One of his pet names for me was (is) “lanky.” Little love text notes, “yes I love my long lanky girl with the big tits.” He would say that to me, sometimes sing in country-western overtones. But his real love was me, just me… “it is your personality, it is your soul, it is you that makes you in your consciousness that thrills me so.” Then he would smile that devilish smile “and your tanned toned frog legs do help, especially when they are spread wide just for me.” He loves my legs and high ass. He equated them to those of a feline feminine Olympian high jumper, “hey frog legs toned, long and strong with a professional tennis butt hung in the air without a care,” I miss the sound of his voice, and how he rode that butt of mine in syncopated time. That is my favorite position with him. On my hands, elbows and knees seeking only him to please for my pleasure only, how he loved me in a tight sweater. “Oh well, enough girlish rhapsody.” In the said position with my back arched like a “golden leopard” (that was one of his pet names for me too) waiting in heat for the moment of lively penetration– when he first parted my lips with the hard head of his long penis– it was (is) beyond descriptive pleasure and excitement. My long fingered hands would grab his bed sheets, my teeth did the same in anticipation of elation. Then his head softly and easily eases into my being, my mind on fire my nerve endings full of desire and then his long strong thrust, then thrusts of power how I love his masculine tower full of life and so alive. It is truly when “and two flesh shall become one.” Such power, such force that he would move me all the way across his western king bed. “slap! slap! slap!” came the sound of his pelvis as it struck my hard tennis ass. “smack!… smack!… smack!” as my face buried in his sheets moved across his bed. “slap– slap– slap!” I will never be the same. Last week in bed with my back to my husband in the darkness sweet as he slept I masturbated to the memory of “slap, slap, slap” among the other things he did to me and they were many, such lovers he and I. He a man of ending autumn years and I a lady of early summer days, so we would play, love we would make. And when that old poet came deep inside of me it was with expanded force, with his large strong hands griping my butt like a vise and usually one of his thumbs press deep into my asshole– that is how long his hands are. So I masturbate in fantasy’s wake of our passions, I miss that old man. I miss our coffeehouse and how we sat next to each other as perfect strangers and talked about life and the parody of it. Sometimes with my kids in tow and the coffeehouse as just a stopoff before heading to grandma’s house, my kids always looked at him dubiously as we chatted as strangers do. Then kids dropped off and shopping to do and then my afternoon delight of Slap! Smack! Slap!!!!
Posted in: True Stories