I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid, Continuation

The fun in her laugh as she jumps like a youth infect me, my grin turn to laughs of my own.  I can't jump on the bed without breaking it or the ceiling, but I can wrestle her to the ground.  Pillows are sacrificed, the pawns in our epic conflict for bedroom supremacy.  My size and strength are useless, she is making me laugh so hard, my muscles turn to useless weight.  We tumble and turn and roll and squeeze and bite and tickle and laugh.  The laughter is honest, guttural, mirthful.  

Eventually I win out. My abilities overcoming hers as we wind up in a breathless heap.  I pin her and announce my victory in her trademark fashion.  The Winner immediately starts touching herself, rubbing her moisture on my body, making me taste what she had been vicariously teasing me with all day.  It's so unfair of her to do.  She is fully aware that tasting that will garner the response she is looking for.  

I make my way down to her knees, out of reach of her devilish hands, and I rest my face upon her thighs.  As I catch my breath, she continues to rub herself, and I continue to take in the view.  Eventually, my self-control and feigned disinterest fail.  I place my strong, able hands between her knees and make room for myself.  

The scent is the first thing to assault my senses.  Full, round, individual, and incredibly arousing.  My eyes find hers while I collect the wetness making its way down her thighs.  My tongue glides across her skin like raindrops down a window.  Silent and effortlessly I make sure to enjoy every possible moment of teasing her.  Coming closer and closer with every pass, I pull with lips and teeth as my warm breath rolls over her waiting lips.  I take my time, slowly migrating towards the center of all things.  

I push her legs in opposite directions until they will go no further, and I look at what I will soon be enjoying.  A woman, in all her complexity and intricacy, shows her vulnerability before me. The pads of my fingers begin rubbing on the outside of her lips, keeping their grip despite an abundance of lubrication.  I open her to the waiting lips and tongue.  A full and deliberate breath rains upon her, followed by a pulsating flat tongue.  

Using concise and firm pressure, I begin manipulating my mouth around her clit.  While my tongue makes its presence known, my hands remember the skin I enjoyed earlier on her breasts.  The taste is intoxicating, each moment of enjoyment causing its own pulse within me. After making sure to suck, flick, lick, and all other verbs known to a pussy-enjoying man like myself, her clitoris, I shift my oral attention further down.

As much as she enjoys what I had been doing up to that point, she prefers to feel my tongue as far inside as possible.  I am for that as well, since it gives me the chance to taste her at her warmest place.  I start slow, tracing the diameter of her as I make my way in.  She draws breath more quickly as my pattern of attention follows a progression inward.  Eventually I enter her fully with a pointed tongue that presses upwards.  As my nose and lip exchange places rubbing her clit, I look to her with my eyes and see the pleasure spreading in her countenance.  

I want her to cum. Not for me, but for her.  To feel her pussy be rewarded with release while I taste and engage with the most tender part of her.  I close my eyes and keep my face in place as her thighs press my head.  The vice holds me, her back and hips pushing into me, I push back with the effort I can give, and her moans grow more audible.  Fingers grasp my hair, nails digging into my scalp, and I am now at her mercy as she is at mine.  Tightening around me, underneath me, I can feel the orgasm travel through her.  

I make my way into a more intimate position as she enjoys the warmth of my body holding hers.  She kisses me deeply, and giggles. It's not a laugh, it's a giggle.  I ask her what's so funny, and she cannot seem to help herself by responding with more giggling.  Eventually she manages to tell me that she had won again, and that she had done a good job of getting what she wanted that morning.  Just like a little girl tricks a little boy into doing what she wants, I had fallen victim to her games.

I don't wanna grow up, though. 

I'm a Toys 'R' Us Kid

When I was a young fellow, being a toys r us kid meant you didn't wanna grow up.  As Peter Pan as that sounds, it makes sense.  I still haven't grown up, and I am not in a hurry.  There are grown-up aspects I possess, but I don't ever want to really grow up.

Talking with the Winner the other night, I realized how cool it will be to be and adult male who can come home to a woman at their residence.  It sounds silly, I know. Think about it, I implore you.  As a child (or someone living under someone else's roof), you never know that feeling of someone being in your house waiting for you to come home and have fun with.  I'm not talking about playing with your dog, either (although that will be cool too).  

As a professional business person, I would enter the house in my full suit.  Losing the jacket at the door, I would take a breath and absorb the comfort of being home.  All day I would have maintained my sanity and control while remembering just how soft her skin felt that morning.  How her cherubic hair fell like a river delta, flowing and nurturing, across my chest as I woke up.  The way she grabbed my hand on my way out the door, trying to tempt me to remain in bed with her for the remainder of the day.  Now I would be home, in the place I had made for myself, and for her.  In that thought, a man can take pride.  

My shoes would not allow me to sneak up on her, but I would try nonetheless.  As I track her singing down to the kitchen sink, I devise my strategy.  She greets me without turning, without looking to see that I was up to mischief.  She should know better, I haven't grown up that much.  My steps get closer and closer, and upon her finally looking to see what I was doing, my hands would be on the bottom of her shirt, pulling it up without hesitation.  

She doesn't wear a bra around the house, especially when she just got out of the shower and is waiting for me to come home.  The temptation is her fault, those supple, bountiful pieces of her have been in my vision every time I closed my eyes today.  The shirt off, my mouth on her breasts, teeth drawing closer to each other upon her exquisite nipples, hands tactilely consuming the skin about her sides and back.   She really enjoys having her breasts cared for, and I really enjoy our mutual pleasures.  Skin is skin, but the soft, virgin skin of a woman's breasts stands distinct from its integumentary companions.  

She begins unbuttoning my shirt while I rise to kiss those lips that had called me at 3 to remind me of how unfortunate my departure was earlier, how the articulate hands unfastening my collar had been forced to give pleasure intended for me to the only person still in bed.  The tie is pulled off in a hurry, and I stop her wandering palms to pick it up off the floor.   Now she can finally remove my shirt, which is thrown onto the counter, and begin the effort to return my torso to its natural state.  Once we both find ourselves in a state of northern exposure, she starts removing my pants.  Belt, clasp, zipper, in order, before my very aroused reminder of a long, throbbing day makes its appearance.  

The tie in my hands is placed around her neck, with either end covering up her nipples.  A woman in a tie is so sexy, and there is something I find irresistible about the idea.  Taking the initiative to give her a nice windsor knot to wear around her neck, I make sure the length of the tie is just right.  Now when I unbutton her jeans, the chevron inverts itself in the most directive of places.   We spend a fair amount of time pressed against the sink, the feel of her skin and the silk of my tie pressed against my body.  My height overwhelms her at times, and I make an effort to ease the bend in her neck by changing my body's position.  

Eventually the tie is taken hold of, and the woman is led to her bed.  As I remind her of the turmoil she caused me throughout the day with her explicit communication, that little girl appears in her smile, in her eyes, in her body language.  The woman then removes her jeans and gets on the bed.  Her form in the bed, a woman on the pedestal, is worthy of note.  

"Model that tie, sell it for me."

She shows me the sultry, Calvin Klein advertisement.  Curved back, fierce stare, carnal communication.  I ask her for fun, cute, All-American girl.  Her blonde hair, blue eyes and picturesque smile respond.  She jumps to her feet, and jumps on the bed, letting her hair dance around her in the most honest way.  I think I am sold on the tie, I'll buy three.

To be continued...

Those little red panties they passed the test...

The Winner and I talk often.  She lives in Chicago, and is a few years younger than me.  Of all the people I've had phone sex with, she has the sexiest voice.  It's feminine and soft and petite, almost squeaky.  She also can be quite insatiable.   Last night I set out to fulfill her, to coax all the orgasms she wanted from her.  For most females I make sure they peak before me, hopefully more than once.  Last night was no exception.  She and I talk a lot about a possible visit to Chicago, and oh the places we would see.  Last night it was about a hotel room.  While most people associate it with the trysts and interactions mostly forbidden, I tend to think about it as an arena for crazier activity.  Call me lame, call me whatever, but I live at home with my parents.  I am still in college, I go to school 15 minutes from home, and it saves a HUUUUGE amount of money.  Why would I pay when I can get it for free? Plus, my parents are pretty cool, and I am close with them.  So there.  

I guess I'm saying the same thing, maybe crazy activities are forbidden since I live at home. Whatever, back to the story.  

She arrives at the room and knocks on the door.  Since I can usually be found relaxing in a pair of basketball shorts without a shirt on, that's how I answer her call.  The door opens and she is happy to see my attire, quick to make herself comfortable against my chest.  Females are nice in their ability to be so damn soft: the smell, the hair, the clothes.  Even their bodies are designed with an uncanny softness. I hug her back, wrapping my larger body around her frame.  The anticipation of waiting for her, and finally seeing those mile-long legs climb up to her cute ass, and the feeling of her statuesque stomach and breasts pressed against me have pulled a rapt attention from me.  My shorts do a poor job hiding it as she makes her way into the room, as I shut the door behind me.  She wore the little jean shorts she brags about owning.  She was right, and I am hooked.  I don't allow her to sit down before I approach her from behind and begin kissing her neck, in all the intersections and creases.  Below her hairline, behind her jaw, down the side of her neck to her collarbone I proceed with lips and teeth.  The biting gives the chance for her to feel a small pain in contrast to the tender warmth of my affection.  My hands on her sides lift her soft little t-shirt and cami (she is adamant that I use the right word) off her warm skin.  They follow the natural lines of her muscle to the front of her body, rolling back and forth between the inside and outside.  My mouth reaches her cheekbones as her hand pulls my head down towards her mouth.  My soft voice rumbles in her ear about how I want to see her panties.  The Winner tells me to take off her shorts so she can show me.  My fingers make their way inside the waist, and trace the circumference of her hips.  I release the first button and unzip (why girls even have those inch and a half zippers on their pants is beyond me).  I instruct her to pull them off without turning around.    The feeling of her barely-covered rear inside her little red boyshorts makes my flesh sing.  My hands reach to the front of her and pull her as close as possible.  Standing with her body against mine, my hands on the meeting of her panties and skin, I want to make her cum.  My deep voice resonates in both our chests as I question when the last time she was fingered without having her panties removed.  The Winner says it was junior high. "Exactly," I thought.  My deliberate movements bring my three greatest fingers to light on the wet spot developing on her boyshorts.  The first two joints used as one consolidated unit are quite effective at applying firm and constant pressure where needed.  The right hand may be busy on the fabric, but the left wastes no time in pulling her leg open. My touch seems to facilitate a clenching of the thighs that makes access a difficult issue.  I continue undulation, allowing my hard excitement to rub against her little red boy shorts.  As her breath is drawn faster and faster, my stimulation moves in turn.  More and more pressure, accelerating pace, pushing myself into her more and more.  Her voice begins reaching out. She's getting close and I push through the pain in my wrists so that the ultimate pleasure will be hers to express to me.  She approaches.  I wait in selfish anticipation. For the second her breath comes in without going out and her neck stiffens, I see complete exposure.  Beautiful.  Then she releases.  And I am so happy.