Sweetest Sin

Sunday, January 07, 2007

Kind of like that girl in the red dress against the gray-suited monochromatic wash of humanity in The Matrix, the moment she realized stood out against the crowd of memories. It was a normal day; she was at the supermarket picking up something for dinner, some chicken, some vegetable, some cookie or another. She was in the paper aisle and there was a man. She saw him and she realized.
He himself was not remarkable. Just a tired guy with the white dust of sheet rock or masonry covering his jeans and his t-shirt, coating his hands like confectioner’s sugar. His body had that hardness of manual labor and his face the bone weariness of his labor’s work. But she looked at him as he bent over to pick up a jumbo pack of Bounty and she felt it ripple up her body with the quick blue-white burn of an alcohol fire.
She wanted to get fucked. Hard. In a fleshy flash she felt this man’s calloused fingers prying apart the lips of her pussy, jamming themselves in the tender folds of her flesh, finger-fucking her with their hard tips as his tongue rammed into her mouth and she inhaled the brown musky scent of his unwashed body.
She had to steady herself against the cart for a moment until the crashing wave passed. And then she gently removed the box of cereal from her toddler’s ever-sticky fingers, brushed a stray hair from her temple, and pushed on.
The thing was—and she hadn’t expected it—when her husband left for Iraq all those many months ago, he seemed to have taken her libido with him. There, tucked quietly in his carefully packed martial rows of government-issued shirt and pants, amidst the family photos and his favorite books and among the small packet of personal items, must have snuck her libido. She didn’t remember giving it to him, nor did she remember his having appropriated it, but it must have accompanied him for she had not seen it for months.
Until the unknown laborer jarred it loose from its hideyhole, scared it blinking and wondrous into the sunlight, poked it into presence and made her realize she was horny as hell.
Thinking about the supermarket epiphany later in the wide empty expanse of her marital bed, she thought that perhaps there had been something about the guy, maybe his smell reminded her of her husband, maybe the cut of his jawline, maybe the curve of his hard ass barely visible in his baggy workman’s jeans, made her want to get on her knees and be pounded like a bitch in heat.
In the bed, her hand crept toward her crotch, and almost unaware of it, she began spreading her thighs wide and wider as her hand moved under her nightgown, between her legs, to her pussy that glowed ember bright. Her hand began gently pressing and tugging at her cunt lips, pressing and pulling, testing the flesh and its responsiveness, prodding the sensitive nodes, rubbing around the outside of her pussy, slapping lightly the four-inch-long still-sealed slit.
In her mind she saw herself on her knees in the bright white light of the supermarket aisle, cupping the laborer’s package with her deft palms, unbuckling his pants, unzipping his pants and watching his long brown cock spring out at her. She imagined the heady smell of him and her mouth watered.
One finger between her pussy lips, she circled to find wetness, dipped and retrieved it, rubbing her clit. Her other hand pushed her nightgown up roughly and pinched and prodded her small nipples, moving from one nipple to the other as the hand between her thighs maintained its steady brutal rhythm.
In her mind she was now pressed against the shelves of paper towels, her hands whiteknuckling the shelving as the man behind her pushed up her summer dress, pulled down her panties and began fucking her from behind. The man morphed from the laborer to her husband. She imagined seeing them reflected in the store’s convex security mirrors, in an act of carnivalesque sex, his desert camo fatigues around his ankles, his strong browned hands gripping her waist, his thick cock taking her as his own.
Her hand, having moved from the nastying with her nipples, fucked herself with a vengeance, while her other finger rubbing her clit. Her fingers plunging inside her, she came sharp and hard, her cunt ululating the primal cry she herself had to stifle in her pillow for fear her children would hear.
The next day, to her surprise, she was sore. She had fucked herself hard, harder than she’d imagined she’d ever really want to be fucked, and that realization stacked like cord wood on top of the one of the previous day.
Huh, she thought, and she felt the warm glow of excitement replace the cold creep of anxiety that had come with the news that her husband’s troop was returning in just under three weeks.
She’d felt guilty that she hadn’t been as immediately overjoyed about his imminent return as she’d expected. But the year had been hard for her too. There were the kids, the sudden responsibility of single parenthood. There had been the crushing boredom and loneliness there, near the base at which her husband was stationed. She hadn’t been able to find a full-time paralegal job there in that small Midwestern town, and she didn’t get along so well with the other Army wives. They were fine, but a bit catty and dull. They hadn’t read a book that hadn’t been on Oprah, for example, and even those they didn’t always make it all the way through.
Slowly, she’d adjusted. She’d made a schedule if not a life and the idea of readjusting to the husband’s presence felt a bit alienating. It was kind of nice, to be honest, not to have to think about his needs in addition to everyone else’s. And while she felt deeply guilty about this emotion, she still liked cooking what she and the kids liked for dinner without thinking about his manly needs. She liked not having to wash his clothes and pick up after him, even though as guys go he was pretty good around the house.
Of course she missed him too; his absence was palpable. It was an aching, keening, worried loss that she had to divert herself from or sometimes she felt like she was just going to implode with its importance. This unutterable loss only confused everything, this and the fact that at its core she opposed this war; she held as the sacredness of human life.
It was a big mess, really, but now, now for the first time, her cunt sore with her finger-fucking, she felt genuine excitement about his return.
Every—and any—moment, she found, could be interrupted from its regularly scheduled psychic activity of kids and cleaning and legal typing and worrying and missing and suddenly, inexplicably, and not unpleasantly, held hostage to her erotic memories and hopes.
Flash. She saw his face looking up at her from between her spread legs, his mouth, nose and chin shiny with her pussy juice. Flash. She saw him kneeling above her, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, pressing it forcefully into her opening mouth. Flash. She saw her body in the mirror over their bureau, her small breasts shaking as he fucked her from behind, their faces reflected together in their altered and private states. Flash. She heard in her ear the attenuated moan of his orgasm and the sudden wet-hot spurts of his come on her naked belly.
She felt hostage to her libido, and she liked it.
She liked it as much as she felt guilty, for it wasn’t always he who was in her mind’s eye thrusting her down into the cool worm-smelling earth of the cornfields she drove past when she picked the eldest kid from school. Sometimes it was a man she’d glimpsed at a traffic light who, in her imagination, pulled down her jeans and plunged himself in her with animal need. Sometimes, to her shock, the face she imagined kissing was another woman’s—the Latina girl who gave her her morning coffee had lips like ripe raspberries, in her mind.
In the middle of the day, she would find herself daydreaming and slightly shocked that she was leaning her pussy so hard against the corner of the high desk in her office, and she hoped no one was watching.
As the date of her husband’s return grew closer, she found herself looking at photos and remembering details about his body. The way his hair grew on his hands, the broadness of his palms, the strength of his fingers. The details would meld and shift and blossom into her imagining his fingers thrust inside her, his index finger first, next the middle, then the ring finger and finally his pinky; she imagined him stuffing her pussy full of fingers, all wriggling inside her, as she moved her hips, impaling her body on his hand, his fingers, his wedding ring.
She wanted him inside her, everywhere. She began, in the dead of night, playing and plying, touching and prodding and imagining, She took things to bed with her: a long, smooth wax candle, a cucumber, a tall glass bottle that had once held grappa. One day, she impulsively bought a bottle of KY lube, shamefully grouping it in her usual health and beauty aid purchases of mascara, children’s Tylenol and contact lens solution. That night she brought the lube into her bed and used it to work the candle gently and slowly into her tight asshole while imagining it her husband’s finger, while imagining his voice whispering encouragement in her ear, while coming pop! pop! pop! explosions into the quiet night.
The days passed agonizingly slowly and then, finally, suddenly, as time has a habit of doing, it sped up, and the day he was returning was next. There had been broken nervous phone calls, the jittery reassurances of one another’s presence on earth. There had been the escalating and dizzy excitement of the children. There had been details—his parents were flying in and there was nothing she could do about it. She imagined lying to them about his return date to give them a day alone, but she couldn’t. It couldn’t be helped. They would be there that very evening in the Best Western down the road and she felt herself swearing under her breath whenever she thought about it.
She liked his parents, she really did, but their presence was really fucking up her fucking plans. Her mind saw her greeting him not with a kiss but with her naked ass, presenting it to him like a gift, like a baboon, like a prize for him to mount. She wanted, wanted with every fiber in her being, him to fuck her like a whore.
Which shocked her, frankly. The night-time fumblings in the bed had made her realize that she had wild, reckless and pungent desires. She wanted him to penetrate her everywhere. She wanted to him to rip her clothes, to pull her hair, to smack her ass, to bite her small pink nipples, to take her with all the violence of her past year’s loss of him, and this shocked her. She’d always turned away from violent sex scenes—she thought they were men’s fantasies.
Women, she had previously thought, wanted to be peeled delicately like a rare fruit and savored slowly. She now scoffed at that kind of gentle love-making. She wanted, in her heart, in her head, and in her loins to be fucked like an animal. She hoped he wanted the same.
to be continued…

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Saturday, January 06, 2007

well I need to start writeing on this lol.

so far Im looking for some jobs. modeling for photos, sites, videos, trying to get my name out there and make money lol. but so far nothing really. I think I need to move lol..

Im going to start writeing sex storys on here I think you all will like them.

well I will write one later on today

luv ya'z xxxx


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Sunday, November 26, 2006

yay my first blog.... I will have lots of fun,partys, and sex to talk about :O)

Everyone is raving about