by Neale Sourna
by Neale Sourna
I’d put off calling Tony for many months because . . . I was chicken. Completely Big Bird® yellow.
A brainy yet gorgeous man, who’s nearly too handsome yet doesn’t act it, a well-turned man, with a very neat, soft to touch, black musketeer/cowpoke mustache and goatee? An actor with a TV series, doing well in the ratings? (Which all sounds a little too good, when you think about it. I do.) I think a lot. Too much, I’ve been told, by practically everyone; except Tony.
I was “chicken”, because, lately, just thinking about him made my walnut brown nipples too sensitive and my swollen, “dewing” crotch overly self-conscious. I couldn’t stop thinking about him; I didn’t want to.
“Sorry, my mind wandered,” became my mantra at work and at the family’s, as my mental and body arousing, Tony preoccupations became entire reveries. Long, wide awake, Technicolor™, dreamvisions of making love . . . fucking (which is the same thing, with the right person) with my touch-starved (yet still particular about who touches it) skin against his hot, masculine-scented, dark body.
Did I mention he has brains . . . “real” brains . . . and is a truly first-rate person . . . in a devilish way? Even my irreverently crazy family and friends love him—all my favorite things in one man; scary, isn’t it?
Speaking of tongues, which we weren’t, no one’s ever kissed me better. I’d truly decided that electrifying kisses were only in fiction and other women’s lies; so, what would I come to, if he ever got his softly whiskered, gently insistent lips and hot, articulate tongue down onto my peek-a-boo, light mulberry-shaded clit?
My problem? Well, my dreams and mind, when all alone, have taken my body to . . . great ecstasies, yet my same body has ALWAYS choked, in the clinches of unsatisfying “real” sex.
In younger years, some of it was uneducated inexperience, misinformed by fictional hype and just being afraid to . . . let nature run its wild course . . . when a man like Tony, or not so like Tony touched me. But, not all of it was in my mental head.
Doctors really don’t know everything. When puberty struck, about age nine, I’d get tingly just sitting next to a boy, then something . . . . I stopped tingling; skin, cunt, hell, I couldn’t feel my own tits. Well, I could feel them; but, my body felt like I was being touched through a thick, Cleveland winter coat—some pressure but no excitement. That lack of physical arousal overtook me, without warning and stayed for many, many years. No matter the guy or my love interest.
However, this past year and a half, since getting Tony chronically on the brain, despite eluding him, my physical . . . malady has, just as mysteriously, left me. Masturbation aside, for me, getting wet, staying aroused or climaxing with a man, or simply getting two fingers comfortably inside me, let alone a man-sized dick . . . had always been a problem. No matter how I tried to “relax”, “let go”, “try harder to get into the feel”, or other such advice drivel. Usually male. (Sorry, I bitch.)
Which all means, I was past overdue for a good fucking and really hoped I had a chance of getting something out of an intimate relationship besides feeling I’d been merely sterilely hugged. If I were going to fail again, after a riderless . . . decade out of my disappointing saddle, I decided I wanted to fall from the high, strong back of this particular, blue-ribbon prized stallion. So, I’d choked up my nerve and phoned Tony, who sounded glad to hear from me and didn’t mock search his mind and say, “Neale? With an extra ‘e’?” Instead, he . . . squealed.
(Don’t mention “Deliverance” or I’m stopping this tale right here.)
He sounded like he was trying to contain himself, and was “very glad” I called and “would be more than happy to meet” me at Piggy’s on The Square.
He arrived first, in the unexpected, light rain, despite my being quite early—in my attempt to acclimate myself before his arrival. Piggy’s, unfortunately, had a sudden kitchen sewage flood and was closed for the night. It, also, abruptly downpoured and was a long way back to his car. (Mine was in the shop and all the cabs were . . . elsewhere.)
Plus, the Square is wide open, without awnings. We got soaked, and it got cold. I’m lousy, healthwise, when I’m soaked and cold, and was considering that my girlfriend was right about “coincidences” and that “water means emotions”.
(But, does that mean sewers mean deep, dirty, or backed up emotions? Or rain means heavenly emotions? Or, that my emotions were an uncontrolled mess, and “acting out in physical form” . . . disintegrating my world; making me a drenched pussy, no longer dressed to impress, with nowhere to go, except back home?)
Home, however, was cut off by flooded streets, downed powerlines, and police cruisers warding us off; therefore, the road to spare clothes and warmth at my gallery,
“Neale’s . . . ALL NUDE Photos and Prints”,
a few blocks from home was also off limits. (There’s a sweetly nasty, old couple, who come in biweekly to call me a filthy pornographer. I get new stock biweekly.)
Anyway, I was trembling, Tony was afraid I’d “freeze and shatter into bits, like freeze-dried coffee”, and suggested taking me to the only safe, dry, no dress standards place that wasn’t off limits—his place. I sighed. Deeply. Not only was I now poster girl for “Les Miserables”, but my slinky “dry clean only”, now-embarrassingly-stuck-to-me, silk blend outfit had died.
(Did I mention the snappy yuppie sedan that doused us both, especially me? A girl could get a complex, or something.) Plus, I was on my way to the homebase of the one man (whose charmeuse shirt and linen slacks were sticking to him quite nicely), who made me so aroused and nervous, I could practically puke, or faint. Or both. How attractive and erotic is that?
* * * *
Tony’s new place suited him; masculine but not annoyingly so and smelled nice, instead of like a men’s dorm or locker room with that awful, horrid reek not unusual to other’s of his species’ dwelling places. He contemplated what I could change into; his sister had been staying over, but was gone now, and hadn’t left anything useful behind; besides, we were “very different body types, anyway”.
(Which he said in a very complimentary manner.)
He’d been thinking out loud, while rubbing my arms and back, as my chilled trembling shifted to slightly aroused trembling. I was glad he couldn’t see my face. (Oh, geez, a mirror!)
“Gotta get you out of these sopping clothes, Neale. You’re not warming up fast enough.”
“That’s what all the men say.” Oh. I say stupid things when I’m erotically stressed. Tony looked at me (still a charmer, even drenched in acid rain) and silently, teasingly waggled his brows. Smart man, keeps his oddball comments to himself. (I really have to learn that.)
“I’ll get you something of mine to wear, if you don’t mind.” (Mind, mind, why would I mind?) I mutely nodded, as he showed me the bathroom.
I’m not a shower person; but, I was so cold, I stripped right away and jumped in. I also forgot the door was cracked open, he’d meant to come right back; but, his phone rang. He talked, evidently on a cordless, as his voice moved room to room, while I rinsed off crud and date makeup—he might as well see the real me, instead of smudged me. I was still a little chilled in the warm shower fog, then realized shutting out the door draft would help, when he bopped in with a robe for me . . . wearing only a change of boxer briefs.
(“A change”, because they were dry, except where touching his rain dampened, delightfully lumpy, and becoming lumpier, masculine places.)
I stared. He stared. Until. I realized he had more to stare at than I did; he realized it too, and slipped out of the briefs. (I had a quick inner vision of passing out, hitting my head, and missing everything, yet being very happy in self-inflicted death with what I’d seen of him.)
But, like my Mom’s old Peggy Lee record sang, “I thought I’d die, but I didn’t©,” as he stepped in with me. We . . . awkwardly, laughingly maneuvered around each other, as he rinsed off, while endeavoring to never take his eyes off me. And vice versa. Becoming self-conscious, I st
epped back. He pulled me to him and I felt his penis, like hot stone against my belly—a sensation, I most definitely felt, nearly stopped my heart, as blatant desire for him radiated through me, and his wonderful mouth clamped on mine, short-circuiting my ever too busy brain. Maybe it was too much oxygen, from when my breathing changed.
Pleased with my arousal, he continued giving me his full attention, as his warm, strong, soap-lathered hands caressed me. Occasionally, he’d rub his body against mine. When his attentions were becoming too much . . . he rinsed me. I wanted to touch him in turn but held back . . . .
(I’m an obsessive hesitator, until I eventually let go; then—BAM! I’m also an idiot, I was already naked and skin to skin with the object of my desire . . . yet . . . . Maybe a lobotomy . . . ?)
He noticed my . . . indecision or he was just craving me to touch him, and whispered in my ear . . . his hot breath and spectacular voice boring inside my mind.
“Wash me.”
I thought of that same message finger-scribbled on dirty vehicles and mentioned it. (I was stalling.) He took my finger to invisibly stencil those words across his gently hairy, broad chest, then handed me the shampoo.
We had to laugh, at a point, because there was far too much lather everywhere, as I made foam creatures out of him, while he’d splatter me with suds. But, when I abruptly became serious, and finally stroked his balls and magnificent dick with my soapy, lustful palms . . . we rinsed off.
His penis bumped heavy against the small of my back and top of my sensitive ass cheeks. He turned off the distracting water, with its obscuring steam, as I used the tiled wall to support my “weak at the knees” symptoms. Tony stooped, and I instinctively raised up on my toes, as he pushed his smooth cockhead between my thighs, wetting himself in my lust. He moved between my swollen labia, to press deliciously against my clit, while his fingers combed through my pubes to massage my hairy mound . . . giving me . . . sensation from both sides.
His cock moved back until my hungry, slippery cunt, without hesitation, gasped open to have him and I purposefully stepped back. My snug, yet, eager welcome pleased him. None of me resisted him, and he slid inside me, as I took him. (No fuss, no muss.) I felt his beautiful cockhead drag, full length, along the newly sensitive, slick, muscular walls of my vagina.
(It scared me! I adored it!! I’d never felt . . . . And, I’d, frankly, never liked the sound of a man panting and growling over me, until . . . him.)
He nearly pulled out of me. (I’d’ve cried or bitched very loudly, if he had.) Even the vacuum his dick’s absence left felt . . . divine. He pushed in, a bit at a time. A little in. A little out. A little . . . deliciously around. And around.
(I . . . love . . . screwing.)
He pushed on my G spot, again, outside and in, as I held his hand there and shoved and screwed back to have him completely inside me. He pumped and whispered to me, making me whimper for wanting him even more, before he became still, steadying himself against the misty wall tiles, as I, unrestrainedly, hardfucked back against him and his throbbing, very alive cock.
(Fucking was never like this. I . . . love . . . fucking Tony!)
I finally strained against him, clutching a deep growl from him, until his white lava and my own hot lust waters flowed from me.
We bear-hugged. His hard cock was still in me, as his words, also, penetrated me.
“I love you, Neale.” I remained still; my body’d already answered.
—00—
Novella excerpt from short story collection—work in progress:
LIBIDINOUS 1:
Erotic Exercises
featuring
Grant’s Boone
by Neale Sourna
. . . Grant smiled, her lips overflushed and inviting, her voice husky from the activity.
“Do you want more, Boone? More of me? If you do, you should figure out who else you can call.”
She wiped her lip of a stray drop of creamy cum then sucked it off her thumb, before perching on his desk, her shapely legs crossed, her skirt high on her firm thighs showing the pink lace atop her thigh-high stockings, as she polished off his bottled water with a seductive lick. He rubbed his mouth with the weight of this new offer clearly delighting him. He was losing his pokerface, and his dick lay naked and exposed in his lap. She waited, and stared out the window at what little you can see at such an oxygen rare height as this.
He requested his executive assistant, VQ, to call a certain judge, a highly respected and extremely well placed jurist, who was away but who would be back in twenty minutes or so. Boone instructed Quartermain to remain on the line for the judge and that he would be emailing documents for the judge’s immediate attention. Boone didn’t bother to put his cock away as he took the disk Grant had brought, with copies of all her supporting files, reloaded it, and sent its contents through.
While they waited, he used his control system to obscure the windows and lock his door. He turned on the indirect lighting, including that over his hardwood, conference table, stood and hooked a hand under her knee, uncrossing her legs.
He pulled her head to him and kissed her, she kissed back. What he wanted, she let him have. So, he sucked her lip and her tongue, then moved down to her breasts. She let him have those as well, as his one hand explored the smoothness of her outer thigh, to that special woman’s roundness, the underside of her hip, and, from the back and beneath, found the crotch of her silk and lace panties.
Boone rubbed until they were sopping wet then his burning hand slid under the cloth, his fingers slipping between the swelled, torrid lips of her sex, and slipped his middle and ring fingers as far as they’d go inside her. He bit and pulled gently on a mouthful of breast as he pulled out his fingers then rammed them back deep into her. He heard her breath catch and felt her tighten around his fingers.
She pushed him out of her and made him release her tit. She was breathing heavily, trying to stay in charge, although he could clearly see she was becoming very smoky and wanting mor—.
“No more, Boone. If the judge gives you what I want, then you get what you want.”
“Well, I want a lot. What’s to stop me from taking it, right this moment?”
“The game. You like the game. We both like winning; but, if we both lose this one, you’ll figure you got this close and that you’ll get me the next time.”
“It’s already been two years, I don’t want to wait till ‘next time’.”
There it was again . . . that overtly potent urgency of his. Could any woman really satisfy hunger like that? Her girlfriends from the old neighborhood would beat her shitless for stopping to think, let alone having already passed up a number one prize, married or not, like Boone Hutchinson. Grant’s comeback to that erred opinion was that, that was exactly why I left the old neighborhood as soon as I could, in the first place. And, go back as seldom as possible.
Boone’s want was awakening that fear he always seemed to arouse in her, so she put on her best game face and pretended she was fearless.
“I . . . really don’t care. You’re not wanting to wait, means nothing to me. Not unless there’s “something” . . . and you know what . . . “in it” for me. Or, should I say, my client. You break this judge, your puppet judge breaks your puppet politician, and I’ll break your balls, no further strings attached. Capice?”
“Very capice. You came in here a little timid but you’re making up for it just fine. Nothing like having your opponent’s dick hanging out his pants just waiting—?”
VQ put the judge through. The judge had gotten the evidence, the speakerphone barked. It made sense but again more hemming and hawing and another set of cold feet. Grant put Boone’s hand between her hot thighs and he slipped again into her panties and into her, she shut her legs tightly around him, with a look of “what are you going to do, now”.
Boone was, if nothing else, a man who could think straight and true under pressure, especially when something was between him and what . . . who he wanted. He insist
ed. The judge balked; but, Grant kept Boone’s hand in her, as she leaned to his ear and whispered, hotly and with purpose.
“I want my client out. Free. Tonight. By midnight. It’s doable. Your judge is just bullshitting. Even a nonlegal person can see that. I want this done now. And, I want you inside me within the next five minutes. Can you handle that, or are we done here?”
His only thought for about five seconds was, “This bitch is busting my balls in the worse way,” and that he appreciated her tactics.
“Judge, are you alone? Take me off speakerphone, would you.” [more]
Silver Pole
(from Libidinous 1)
by Neale Sourna
. . . G’d left for a last minute upscale, bachelor party, when Max, I - Am - An - Ass - And - Completely - Spineless, said Dark had finally “requested” I dance for him. Yes, Max made finger quotes.
I’d asked Ginger once if she liked dancing for Dark. She giggled. Remember, with G, giggling means me . . . or money. Translation, she doesn’t like men but she’d even fuck him, since he pays well. He’d better because I can charge more than the others. I get the patrons to come inside, and bring their friends, and I keep them all there longer and cumming right here in my hot, little hand.
I really considered not dancing for that imperiously bossy snot though.
But, maybe I’m stupid, because Dark’s sudden interest in a private dance, after ignoring me, except for my general dances and to taunt me backstage, had me a smidge . . . intrigued.
Well, actually, more than a smidge.
* * * *Authorized Bootleg* * * *
He didn’t want me on his lap, so I and my delicate, gold Egyptian bracelets gyrated and twisted, and displayed and fingered and shook my more obvious assets from a distance.
He seemed pleased, while Shadow [his huge bodyguard] looked on. Minutes later, Shadow put down lots of Mr. Franklins. I guess, his boss didn’t want to get his hands dirty. I was reaching for the loot.
“Again.”
“They’re your Bennies,” I said.
This close to him, this long, it was starting to get to me that he never looks at me like anyone else does. Not like his Shadow, who was trying hard not to look at me. I know when a man’s looking at me, and Shadow’d lost the battle. The hard proof being the growing precum stain, from his stiff billy club in his pants that he tried to modestly shift to a more comfortable position.