A little less fun

Been thinking about you this weekend. Often thinking about you leads to my dick getting hard. Is this the sort of desire that you want to cause in men. The mere thought of you causing erections? Not thinking about blue eyes or hair the color of honey. Not thinking about your D-cup tits or your tight cunt. Just thinking about you.

You incite that much lust in a man. Not thoughts about gentle kisses and walks hand in hand. No, I'm talking about pushing you face down over a table, pushing your skirt up, pushing your panties out of the way, then a quick hard thrust up into your cunt. And thrusting until a climax. Or maybe skip the cunt. Lube up the prick and take your ass. Thrust deep and hard. One hand holding your shoulders down, the other on your head keeping it down as my prick pounds into you. Until finally I get off and fill you ass full of cum. If you didn't cum, tough shit, you've got your fingers.

What would you think of me then? My cum leaking out of your body, your flesh still bearing the imprints of my fingers. Using you like a sextoy. With a hard swat to the ass as a final insult.

Or does it turn you on. Does it make your pussy wet and your nipples hard knowing your incite those nasty thoughts? Make you want to play with yourself? Does your hands slip up your skirt? Slipping inside your panties, that is if you even bothered with them. Fingers sliding inside the bra cup searching from that nipple that needs twisting. Do your fingers gently touch your clit? Or do you stuff two fingers up your snatch because you can't find a cock to ride?

Temptress.

Succubus.

Witch.

You can't be Lilith, the first temptress, your hair color is wrong. She was a redhead, you're a blonde. Was she one of your lovers? Did you fuck her hard? Shove your fist up her cunt? Did her heart break loving you?

Jerked off thinking about you this morning. I'll jerk off again tonight thinking of you. Of you sucking my cock. Of it disappearing down your throat. Playing with your tits as you suck. Of watching you play with yours as it slips between your red painted lips. Until my cock is buried deep and I feel you swallow trying to get me off.

When I feel that urge build in my balls, that delicious tension, I'm going to pull out and cum all over your face and tits.

It will be beautiful.

“Oh my God,” A. mumbled looking at the words streaming across the computer monitor. Who the fuck would send me this shit, she wondered. Fingers danced across a phone keypad and she stood there waiting for the other phone to be answered. Fucking boyfriend didn’t answer.

She read the words a second time. The words made her hot. Problem was that she was one of a hundred other little chicks in a cube farm with no fucking privacy. It was only iron control that kept her from reaching under her skirt to that little nub that gave her so much pleasure. Shit. Back to work, she thought.. If it was the stupid boyfriend, she was going to tie his cock in a knot.

Lunch, The Italian Village, West Monroe, the best place in The Loop for Italian. And within walking distance of the office. Only problem. On the way back from lunch a text message popped up on the phone.

You're the sort of girl that Mothers tell their sons to stay away from.

The Bad Girl.

The one that is going to corrupt their son.

The girl that thinks that fucking on the first date is a grand idea. He brings the cock, you'll bring the condoms and lube.

You're the sort of girl that Fathers lust after. They want you in their bed rather than that frigid bitch their wife has become. With you they think that they would feel that the fire hadn't gone out.

You're the sort of girl the other girls at High School and College hate. After a night, or lunch time quickie behind the bleachers, the boys aren't happy with hand jobs. The next girl had better swallow.

I know that you would rather have a hard cock than another pussy as a playmate, but how many of the Mother's daughters did you corrupt on a whim?

Hell's Bells, whom didn't you corrupt?

Bad Girl.

She frowned down at the little screen on her phone. As a matter of fact, there were those two soccer moms, one had been pretty hot. A Bishop, he wasn’t. He actually wanted a boy and when she started to grow tits . . . And the two cops. The cops had been the most fun. Big strong guys. Partners. Didn’t mind sharing. Shared her in the same bed one afternoon when they should have been on patrol. Left her bruised and sore. That had been fun.

But being tangled in the sheets of past carnal pleasures wasn’t helping her figure out who was sending her this shit.

She turned into her building and had to sprint for the elevator. And just made it. As it was she all but slammed into some guy on the crowded elevator. Her nose and tits were pressed against a chest that spoke of hours in the gym. Hard body. Gray pin-stripe three piece suit, beige trench over one arm. Looking up, salt and pepper hair and moustache. And tall. Blue eyes dancing with humor behind steel rimmed specs. Hint of a smile on his lips. His free hand reached up and tapped the brim of his gray fedora in salute. He smelled male, made stronger being in close proximity. His musk, overlaid by the morning Old Spice aftershave, oiled leather, and something that she couldn’t quite pin down, but made him seam just a little dangerous.

And rose. She turned her head slightly. He had a rose tucked into the top button hole of his suit coat. Not some modern rose, but some old variety that hadn’t had the scent hybridized out of it. She smiled back at him.

His hand slid up between them, the back of his hand brushing against her left breast. She had to forgive him that because how crowded the elevator was. But pulling the flower from his lapel and tucking it behind her left ear was rather too much. Then running his fingers over her blonde tresses was way too intimate.

“A., this is our floor,” one of her colleagues of the cube farm called out. It stopped her from taking the flower and shoving it up his nose. She left the elevator without a glance back.

Back in her cube she pulled the flower from her ear meaning to throw it away. But looking at it, she couldn’t. The man may have taken liberties, but he at least had given her a flower, something that nobody else had done for long while. She sniffed it enjoying the scent of . . . .

She sat down hard. That scent she couldn’t identify. Gun Oil. Shit. The hand that had put the flower behind her ear had been gloved. A subtle bulge and glint of metal under the left armpit. An automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. And that hard chest, a bullet proof vest. Fuck. What had been a throwback to ‘50s film noir was now a current threat.

She worked the rest of the day, ears half tuned to the sound of pistol fire and sirens. Kept checking the Trib’s website for news of murder.

She kept a watch for people following her on the way home. When her boyfriend opened their apartment’s door, she clung to him for comfort. He confessed to being the one who had sent her the sexy messages. He copped them from a blog he'd found. She didn’t care.

The world had become a little less fun.

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The original idea for this story was to try to write a story of what drove A. Secret into the lady's in Relief. Started to write it. Got the two 'e-mails' written. Started writing A.'s reaction. The first reaction went OK. The second where she runs into the guy in the elevator did not go the way I planned. The guy was just supposed to be a taller person. One that A. figures out had looked down the front of her dress in the elevator.

Shit. Left turn into film noir. Three Piece Suit guy is now packing a sidearm. Dangerous. Writing A being thrilled with this guy looking down her dress just didn't make sense to me.

Funny how you plan a story out, start writing, and the story runs off in its own direction.

SO777