Using the
trolling motor to slip in this tiny slip of a shady alcove part of this
cove away from any possible prying eyes save someone coming clear across
the lake and dead right on us, Sandy sat down atop his captain's chair as
my still-jeans-covered butt ground into his lap. We made out for a half
hour or more like two high schoolers, not two grown-up
mid-thirty-somethings. Pulling his hand to the back of my bikini top, he
took the hint and flicked the clasp open, letting my top drop. His face
buried itself in my cleavage. God, Sandy, I wanted you soooo baddddlllyyy,
right then. We kissed and kissed more as he passionately sucked on my
nipples and played with my boobs. I'm glad he took the hint. I wanted
him, and wanted him badly, not just all the way, not just right then. "I
guess I 'better not start something that you don't want to finish on our
first date..." he mumbled with trying smile through his mild frustration,
as he stood up and I slid off of his lap, retrieving my swimtop from the
floor, eeerrr, deck.

Our second date was a more conventional but none the less not less
boring one. Dinner, and a movie. Not just any dinner, and not just any
movie. Another picnic meal, but this time not at a lake, but inside a
huge, white, stretch Mercedes limo with eight passenger doors and more room
inside it than my apartment that he had been reconditioning at work and
which his boss let him have permission to take to test drive and use on our
date. Eating from two large grocery bags full of assorted chinese take-out
he had ordered from Canton Cafe, we just snuggled and smooched in the
cavernous rear passenger area as we stuffed food down each other's gullet
as a friend of his drove us aimlessly around Raleigh. He having picked
that part of the date, he let me pick the second part, the movie. Wanting
to show him I was no prude and hadn't been fibbing in the intent by the
words of my original ad that had brought us together, I picked "Sands Of
Passion" playing over at the Carolina Theatre in nearby Durham, a foreign
film like the Carolina was wont for scheduling a lot.

"Sands" was according the reviews in the "Weekend" section of the paper
an import from Israel about two women archaeologists who meet and fall in
love while excavating some archaeological site in Palestine. While the
review mentioned it had nudity and sex, I hadn't expected half the footage
to show the two main characters in bed, actually, in "cot" together or in
bathtub or anywhere they could be naked and screwing together. Their love
story as portrayed on screen as we continued our non-offensive mild PDA
(public display of affection) snuggling and light kissing was hot,
passionate, believable. Their incredibly hot lesbian lovemaking as
portrayed on screen as we continued our non-offensive mild PDA (public
display of affection) snuggling and now full-blown kissing was hot,
passionate, believable. Coming out of the theater, our door being opened
by Sandy's friend dressed out in full chauffeur's uniform playing his part
to a "T", we couldn't keep our hands off each other, and could barely keep
our clothes on. Sandy told him our date was about over, as he winked that
sly wink of his at me, and for him to drive on home, that he'd take over
from there.

My Sandy took over from there alright. After his friend drove us and
himself to his apartment in north Raleigh, Sandy speed through town,
sometimes going 40 or 50 through downtown's 15 and 20 miles per hour speed
zones, until we got to Brown's Mill Lane, a dirt road that used to be an
infamous "parking spot" when I was in high school. Off of Lake Wheeler
Road, with the best view of what there is of Raleigh's modest skyline, it
was the closest thing our little hometown had to offer to be a relative of
Mulholland Drive. As the traffic lights bleed their colors onto I-40 way
below our vantage point and the light of the Raddison Plaza and One and Two
Hanover square sparkled downtown several miles away like giant concrete
trees covered in early night moonlit night dew, Sandy eased himself from
the driver's seat to his king's throne beside me in the passenger living
room, it was way too big to call it anything else, in the back with me.

It was already close to midnight, and it was a weeknight. Damn. Why
couldn't it have been a fri or sat night? Shit. "Sandy...what about your
son?" "What about him?..." he half-fussed at me as we tore into each
other's clothes, unzipping and unbuttoning ourselves and each other as fast
as our fingers would let us. "What about his school tomorrow?" "He's twelve
years old, Pat, don't worry...ever since his mother died, he's become quite
the indepedent young man, he has his own alarm, he gets his own self up in
the morning and gets his own self dressed...okay?..." he replied with
rising irritation "...don't worry, he'll be, I can't unbutton
this damn collar, do it for me, please, Pat...I WANT YOU,

Naked, we jumped each other like two snakes coming out of our respective
long, dry, celibate winter hibernations. Writhing around on the massive
leather-covered benchseat, our legs never touched the "suicide seat" facing
us, the passenger cavity inside the limo being so big, as our tongues and
mouths and hands found whatever they were looking for in our shared

I wanted his cock and wanted it NOW. Sandy urging me for a blowjob, I
told him "no way, Sandy-Zay, that hunk of manhood's not going to be wasted
in my mouth, it's going in my pussy, and it's going there NOW!!!".

Shoving me roughly but not cruelly against the back of the seat as his
weight and mass scrushed my tits flat into the flush leather as I knelt
facing away from on the seat, his Trojan-rolled cock slammed it's way home,
popping open vaginal muscles that had become too tight and some atrophied
from lack of recent use. His hands reached for my breasts and mauled them
as he literally screwed me, rotating his butt and leg motions into random
clockwise and counter-clockwise circular rhythms, as I craned my neck
around to kiss him and his hand one moment ago on my boobs now found my
clit as he reached around and his fingers mashed at it. "Your
face...Sandy...flip me around...fuck me on top...I want to see your

He didn't just flip me he tornadoed me around, throwing me down onto the
limo's passion furniture as he plunged once again into me. "Kiss
me...SANDY...KISS ME!!!" I screamed at him as the tip of his cock finally
burrowed its way to my cervix, making me hiccup a few times from painful
pleasure as it bumped its pointy end into the eye of my femininity.
Grabbing his ass, begging for more by my own assertive actions more than my
mere passive words, I pulled him even tighter to me as he thrust deeper,
rubbing my clit and G-spot inside me with his cock-motions, forcing not one
but two quick cyprinne-squirting orgasms from not just inside my cunt but
from inside my very soul. No, well, yes, it was the passion of the moment,
but it was also the epiphany of patience rewarded, that I knew right then
what our future would be. Sandy looked at me with a mild surprise at my
flooding him out with my liquid G-spot come volume, but just smiled,
continued to kiss me as he continued to pound even harder if possible away
at my pussy, with a "wow, Pat, that was great, you ARE all woman, aren't

Feeling his hard dropping maybe just a tad but it also pulsing slightly
with the impendence of his orgasm to come soon, having had mine, I rolled
him off me, pulled his condom off his beautiful hard, and sucked his cock
with every bit of skill and passion I could. And, for the first time in my
life, in thousands of times making love with my toes-and-fingers-full-count
of lovers past, actually enjoyed swallowing his load as he pumped it like a
Clorox-y geyser to the back of my throat. From feeling almost tooooo good,
he simultaneously tried to shove my head further down on his cock, then an
instant later from the same pleasure wave would tell me to stop as he
pushed my head away, then would be beg me not to stop, this going for a
full minute or more until his hard finally went limp and the last of his
come slid into my stomach.

Being ever my Prince Sandy, after a moment's recovering his mouth sought
out mine, as our tongues exchanged saliva and the residue of his come from
my mouth to his. He didn't mind at all. He reveled in it, his tongue
scraping mine clean as we kissed and our hands pulled our passions tighter
to each other. Nudging me back down, his face buried in my cunt, lapping
at me like he was licking a large bowl of cyprinne-come-icing clean.
Though a hair surprised I think by the volume of my come, he wasn't afraid
of it, wasn't shy about seeking to swallow every tasty drop of mine as I
had done with his moments earlier. My eyes closed and my lips smiled as my
legs fell open wider and his fingers poked and prodded my happy pussy as
his oral ministrations of me continued. Then, he stopped as I half-faked
half-realed another little orgasm, knowing we both had to go to work
tomorrow. As we got dressed in the light of the dim domelights and
interior door lights inside my Dear's borrowed limo, a Raleigh cop pulled
up behind us and flashed his blue lights and siren. Being fortunately
dressed by the time he walked first to the driver side window and then to
one of the rear ones, he quite literally laughed at us when I rolled the
window down and he saw that we weren't teen-agers. "You two old farts go
on home now, before you have a story which will be funny to tell your
grandkids fifty years from now but won't be funny for the next twenty-four
hours for you two, if you get my drift". We did. Dropping me at my front
door in my white princess carriage that had to be turned back into a
pumpkin once more in a few minutes, we kissed at my door for the longest
time. I didn't want Sandy to leave, I wanted him to come in, but we both
needed at least a couple of hours of sleep before work the next day. I
didn't sleep at all the rest of the night, hugging my extra pillow tight to
me as I dreamed a waking dream of my Prince Sandy.


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