Well, I'm now caught up with posting my itty bitty stories. This was the one inspired by the seven words. You know - Saint George - Carlin that is.
Hmmm. I guess Firefox and Safari have different opinions on font size. Oh well. I'm going to bed.
Medium Drip, For Here
Whenever I write those words, I get a tingly chill. Fuck. Makes me want to look over my shoulder, see who’s watching. Cocksucker I don’t use often. Not sure why. Doesn’t do much for me. But, if I write the word cunt, I can feel it right there.
As I spell it out – c-u-n-t – it crawls up into me, makes me squirm a bit.
He wants to watch me write a dirty story. We go to the little coffee shop, bring our laptops, arrive separately, pretend not to know each other. Order drip. He sits across the room, facing me.
This is hard. I’m too aware of him there, seeming to ignore me. Aware, too, of the other people in the shop. I angle myself so that my back is towards the wall and start typing. Soon I forget where I am, that he is watching. Now he is in my brain.
You pull me into the curtained area where the supplies are kept. Reach your hand under my skirt, brush lightly, teasingly, between my legs. I’m crazy with need and knowing this, you sink gathered fingers into my wet cunt…
Later he tells me that he could see me get excited as I wrote. Saw the flush in my cheeks, saw me press myself into my seat, saw me breathe faster.
I pull your cock out – bend over – you push into me – I bite my lip – gotta be quiet.