You are delicious, like a shiny red apple, like temptation, like innocence. I can be swirled into your fantasy like vanilla extract in cake batter. I want to make erotic films with you — being covered in honey or you pouring whiskey into my mouth and drinking from it like a cup. I want my heels pointed to the ceiling. I want you to rip my panties off. Shove them in my mouth. Split me open like you’re breaking the bindings of a book. Dig in like you would set up camp in my pussy. Make me growl like a stalking animal — make me forget how to talk. Make me speak only in incoherent yes-es and swear words. Let me bite into that skin, taste that flesh, swallow you. Fill me. Drench me. I want it, all that shiny newness. Even now, my mouth is filling with my saliva — my hunger growing. Feed me.

San Tropez golden boy with lacquered hair

This young man. This tasty young man with sweet pink lips that remind me that once, long ago, I liked kissing. And his kisses send me into a tailspin, and I find myself clutching onto his collar to steady myself. He requested that I “dress sexy” for him. My kind of request. I know — from our car tete a tete — that he likes blue. I choose a blue sheer camisole and matching panties with a darker blue lace trim. I pair this with my 7″ stiletto heels.

When I open the door, he is surprised. he steps over the threshold and pulls me into his arms. His hot mouth and hands rove my body and I gasp for air. My breath is caught in my chest. He release me to admire me and I can breathe again.

He is glossy — his hair a black lacquer, almost brylcreem shiny — his eyes bright — his mouth wet. His golden skin is like a prefect year-round tan. He’s shiny new, right out the packaging. I’m ready to play with him — god, even his breath smells new. I step into his arms and I see something else, something wild and dark in his eyes. New and yet old too. Very nice. I sit him on my battle-worn leather couch and start gyrating my hips; I’m dancing for him. A lap dance. he doesn’t let me finish

…

My legs on his shoulders.

His fingers deep inside me.

His thick sex filling me, and, later, his hot cum in my throat.

…

Hours later, I’m still reeling from the feeling of his cock in me, coupled with his hands on my hips, rolling me around on top of him. He’s made this whole thing shiny and new, from deep kisses to deep penetration. It’s all glossy like his lips, like his eyes, like his hair.

She didn't mind teaching...

So often women chuckle at the skill and passion of younger men. “I don’t want to have to teach my lover”, comes so easily from women’s mouths, you wonder if they have even considered if they believe it.  Sometimes, younger men come already knowing how to please, already eager, already full of such virility and intensity that instruction is unnecessary. Or perhaps he is riding the waves of the moment — your collective chemistry — such that you feel innocent and defer to him! I have always had a taste for younger men, they smell so good like baked bread, so it’s no wonder that when I finally got my hands on one it was exactly as I had hoped. Better even.

Once again, mzfatbooty delves into the forbidden — perhaps because secretly, I like it there. He was a diminutive man, a man who I knew since he was, well, a boy. In some ways, I was his elder sister — we were platonic, filial even, for so long that when I saw him and my sex throbbed, I was surprised! We stood there embracing after having been apart for so long, and suddenly the hug turned from innocent to flirtatious to heady. I pulled back from him to see him properly; he is watching me just as I am watching him.

We chose to play billiards — a game that would allow us to both drink and catch up, while keeping us from staring uncomfortably at each other. I break and the sound of the cue ball connecting with the others, the collision of the balls with each other, the dull sound of the balls hitting the felt walls of the table, all sound like the series of events happening in my body moving me away from seeing him as a little brother and seeing him as… something else.

I feel myself changing; I’m stretching across the pool table extending my body to its limits, allowing him to see my flexibility, my range. I’m dropping hints. Small, but he knows me so well, small hints are all that is necessary. My royal blue bra is peeking out from my deep cut sweater bright enough that he MUST notice it in flashes. Soon my sweater is off and my camisole is revealing even more of my bra. It doesn’t take much more and this man, this young young man, grabs me to him and kisses me. I don’t even know how to describe the pleasure I felt when we kissed. I was literally reeling. I clung to his shirt to gather my thoughts and wait for the ground to return.

I stare into his honey colored face and his wry smile and think, are you the same guy I remember? The same shy boy? He grabs me by my waist and pulls me close again. I turn to meet his mouth. Who the hell am I kissing? He looks like the guy I remember, but everything about his embrace is on fire. Hell, his hands are on fire. He’s so hot and everywhere his hands land warm immediately to his temperature. It takes everything in me to pull away from him and avoid ripping his clothes off in the bar and fucking him on the pool table, the balls dancing around us and falling onto the floor. “They’ll kick us out of here,” I whisper. He kisses me again and I protest, but not nearly enough for him to believe me. “Let get in my car,” I suggest, “At least I can kiss you as much as I’d like.” ”Okay, but as soon as I get time off of work, I will fuck you from morning until night,” he answers.

We get in my car. We’re in the car barely moments before his hands are all over me, his tongue down my throat, and all I can do is coo. Finally he commands me, “take those pants off.” I do not hesitate. I climb on top of him and let him plunge his dick deep in me. In this moment, we’re equals. We’re both reeling from the pleasure, from the exploding desire (who knew that was even there?), and the shock of the experience. In my tiny compact car, he manages to flip me onto my back and fuck me some more. I am following his lead — we start talking to each other, filthy things, whorish things, ideas I didn’t even know rolled around in his sweet head. I push him off me, for a few seconds, long enough for him to meet my gaze, before I take his dick into my mouth.

There is no age in the passenger seat of my now steamy car. There is no shyness. There’s just a man with a hard sex and a woman ready to receive it. There is noise behind us and I worry about us being discovered. We dress and agree to reconvene in safer place. I know that safer place will allow both of us to really let loose. This lover was surprising — I pegged him for the tender lover, not the animal. This rendezvous cannot come fast enough…it’s never the ones you expect.

Dita Von Teese brought the corset back, and I follow her lead

He’s stopping through my city — two, no more than three days. “Will you come visit me in the hotel? I’m still not finished with you,” he breathes into the phone. He pauses a moment. “Wear the corset?” he can hear my smile on the other end. “i’ll let you know when i’m on my way.”

When I hang up, my husband gives me a devilish grin, his green eyes glinting. “i’m taking you first, and sending you to him with my scent on you.” He leads me upstairs and my skin prickles when the door clicks shut. We have guests downstairs and he simply doesn’t give a fuck. He walks briskly towards me and grabs me by the throat. He leads me in this way to the bed.

He grinds on me, teasing my sex with the tip of his, builds me to a frenzy and stops. he slaps my breasts, plunges his teeth into my neck, and then penetrates me until i start to squeal like a pig. Shoving his hand into my mouth, he hushes me, I pour my scren into the fiercest bite — his flesh satisfiying my need to scream.

I hear the TV and the voices downstairs as I slowly feel the veil of orgasm lift. Rolling off me, he beckons me back to him. I crawl across the bed, wiggling my ass for his greedy eyes — he’s watching me in the wall mirror — and climb on top of him. My hot and still wet sex presses against his stomach, my ass in his face, and I drop my mouth right on his dick. I hold my mouth there, suffocating, tongue tickling the base of his sex I lift off and gasp for air. He loves it. A few tears squeeze out my eyes and I fall back down on his dick — choking on it and relishing it. His moans changes; he’s going to cum — soon. The back of my throat is shot with his juice. I swallow and he says, “now go and have some more fun.”

I slowly dress, reaching for my tried and true peach corselette,  – I do need some lover to buy me a new one — French knickers, and my backseam stockings. I take a thin wrap dress and tie it over my devilment. I go downstairs to my guests, “fix the backseams like a dear?” I slide my feet into some black patent leather stilettos and drive out to the hotel. Unlike the meeting with my yogi, I feel much more experienced, and I meet the gaze of the front desk woman and brazenly strut past. It takes a few moments to find the right corridor, but, shortly, I’m knocking on his door.

I step through and deftly pull the sash of my dress, exposing the corset. He gasps. “It’s better than I imagined.” He kneels down and runs his hands over my legs, worshipping them. He fondles my ass. Rubs his cheek against my thigh. Snaps my garters, each one, all six, and marvels at the jiggle of flesh. “Oh my God. So sexy, you look delicious.” I feel his hot breath on the part of thigh exposed — free from hosiery. “Wait here, right here. I want to film you. That’s okay, right?” I smile and place my hands on my hips. He turns on his laptop and then turns back to me. On his knees, like my personal boy, he unsnaps each garter. When they were all undone, he nestles his nose into my sex and exhales warm steam. He tenderly pulls my knickers down to the floor and slowly reattaches each garter to the stockings.

I stand there, both his doll and his master — a muse. After a few still moments, I step back and perch at the edge of the bed. He slides my right leg up to his shoulder and presses my left leg open further. He is licking my sex and working me into a fire. I roll my hips and cry out — oh yes, oh yes. I feel the orgasm building, rumbling in the distance like rolling thunder.

I hear the condom being freed from its wrapper, and standing up, my leg still on his shoulder, he thrusts into me. My stiletto pointed to the ceiling, his black dick deep inside me, my black ass spread for the camera. My head was spinning with pleasure.  I lower my leg slow and pull back from him to readjust. On all fours, my hells, ass, and sex right in the laptop camera. He mounts me, fucks me slow, passionately, as if he would fuck love right into me. As the sex grew more frenzied, I felt wilder, and as the boning restricted my movement, I felt like a caged animal — and was getting off on it.

I feel him building, the crescendo is soon. His cry of pleasure sent my orgasm rolling up and booming through my body. The second veil of orgasm covering me, I dress quickly, shove my panties into my blazer pocket and scurry home. “Send me the video, yes?” “Of course.”

I kiss him lightly and fly home to my third pleasure of the night. A husband who is insatiable. But as I try not to speed to his love, his ex, his arms, I wonder — is he insatiable, or am I?

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” he answers weakly.

I walk to the dining room and stand in front of the bar, legs akimbo. I feel him (and then his hands); they are roaming my body roughly before he presses his lips against my throat. He frees my breasts from my tank top and then rips my thong. Clothes disheveled, I drop to my knees in front of him and roll my hips in big motions, listening to him disrobe. I take all of his dick deep into my throat (I can choke on it now), like a basic skill. He rolls his head back and starts groaning, “oh my god…how?”

Just when he’s about to orgasm, he pulls out and flips me over onto the wood floor. I rest my forearms on the cold wood and listen eagerly to the tearing of the condom wrapper. Moments later, he’s penetrating me from behind, my tail feathers still in the air. I claw the floor as he latches on to my breasts and digs into my sex. I drunk with pleasure.

But I am not done with him — once we orgasm, I give him a few moments to clean up and then fondle his sex back to life We drink — I am sipping Maker’s Mark, he Mt. Gay rum — and lay about nude. I fondle him until he is on fire, then I fold my body to his and, like a contortionist, I bring my mouth back to his sex. When he is sufficiently reeling, I unfold and unfurl my legs and stand in front of him, tail feathers in his face. I shake my ass like a professional, drop and grip my ankles. Taking my right hand, I pull the feathered plug free and drop to all fours.

He slides off the couch and gets his sex deep in my ass. As he bucks, his balls slap against my pussy, bringing my breathing to a fevered pitch. I think I can come like this. Without warning, he cums deep in my ass and we crumple naked on the floor.

Panting, we pull our bodies back up on the couch — we stroke each other’s skin, we marvel at our sex. I stretch out on the couch and when our eyes meet, I know he wants to keep going until I beg for no more. One finger slides into me. Then two. then three. He’s working me. I may pee on him, squirt on him, or both. He squeezes my clit between his thumb and forefinger, while his other hand is deftly fucking me. he rears up when I orgasm, then starts fucking me, my legs split nearly 180, him pushing them further, me squeezing my sex muscles, until we both orgasm again roughly.

This time, I’m more in awe of my own body, than his. My physical limits keeps getting pushed, and with each push, my orgasms get stronger. I think I may start thinking of my lovers as physical trainers–showing me how my work in the gym translates to work in the bed. I like it. Watch me work.

When I’ve decided to take a lover, I consider everything. What type of lover I’m going to channel, what type of lover I want to draw out, what kind of sex we’re going to have.  Should I wear the screen siren peach corset or the lace black bra and tap panty? Stockings? Rope? Marabou slippers–even if the heels are a bit too high? No makeup and a thin cotton tank or high fashion Andrew Blake style? I get to experience so many different types of sex, they whirl in my head like the choices of what kind of food to have for dinner. Is it Moroccan with scented rosewater to wash with or raw sushi with wasabi and hot sake?

Speaking of sushi and sake, I’ve determined that my desire to eat Japanese with a lover is a choice to aggressively seduce that person. I have two seduction modes, both tied closely to food, to drink, and a carefully crafted image. The Sushi Mzfatbooty uses the exotic. She draws out the chase. The sake is delivered in small doses, as is her flirtations, but they compile until the heat of the sake reaches the loins. She keeps right out of reach, using her interest in the East to appear foreign–an expanse of an entire culture separating them. This is my favorite. As foreign as it seems, it also feels quite natural. It is the closest to my innate self.

The other me is attached to the smell of old leather, dusty books, whiskey. Humidors lined with Cuban cigars. I cling to age, time, masculinity. I dance the line between the dry and the smoldering. I dare him to cut to the chase. Attack.

The sad thing is that these two identities don’t get enough air. There’s no place for neat whiskey and silk stockings in the everyday world. No one has time for dainty sashimi and unfiltered sake; they want beer and pizza. I don’t know how to seduce in that environment. I come off as aloof, insane, or worse, awkward. I need the fantasy. I thrive on the plot, on the ambience, on my lingerie. So mostly, I play wingman. I leave the chase to better women. I take few risks. Most people might not get me. I mean, what is the purpose of a marabou slipper anyway?

If my lover doesn’t know that answer, then we are ill-suited. Obviously, the answer is…magic.

Without that magic, how can I truss a lover, wear a strap-on, be bitten until I cry out, or have sex on the top of my desk at 2:30 in the afternoon? You need magical tools. Crimson lipstick, for starters. Ostrich feathers or strips of worn brown leather. French knickers. A straight razor for shaving a lover. A rich duvet or else innumerous throw pillows. A kimono, definitely. Acquire these magical tools, as many as you can, create a toolkit. Know their use, their place, and when stark nudity will do. And employ them whenever you can. A camera is a necessity. But no face pictures. Make everything part of a larger story of sensuality. Live in that languor. That’s how I think.

That’s why I wear marabou slippers.

I treated the outing as though I was a call girl. They were in the hotel room, showering, drinking, waiting on me. Knowing this, I took my time preparing. Thorough shower, skin oiled, perfumed, peach corset fastened tightly, holding up silk thigh highs. I wore black heels and an unassuming purple dress. I felt like Anais Nin’s Bijou. I felt like walking sex. I grabbed a length of nylon rope and shoved it into my bag before heading out. I put my mind on the performance of sex — the tone, the audience, the trappings. I let the stereo set my internal temperature. The idea of “working” was turning me on.

When I entered the hotel, surveying the lobby, my eyes met with those of the concierge. He gave me a look that pierced through my plain dress and saw the corset (and my plan) underneath. I blushed and scurried to the elevator. 209.

Once I knocked on the door, the event would begin. No matter the distractions and ruses, when I stepped over the threshold, I’d be at work. I wasn’t expecting though, for her to be so much like myself. I wasn’t ready to be face to face with a curvy, dimpled woman with an eagerness to match my own. This would be fun. I left my tote in the hotel room, the rope still a mystery.

We went to the strip club, where glossy women with firm asses really showed me what “walking sex” meant. One stripper leaned in close, and noticing my garters, writhed her honeyed ass and pussy on my legs. I could feel the elastic rubbing roughly on her skin, and it pleased me. She turned to face me and rubbed her breast against my cheek as she rolled my nipples between her fingers. The other patrons watched from a distance — the couple I was with eyed us greedily.

We hurried back to the hotel room, he deposited us out front, then went for parking. She and I went upstairs to wait for him. I didn’t want to wait. Enjoying her promised to be oddly narcissistic, and I wanted her at that moment. An aggressiveness took over me. I asked her one question:

“do you trust me?”
“yes,” she answered firmly.

I stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her. I let my hands explore her curves. I instructed her to close her eyes. I slipped her out of her dress and watched her nervously hold herself. I needed a blindfold; I was ready to educate her. The sash of my purple dress was a perfect prop.

I pulled it free in one easy motion and covered her eyes. Now, I thought, she is mine. I took my own dress off and stood there: corset, thigh highs, heels. I fondled her greedily, and every touch I gave her translated to heat on my body. I unfastened her bra, but left on her panties. Grabbing the rope, I began a simple breast piece, a rough harness, easy to move her where I wanted to go. She was swooning, and then I heard his key card in the door just under her moan.

“do you still trust me?”
“yes.” this time weaker. “is that the door?”
“ignore it. focus on me.”

I hadn’t met his eyes when he came through the door, so I don’t know if they reflected shock, elation, or horror when he saw us. I didn’t care; I was enjoying my prey.

I used the rope to navigate her to the bed — threw her down. I kissed her ass, knelt down, licked her sex. I used the rope to handle her. When I finally set her free, we were frantic — rough kisses, grinding, rolling around with each other. It was like doubling oneself. Every pleasure given, it is also received. My outfit was pulled off, my body exploding free of its harness, just as I had freed her from her rope constraints.

And in all of this, he is only watching. We draw him in like a prop — his sex there to explore with both our tongues. We fight to kiss each other around his dick. We straddle him to get closer to each other. Then I hear my little inner voice: he is feeling left out. Once again you have glutted yourself and left someone hungry.

I leave them to finish their sex session. I dress, throw my gear in my bag, and slink out into the night still smelling her in my nose and tasting her in my mouth, and it tastes like me.