What Happens When You Suck Peppermint from a Strange Man's Mouth
Stiletto heels tip-tapping across the floor, she moves swiftly to the grey-templed stranger sipping schnapps at the bar, steps into the place between his trousered legs and sucks the peppermint from his mouth.
I like this stiletto-wearing woman. She is bold. She went to the schnapps-sipping man as though guided by a honing device. I'd say she went to him like a moth to a flame but that is too cliche and besides, the moth is a fat, dull-colored, bumbling insect and the woman is curvy, voluptuous, and no bumbler. She is sure and swift - as an arrow to the bullseye is a better simile, yet also cliche. But that is indeed how she went, straight and sure, to the schnapps-drinking man with the graying temples and the sexy eyes.
Yes, he has sexy eyes. With crinkly lines fanning out from the corners. He has a preppy look to him, except for the slight dark stubble that graces his jaw and chin. The woman likes this look, because of course, I want her to. I want her to want the juxtaposition of a clean-cut, all-American preppy and the rough, stubble face of a stranger.
His tongue and mouth taste like peppermint but the rest of him tastes like salt. I can't explain how I know this, but I do. And she wants more than his peppermint-stick kisses. Or does she? Yes, she does. She wants to unzip him, right there at the bar and suck him until the bar patrons applaud and he is left weak and exhausted. But I don't really want her to want him weak and exhausted - he is not that type.
When she sucks him, he comes. But while he is coming, does the bar full of strangers watch not what she is doing, watch not her pink tongue sliding, gliding, nor her red, soft, slick lips sucking, but instead watch the full-weight of what that sucking and licking means to him, does to him? Watch the pleasure move across his face? Watch the sure, strong line of his jaw begin to soften, his eyes begin to close ever so slightly? Or is he the type of man who can mask his face at a moment like that, stare brazenly, assuredly, nonchalantly, into the eyes of patrons who watch? I'm not sure yet what measure of man he is, or of what measure I want him to be. There is something dangerous, intriguing about a man who looks with clear, keen-sighted, steady eyes into the widening eyes of strangers while a woman sucks almost but not quite all the juice from his cock.
When she has finished, when she has tasted all the peppermint and salt she wants, she looks up at him and he knows exactly what to do, exactly what she wants, what I want her to want, what I want him to want. Of course he does. He shuts down the bar, sends the gasping crowd out into the night where they stand, faces pressed to the darkened window, watching. Strong and purposeful, moving with virile grace, biceps rippling underneath his soft, white dress-shirt, he lifts the woman up and sets her on the bar stool, leans into her slowly, slowly. Bites her lower lip, gently, gently.
Then he pulls her dress smoothly up and over her arms and head and tosses it aside. The crowd at the window watches transfixed as the dress, cream-colored silk with a pattern of small, delicate pink petals and muted green stems flutters effortlessly, gracefully to the bar room floor. The crowd catches its breath, licks its lips, tasting the salt of its own saliva and watches as the silk floats in a slow, silent, exquisite descent and lands softly on the dusty, hardwood floor of the bar. As it lands, the crowd inhales, and turns its eyes once again to the man and the woman.
Firmly, smoothly, he spreads her legs wide, runs his hands over her taut thighs, up and around her quads, feeling her tension, her definition. Now the man eases into the woman, fills her, as she sits on the bar stool in her silk bra and see-through panties with the strategically placed opening, her back arched, arms stretched out along the bar counter, her slender, shapely hands with their short-cut, French-manicured nails gripping the rolled edge of the bar, head tilted back exposing the graceful line of a neck adorned with a simple, silver chain.
When they are done, he pours her a drink and she savors this last lingering taste of peppermint.
Birdstory Publications 2005
I like this stiletto-wearing woman. She is bold. She went to the schnapps-sipping man as though guided by a honing device. I'd say she went to him like a moth to a flame but that is too cliche and besides, the moth is a fat, dull-colored, bumbling insect and the woman is curvy, voluptuous, and no bumbler. She is sure and swift - as an arrow to the bullseye is a better simile, yet also cliche. But that is indeed how she went, straight and sure, to the schnapps-drinking man with the graying temples and the sexy eyes.
Yes, he has sexy eyes. With crinkly lines fanning out from the corners. He has a preppy look to him, except for the slight dark stubble that graces his jaw and chin. The woman likes this look, because of course, I want her to. I want her to want the juxtaposition of a clean-cut, all-American preppy and the rough, stubble face of a stranger.
His tongue and mouth taste like peppermint but the rest of him tastes like salt. I can't explain how I know this, but I do. And she wants more than his peppermint-stick kisses. Or does she? Yes, she does. She wants to unzip him, right there at the bar and suck him until the bar patrons applaud and he is left weak and exhausted. But I don't really want her to want him weak and exhausted - he is not that type.
When she sucks him, he comes. But while he is coming, does the bar full of strangers watch not what she is doing, watch not her pink tongue sliding, gliding, nor her red, soft, slick lips sucking, but instead watch the full-weight of what that sucking and licking means to him, does to him? Watch the pleasure move across his face? Watch the sure, strong line of his jaw begin to soften, his eyes begin to close ever so slightly? Or is he the type of man who can mask his face at a moment like that, stare brazenly, assuredly, nonchalantly, into the eyes of patrons who watch? I'm not sure yet what measure of man he is, or of what measure I want him to be. There is something dangerous, intriguing about a man who looks with clear, keen-sighted, steady eyes into the widening eyes of strangers while a woman sucks almost but not quite all the juice from his cock.
When she has finished, when she has tasted all the peppermint and salt she wants, she looks up at him and he knows exactly what to do, exactly what she wants, what I want her to want, what I want him to want. Of course he does. He shuts down the bar, sends the gasping crowd out into the night where they stand, faces pressed to the darkened window, watching. Strong and purposeful, moving with virile grace, biceps rippling underneath his soft, white dress-shirt, he lifts the woman up and sets her on the bar stool, leans into her slowly, slowly. Bites her lower lip, gently, gently.
Then he pulls her dress smoothly up and over her arms and head and tosses it aside. The crowd at the window watches transfixed as the dress, cream-colored silk with a pattern of small, delicate pink petals and muted green stems flutters effortlessly, gracefully to the bar room floor. The crowd catches its breath, licks its lips, tasting the salt of its own saliva and watches as the silk floats in a slow, silent, exquisite descent and lands softly on the dusty, hardwood floor of the bar. As it lands, the crowd inhales, and turns its eyes once again to the man and the woman.
Firmly, smoothly, he spreads her legs wide, runs his hands over her taut thighs, up and around her quads, feeling her tension, her definition. Now the man eases into the woman, fills her, as she sits on the bar stool in her silk bra and see-through panties with the strategically placed opening, her back arched, arms stretched out along the bar counter, her slender, shapely hands with their short-cut, French-manicured nails gripping the rolled edge of the bar, head tilted back exposing the graceful line of a neck adorned with a simple, silver chain.
When they are done, he pours her a drink and she savors this last lingering taste of peppermint.
Birdstory Publications 2005
posted by Bird | 10:28 PM
1 Comments:
Your prose is...ahem...rather alluring, my dear
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