This is a growing collection of my stories. I appear to favour writing about sex and death, not always together. I'm also writing two books. Some days it feels like most other people inhabit a world where you can aimlessly wander into vendor-created wonderlands and purchase things you never knew you needed - for entertainment. The mind boggles. I believe it's because I wasn't allowed to watch television as a child. I just don't get some things. I'm ok with that

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Isobelle's fantasy


Isobelle you're making me crazy. Isobelle I see you on the train. I can't not look at you. You're hair catches the sun, there is a innocence in your demeanour that I want to own, to break.

Isabelle I'll bet you didn't know heights could make your pulse race? Do you know what it feels like to be touched by satin and leather? To hold a piece of material between your lips? I want to be your bug-bear,. I want to be so close you can feel the warmth of my breath on your neck, so close you can't imagine anything but allowing me to help you find your release.

I bet you don't even notice me? I'm tall, I work out. You always get on the train and appear to be off in lah-lah land, half smiling, miles away. I know you're name. I've heard you answer your phone. You make me crazy with lust and I'm invisible. Do you know how sexy that is?

I crave the opportunity to make your skin tingle, to find your hidden heat. When you turn away from me and your hair sways, I can smell your shampoo. I imagine finger-fucking you naked, your expression clotted with lust, begging me remember to enter you once I have released the delicious pleasure of your mounting orgasm. Why don't you notice me? I thought I gave the impression I ravished you with my eyes?

At home, alone, Isobelle touches her intimate creases and greases them with her longing. She slides her slippery fingers around her wetness and presses her lush breasts on the cold glass in the shower. It gives her body tremours and her nipples rise to peaks. Under the warm buzz of the shower she lets her hands wander between her legs, gently bringing herself to orgasm imagining bringing to life the suggestion she can see in the eyes of her tall, dark-haired commuter.

He makes her tremble, he makes her ache for the hardness of a lover's hands on her sweet tight curves. Isobelle excels herself, working her fingers into the warm flesh. Such consistent attention fuels her desire to thrust into herself. Unthinking she presses her thighs together and adds pressure. What would he want from her? Total and silent, depraved surrender? To bind her to his need? To nip her flesh? Cast her to the floor and take her blindly? Isobelle explodes in orgasm, feeling the tremours rack her slight frame.



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