Hands

I woke early and rolled around in my half-full bed.

My hands are warming on a fresh cup of coffee.  Just holding the cup keeps my hands busy, steadies me. When there’s no one warm under the covers, one takes coffee to bed.

Without the java, my fingertips roam over my wrists and palms and knuckles, tenderly touching the dip between each finger where his hands were laced with mine. My thinking pauses, lingering and laughing at the antics of my own wanting, remembering the sweat on his shoulders and back, and my palms on the headboard in some crazy bracing yoga pose!

Without the steaming brew anchoring me to the present, I will repeatedly touch and follow the long line from ear to shoulder, find my fingers running through my own hair, silently pushing it off my forehead, tucking it behind my ear like his did when he wanted to see my face, the bend of my neck, the muscles of my back, as he looked down at me kneeling on the new sheets.

Dressing for work, physical memories are carved into my muscles. I walk shoulders back, hips thrust forward, my sore limbs and calves serve as witness to my evening workout. The pounding in my head spins the rhythms, tries to articulate the rhymes, sets a pace for those sweet sounds of encouragement,  notes the unintentional interruptions escaping from my throat when someplace inside releases those soft guttural accepting sounds.

The evening is crawling back through my mind, dragging distant proof to the surface, showing me how far away my body can take my mind.

I’m distracted; not seeing the road; my car finds itself parked between the assigned yellow lines.

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She smiles about this waking up alone time, the slow stretch, the silent roll into the pillow to pull back the touch of the lover who left later than he planned and earlier than she preferred.

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#for Reticent Mental Property

Flip: Personal Ad

RMPedinburgh1582

I Want You – 40


Date: 2012-12-23, 9:22AM EST

When you enter the room, I look up from the work on my desk and smile. It has been too long since the last time I set eyes upon your stunning beauty. As I gaze into your eyes, I can clearly see the passion, longing and burning desire that has been held back for far too long. I momentarily shift my eyes to your beautiful figure and am delighted that you have seen fit to wear a sexy skirt and blouse just for me.

I motion with my finger for you to come to me, and you walk over without saying a word as I stand. Then I wrap my strong arms around you and take your face into my gentle hands. Our lips touch, and then we kiss … slow at first … but then more intensely. I can feel your body pressing into mine and the swell of your breasts against my chest. I break our kiss and hold you close as I gently nibble your ear and whisper how much I have missed you. I smell your perfume and it ignites my passion and I start to lightly kiss the side of your neck.

I feel your breathing getting ragged and your knees getting weak. I can tell that you are now mine for the taking. In an instant, I lift you off the floor and into my powerful arms and hold your like a baby as I walk towards the bed. My mouth finds yours as I am walking and we kiss deeply, our tongues exploring and the desire building.

I lay you on the bed and remove your clothing slowly as you look at me with glazed half opened eyes. Your blouse and bra come off first. And I take each breast into my mouth in turn and expertly lick and nibble on them until your nipples become completely aroused … while my hand is rubbing and slowly moving up your inner thigh. As I get closer to your sex … I notice that you are so wet that the juices are flowing down your legs … and that you have not worn panties.

I touch you with my fingers and trace small circles around your clit while moving to your mouth and start kissing you again. You are wet and excited and it turns me on so much that I now as hard as a rock. You reach to feel me through my jeans and gasp. You want me so bad. Our mouths are locked and we are trying to consume each other … the lust is almost uncontrollable … as I break our kiss … trail kisses down your body … remove your skirt and put my head between your open legs. I start to gently lick all around the vulva and labia and tease you relentlessly as I use my finger to lightly touch your clit. You are panting and trying to grind into my face and lock my head in your thighs. That is when I take your clit into my mouth and lick and suck until I hear my baby moan and shake.

You release me and I stand and take off my clothing as you watch from orgasm dazed eyes. I take your legs and put them over my shoulders and slip into you easily like a hot knife into butter. I start slow … and tenderly make love to you. We grind together in unison and in perfect rhythm … with my every push brushing my crotch against your clit. I move your legs off my shoulders and open them wide so I can and thrust as deep as possible … I kiss you and pinch your nipples between my fingers. It is not long before I feel like I am close and so are you.

But then I stop and pull out. And I flip you over onto your stomach and say “baby get up onto your knees” … and weakly you manage it. I am feeling like a sex starved bull with a rod of iron as I roughly thrust into you from behind. You bury your head into the pillow and gasp. I start thrusting hard as I grip your hips. The bed starts to shake as I pump into your harder and faster …. you collapse from your knees and start to moan in orgasm … and I stay inside you and keep thrusting until finally I am spent … arggg … baby. I lay down beside you and kiss you .. and hold you in my arms until we fall asleep.

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If there is an attractive, physically fit woman out there reading this that needs some fantastic sex with a clean cut, athletic, DWM … please respond and lets get to know each other.

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She scribbles lines of red through his words; the same lines she drew through the ones he posted in Edinburgh. 

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#for Reticent Mental Property, April 20, 2013, actual lifted ad and not written by Ret

 

Driven

RMPwomanstandingondesk

Let me get this straight.

I drive you to drink, to madness, to self-analyses of the worst kind. You beat yourself up. You beg for release, beg to be reeled in, beg to be slapped in the face.

My complications pull me back, you push yourself harder, into me. You do not wish away my giving, generous self. But your strength is in your desire, your weakness in your self-control.

I walk.

This gives you your first drunken chug-fest in years.

You break.

By day you ply yourself with Captain-n-cokes, call your old lover-now-friend. You write tender, telling emails, at a pace of 130 wpm and hit send over and over flinging them my direction.

Your neighbor sees you throw the empties off the pier as the sun sets on the lake, clear bottles, relieved of cheap pink wine.

This “thing,” this obsession; you admit how it makes you question your worth, your intention, your motivations.

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And she is supposed to believe this is how one loves?

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#for Reticent Mental Property
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The Swim

 

RMPdockThe evening air is warm and humid, taking the edge off the breeze from the water and quickly slipping under and around our limbs,  wrapping us in the ease of the life of lake-loving people. Sometimes nature has a gift of reminding us the simple priorities in life… the need for water, the need for play, the need for companionship.

Tonight, it would be easy to be lulled by the gentle sway of the boards under your back and lean in to taste the water on your lips, to let my wet hair fall into your face and tease your skin to attention as the droplets roll off the end of the sodden strands, and each crawls its way downward, through your beard in a pre-determined pull of nature. Water always works this way after separated from the larger body, a slave to this quick return through the planks, to the origins of any skinny dip,  back into the lake, to the rippling, enveloping, secret-keeping water we hear lapping beneath our pier.

Instead, i gently tuck my toes under and straighten my legs. My thighs straddle your shins as i use my hands, placed palms down, fingers spread and anchored outside each of your bent elbows, and then lean forward and shift my weight to hover over you, in a plank position, just near enough to allow the length of my body to graze your skin from ankle to sternum as i move my lips to your chest and take tiny nibbles, making circles and tracing unknown patterns subconsciously designed by my giving heart.  i don’t hesitate to tweak with my teeth your hardened nipple and then immediately cover it with the wet heat of my mouth, an apology for the sharp contrast of night air on recently skinny-dipped skin.

My push up position allows me the good fortune of meeting your want, clearly aroused, dancing and rising to touch my body with its tip, clearly needing touching and tasting, this willful reminder of your interest in learning the language of my hips.

I raise my face to yours and our eyes meet, both of us showing in the briefest glance, how simple priorities,  this pure enjoyment of a warm body, can take us to places we have traveled in our minds over weeks of heated email exchanges. But, with practicalities in mind, you wrap your arms around me,  pull me to you, tightly, and then, just as quickly, we laugh together and let the sounds of silly  travel across the lake and rouse the family of ducks making way to the shore.

Breaking our embrace, i roll to the side and hop to my feet, then stand tall, feet slightly apart, thighs braced as i face my body toward you.

I am warm.  My mind is alive and the throbbing ache between my legs, a familiar feeling when i’m around you, has no warm body to press into while you lie below me. I reach my hand between my legs, and with my fingers dip gently inside to find my swollen self and pull up to stroke the length of my wetness, then, fingers filled with proof of my desire for you, i put them to my lips and slide my fingers into my mouth, over my teeth to my tongue, and taste the heaven i’d offer you,  if only we had more time.

You seem pleased to see me so comfortable touching you,  touching myself.  It does not go unnoticed by you, how my other hand, its longest finger, is slowly tapping the triangle at the base of my throat. With an audible sigh we snap ourselves into the busy work of scooping up lacy things and flip flops and terry towels and make our way toward the house to put together a plan for the evening.

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She slides the book back into place, marveling how lakeside shelves collect such tales.

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#for Reticent Mental Property

Find the Ice and the Glass

RMPginntonicOverheard on a Friday evening in a mid-western state on a very cold night, when it should not be snowing, but it is, again. 

While sipping her gin and tonic, a double, her date is telling a story about a hooker in a brothel. He’s on one of his first trips overseas with his unit, just another night out with the guys.  He tells her in vivid detail the shape of the fan blades, the way she is kneeling between his legs, the sounds in the room next door, the way he was helping her with his hand, since he’d had too much to drink.

And at the table next to them, a young woman’s voice, as she’s leaning in to the ear of a man-friend she quickly trusts.  He’s already rejected her advances, telling her he’s happily married, just likes to come out once in a while and drink a few beers and see how many young things he can advise on life, love and happiness. She thinks he’s susceptible to her perfumed wrist and sees how he watches her, slowly moving his eyes from her hand to her shoulder to that little v at the base of her throat.

He asks, “Have you ever gotten lost in the act itself…like all of sudden, just stopped and looked at the clock and felt yourself return to reality? and it’s a couple of hours later? and you are very thirsty and sweaty and your thighs shake as you walk to the tiny kitchen to find the ice and the glass?”

He is comfortable in his pause, knowing she’ll answer.

And she does.

She looks to the right, above his head, and with a sigh, shares the truth as she has told it before, how her husband’s lost-in-the-moment seldom lasts more than the ten-to-fifteen-second run-up to orgasm, how during which time she could hit him in the head with a two-by-four and he’d probably be oblivious to it. She confesses she suspects this to be the case with most men, most husbands, generally.

He doesn’t disagree, knowing his charm is less necessary than a few short minutes ago,  and wishing he wanted to keep it turned on.

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Bringing the glass to her lips, she sips again, tips her chin to the left and stops eavesdropping.  Oh, she knows lost, knows how it is worth every forgotten moment out of her head, the wandering in that place. 

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#for Reticent Mental Property

The Play of Minds Quote Day

RMPlaughingwomanboothSurely only boring people went in for conversations consisting of questions and answers. The art of true conversation consisted in the play of minds.

Ved Mehta– March 21, 1934: Born in Lahore when it was still under British rule, writer Ved Mehta made his way to the U.S. and became a New Yorker staffer.

She’s laughing with you, head thrown back, throat filled, her open lips, her soundless words, shouting from the white of your page, disturbing your empty and peaceful places, speaking with you, letting you find and feed her mind. 

#for Reticent Mental Property

 

 

Seeking

RPMsupermanhands12:45:07

Seeking Superman – m4w

May I please just fucking kick the shit out of you and then have you hold me and tell me it didn’t hurt at all…oh sorry, those are the kinds of guys i’ve already met on CL.

Are you godlike and capable of telling me that settling is not so frustrating after i hit the age of no return? Great! You’re in. Call me. But not at my house.

How about a response from a guy who mind-fucks with wild abandon and then smoothly sends me home to my married life, feeling no guilt and ready to take on another decade of contentment? Yes, I’m interested in hearing from anyone who can turn back the hands of time.

And do not respond if i have already spent 104 lines of chat fucking on your virtual desk and now you have to go cuz a client is on the way in… and i’ve heard from enough of you who tell me i’m just so unforgettable i should be writing erotica with Ms. James.

Please resist responding if you are the guy who buys me lunch and some lovely lacy underthings and then, despite my decline of dessert , only due to lack of chemistry, is still willing to thank me kindly for teaching you the merits of an intimate relationship and how you are now going to call your x-lover and go back to her and get back into full-blown physical foray including afterglow pillow talk.

And please don’t buy me a coffee, and then accept your caramel macchiatto when you ordered a latte, AND then sit in the wheelchair accessible table and proceed to tell me you are a Dom who knows i need to be spanked and btw, you have a stash of nipple clamps hidden in your house where your girlfriend will not find them.

AND don’t be the guy who claims to be an amazing lover, yet fires not one tongue shot when you have the chance, but still credits me with getting you off your ass and jump starting your new career.

So, what am i looking for on here on CL? I guess i’m looking for whatever i send out, cuz that is what we always get back. Clearly this venue is not for me.

Follow me on over to the local escort service slash massage parlor. Good and happy endings for all, if you can afford my mind and body and are willing to succumb to my refined tastes in male manipulation.

Respond with salacious in the subject heading if you fucking know the definition.

A good vocabulary is never overrated.

 

#for Reticent Mental Property