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30 Temmuz 2022, 19:34
All names, characters, situations and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended or should be inferred.
Copyright blablabla...
************************************************** **************
"I've brought some chocolates for you." Somewhat awkward, I pass her the box. "I thought, because it's Valentine..."
She thanks me politely and opens the box, offers one of the hearts to me.
I watch her, unpacking the shiny, dark, sweet titbit; slender fingers, aubergine nail paint matching her aubergine lipstick and eyeshadow, and possibly matching her lingerie... Seductively, she brings it to her mouth, bites off a part and her face radiates delight.
Delight, her trademark.
It emphasizes my boorishness.
She smiles at me, tells me I'm a gentleman. A finger brushes my cheek.
When asked, I tell her I'm fine. That I'd been looking forward seeing her again. She's happy too, to see me, she says. She'd been thinking of me. We spend some time talking about the weather and heavy traffic and such. Getting at ease. Smiling a little more.
She is beautiful. Her long, dark, curly hair, large eyes, full lips. Patiently, she allows me to take her in, an affectionate smile spreading her warmth deep inside me.
She reaches out to remove my tie; to get some air, she says. I let her. And when she's also freed the top buttons of my shirt, I take her hand to press a kiss on it. The sweet, herbal sent is intoxicating.
She sits back and watches me. And then, after a little while, after I've confirmed that I'm feeling comfortable, her fingers move to the buttons of her own, purple shirt. A shirt designed to emphasize the shape of her ample breasts. I think the term 'Ample Breasts' is in order here.
Slowly, her fingers free the row of buttons in front of her, revealing more and more of, indeed, her aubergine colored bra. She's very conscious of her beauty, but not in an arrogant way; she knows how to emphasize her qualities, to indulge me in the look of them.
The confident look after she's put her shirt away, warms me up. Invites me to take pleasure in her looks.
"You look absolutely stunning." Flower patterns decorate the lace material which is fine enough to allow a hint of her dark nipples to show through.
I almost want to stop her, when her fingers reach out to unbutton my own shirt. The contrast of her warm, glowing skin versus my own dull, grey body, covered with blemishes, is repulsive. But the flesh is weak, and I cannot withhold her.
I cannot deny the tingling I feel when her fingers touch me, and brush through my chest hair. I am willing to believe her, when she tells me there's something ruggedly handsome in the look of a mature man. I would normally laugh at those words, but now, when coming from her, I'm open to believe in my own attraction. The way bonus veren siteler (http://www.eryom.com/bonus-veren-siteler/) her hands slide over my chest is somehow convincing. Convincing enough to fill me up and harden me.
I don't object when she opens the buttons of my trousers, and her smile at the sight of the tent in my drawers only fuels my self-esteem. Her soft caressing through the fabric causes a wet spot to emerge; it only seems to please her more.
She goes down on her knees in front of me, to remove my shoes and socks. Her eyes never move away from mine. Her eyes shine; her mouth, slightly open, allowing her breath an unhindered passage, suggests her desire.
I push myself up, to enable her to remove my trousers.
I know I should feel vulnerable now, sitting almost naked on this mattress. I could very well feel inadequate, being in company of such a stunningly beautiful woman. Instead, I feel alive; appreciated and potent. She makes me feel sufficient; manly; attractive enough to keep going.
Standing in front of me again, she slowly sways her hips, drawing my eyes to her center. I feel the urge to reach out to her, but hold back; I don't want to impair this picture of her beauty. Her attraction is in her strength, in her independence, in her poise; there's nothing I could add to that.
More buttons get undone, her fingers do what I can't.
And when, at the end, her thumbs slide under the fabric of her shorts, I swallow, hard, to remove that lump obstructing my throat.
When her shorts have come off, I tell her once again how beautiful she looks. As if she wouldn't know; as if my words, my opinion, would have anything to add to that. But she accepts my words with grace; she doesn't detract them by pointing out some supposedly attractive features of me, but instead, she runs a fingertip over her belly and asks if I want to see more of it.
I do. In a way, I don't, I don't want to lose this moment, but the mind is elusive, and lust a strong incentive. And so, I nod.
She plays with me. Her fingertips, caressing her breasts through the lace, play with my mind; make me wish those fingers were mine, make me wish I was nothing but a fly on the wall. Make me whish...
Her hand, moving to her back... it urges me to call to her to stop it, to beg her not to expose too much for me. But when the hand returns and the bra is still in place, my whole body protests. She smiles compassionately at the conflicts that rage inside me. Not condescending but understanding. A soft, swift caressing of my cheek seems intended for comfort, but it only fans up the turmoil inside of me.
At a second go, her hand doesn't renounce, but frees the clasp on her back. I can see the release of tension in the fabric, but the bra still doesn't fail in covering her beautiful breasts. Only after a shake of her shoulders do the straps slowly slide down her arms. Her forearms, bedava bahis (http://www.eryom.com/bonus-veren-siteler/) crossed in front of her chest, her hands, form yet another obstruction, but then she gives in, allows the lace to drop on the floor, and my eyes witness her perfection.
I can only repeat myself; I don't. I swallow and take in her beauty in silence. All for me to see. Body of perfection.
Perfect.
If I would die at this moment and could keep what I feel right now...
Her hands knead her firm breasts, pinch her nipples and tweak them into turgid shape. Then she picks my hand and allows me to feel, caress the soft tissue. Feeling her nub rubbing in the palm of my hand is nearly enough to set me off.
I raise my other hand and, when she nods her consent, both hands together pay tribute to her grandness.
My hands are rough, calloused, but I've been told they do feel nice, as long as my actions are soft and gentle. Judged by her breathing, it's not only me who gets affected. Her own hands slowly rub over her hips and her belly. And slowly, her hands move more towards the place where her legs meet.
I nod, when asked if I'm ready for more, and she creates some distance between us.
With her eyes fixed on mine, her hand moves inside her panties. She sighs and her body squirms a little. She caresses herself, and then shows me her hand, the glistering on her fingers as proof of her arousal.
She smells her fingertips and then her hand goes back inside her panties, more urgent this time.
Her hips sway, move in circles as if her knees threaten to give in. Her breathing is heavy, pulses of air run through her body, heaving her breasts, causing a play of light and color on her beautiful skin. Her other hand rubs and claws her breasts and her toned belly. Her face displays signs of lust and need.
Seemingly annoyed by the obstruction of the fabric, she pushes her panties down her legs, and kicks them in a corner. I can see her fingers entering her, moving inside her to provide her with pleasure. Pleasure that gets displayed in moves and expressions. In grunts and sighs.
Then she moves to the bed and tells me she's ready.
I get up to make room for her and step out of my drawers. In no-time, a rubber covers my cock. She lies down and invites me between her legs.
Clumsily, as if intimidated, as a schoolboy, I climb on the bed. Butterflies which never fail to daze me, to fog my mind, and I nearly crash on top of her. I feel shy, privileged to witness her beauty, and not worthy to take pleasure in her.
Sensing my hesitation, she caresses my chest again, and then gently pushes my head towards her breast. Slow and gently, her fingers caress my scalp while my lips brush her perfect skin. A little more pressure encourages me to engulf her nipple and to suckle the hardened flesh.
A soft sigh shows her approval, as do her hands, caressing deneme bonus (http://www.eryom.com/bonus-veren-siteler/) my head.
I take my time to indulge myself in this intimacy, but eventually, her hands urge me to move on.
Slowly, I push myself inside her accommodating body. She's more than ready to receive me, and the entering my cock gets accompanied by a moan of pure bliss. Like everything, perfection is key.
She tells me she's ready for me, and adjusts her breathing to my movements. Slow and considerate at first; smooth and soft, yet determined. When my hips find the right cadence, I can focus on my hands, lips and even my tongue, to caress, brush and touch her face and flesh. She groans and her hands on my back encourage our union.
Her breathing follows the rhythm of our bodies, and her soft grunts and sighs reflect her feelings.
My own feelings cannot possibly be captured by sound and views; I fear the wheezing, my grunting, my gasping to be rather repulsive. The sight of my movements nowhere close to expressing the pleasure they bring. But she doesn't show any signs of revulsion; on the contrary. Her face shows pleasure and ecstasy, supported by the groans and soft yelps that flow over her lips.
She encourages me to speed up a little; to add some more force in my thrusts. To go deeper; harder; faster. I try to give her what she wants, while receiving from her in plenty. Her body billows under me, flows and moves to meet mine, sending my senses in overdrive.
She's untiring, challenging me to bring more, to move faster, harder... She urges me to bring out the best in me, while giving herself so effortless. She's beautiful.
Fortunately, my peak announces itself before my body gives way, and when I warn her of the forthcoming ending, she welcomes it as the offering of a precious gift. I manager to delay myself, to sufficiently prepare her for the inevitable, and then, we come as one.
Her hands softly caress my back as I am gasping for air, and she whispers words of praise in my ear. She thanks me, and tells me how well I did; how much she enjoyed it.
Slowly, I'm getting myself together again. When I find the strength to get up and move out of her, she presses a tender kiss on my cheek, repeating that it was nice.
She softly caresses me as I sit there restraining my seed with a knot in the slippery rubber. There is no discomfort in her actions, no urge to cover herself, to shy away from me. And when I'm ready, she first helps me putting on my clothes before she wraps herself in a robe.
After I've left her room, I walk around, getting myself together again. Once my mind is back at ease, I move on.
* * * * *
"I've brought some chocolates for her." I pass the box to the nurse. "It's Valentine. How's she doing today?"
"She's doing fine; she's already sitting in the living room. It looks like the haloperidol is having its effect. Can I get some tea for you?"
I nod and walk on. There she is, frail, sitting in a wheelchair. The remnants of a beautiful memory, but no sign of recognition when I call her name. A peeled mandarin and a sliced apple parts on a dish, next to her, are waiting to be fed.
Copyright blablabla...
************************************************** **************
"I've brought some chocolates for you." Somewhat awkward, I pass her the box. "I thought, because it's Valentine..."
She thanks me politely and opens the box, offers one of the hearts to me.
I watch her, unpacking the shiny, dark, sweet titbit; slender fingers, aubergine nail paint matching her aubergine lipstick and eyeshadow, and possibly matching her lingerie... Seductively, she brings it to her mouth, bites off a part and her face radiates delight.
Delight, her trademark.
It emphasizes my boorishness.
She smiles at me, tells me I'm a gentleman. A finger brushes my cheek.
When asked, I tell her I'm fine. That I'd been looking forward seeing her again. She's happy too, to see me, she says. She'd been thinking of me. We spend some time talking about the weather and heavy traffic and such. Getting at ease. Smiling a little more.
She is beautiful. Her long, dark, curly hair, large eyes, full lips. Patiently, she allows me to take her in, an affectionate smile spreading her warmth deep inside me.
She reaches out to remove my tie; to get some air, she says. I let her. And when she's also freed the top buttons of my shirt, I take her hand to press a kiss on it. The sweet, herbal sent is intoxicating.
She sits back and watches me. And then, after a little while, after I've confirmed that I'm feeling comfortable, her fingers move to the buttons of her own, purple shirt. A shirt designed to emphasize the shape of her ample breasts. I think the term 'Ample Breasts' is in order here.
Slowly, her fingers free the row of buttons in front of her, revealing more and more of, indeed, her aubergine colored bra. She's very conscious of her beauty, but not in an arrogant way; she knows how to emphasize her qualities, to indulge me in the look of them.
The confident look after she's put her shirt away, warms me up. Invites me to take pleasure in her looks.
"You look absolutely stunning." Flower patterns decorate the lace material which is fine enough to allow a hint of her dark nipples to show through.
I almost want to stop her, when her fingers reach out to unbutton my own shirt. The contrast of her warm, glowing skin versus my own dull, grey body, covered with blemishes, is repulsive. But the flesh is weak, and I cannot withhold her.
I cannot deny the tingling I feel when her fingers touch me, and brush through my chest hair. I am willing to believe her, when she tells me there's something ruggedly handsome in the look of a mature man. I would normally laugh at those words, but now, when coming from her, I'm open to believe in my own attraction. The way bonus veren siteler (http://www.eryom.com/bonus-veren-siteler/) her hands slide over my chest is somehow convincing. Convincing enough to fill me up and harden me.
I don't object when she opens the buttons of my trousers, and her smile at the sight of the tent in my drawers only fuels my self-esteem. Her soft caressing through the fabric causes a wet spot to emerge; it only seems to please her more.
She goes down on her knees in front of me, to remove my shoes and socks. Her eyes never move away from mine. Her eyes shine; her mouth, slightly open, allowing her breath an unhindered passage, suggests her desire.
I push myself up, to enable her to remove my trousers.
I know I should feel vulnerable now, sitting almost naked on this mattress. I could very well feel inadequate, being in company of such a stunningly beautiful woman. Instead, I feel alive; appreciated and potent. She makes me feel sufficient; manly; attractive enough to keep going.
Standing in front of me again, she slowly sways her hips, drawing my eyes to her center. I feel the urge to reach out to her, but hold back; I don't want to impair this picture of her beauty. Her attraction is in her strength, in her independence, in her poise; there's nothing I could add to that.
More buttons get undone, her fingers do what I can't.
And when, at the end, her thumbs slide under the fabric of her shorts, I swallow, hard, to remove that lump obstructing my throat.
When her shorts have come off, I tell her once again how beautiful she looks. As if she wouldn't know; as if my words, my opinion, would have anything to add to that. But she accepts my words with grace; she doesn't detract them by pointing out some supposedly attractive features of me, but instead, she runs a fingertip over her belly and asks if I want to see more of it.
I do. In a way, I don't, I don't want to lose this moment, but the mind is elusive, and lust a strong incentive. And so, I nod.
She plays with me. Her fingertips, caressing her breasts through the lace, play with my mind; make me wish those fingers were mine, make me wish I was nothing but a fly on the wall. Make me whish...
Her hand, moving to her back... it urges me to call to her to stop it, to beg her not to expose too much for me. But when the hand returns and the bra is still in place, my whole body protests. She smiles compassionately at the conflicts that rage inside me. Not condescending but understanding. A soft, swift caressing of my cheek seems intended for comfort, but it only fans up the turmoil inside of me.
At a second go, her hand doesn't renounce, but frees the clasp on her back. I can see the release of tension in the fabric, but the bra still doesn't fail in covering her beautiful breasts. Only after a shake of her shoulders do the straps slowly slide down her arms. Her forearms, bedava bahis (http://www.eryom.com/bonus-veren-siteler/) crossed in front of her chest, her hands, form yet another obstruction, but then she gives in, allows the lace to drop on the floor, and my eyes witness her perfection.
I can only repeat myself; I don't. I swallow and take in her beauty in silence. All for me to see. Body of perfection.
Perfect.
If I would die at this moment and could keep what I feel right now...
Her hands knead her firm breasts, pinch her nipples and tweak them into turgid shape. Then she picks my hand and allows me to feel, caress the soft tissue. Feeling her nub rubbing in the palm of my hand is nearly enough to set me off.
I raise my other hand and, when she nods her consent, both hands together pay tribute to her grandness.
My hands are rough, calloused, but I've been told they do feel nice, as long as my actions are soft and gentle. Judged by her breathing, it's not only me who gets affected. Her own hands slowly rub over her hips and her belly. And slowly, her hands move more towards the place where her legs meet.
I nod, when asked if I'm ready for more, and she creates some distance between us.
With her eyes fixed on mine, her hand moves inside her panties. She sighs and her body squirms a little. She caresses herself, and then shows me her hand, the glistering on her fingers as proof of her arousal.
She smells her fingertips and then her hand goes back inside her panties, more urgent this time.
Her hips sway, move in circles as if her knees threaten to give in. Her breathing is heavy, pulses of air run through her body, heaving her breasts, causing a play of light and color on her beautiful skin. Her other hand rubs and claws her breasts and her toned belly. Her face displays signs of lust and need.
Seemingly annoyed by the obstruction of the fabric, she pushes her panties down her legs, and kicks them in a corner. I can see her fingers entering her, moving inside her to provide her with pleasure. Pleasure that gets displayed in moves and expressions. In grunts and sighs.
Then she moves to the bed and tells me she's ready.
I get up to make room for her and step out of my drawers. In no-time, a rubber covers my cock. She lies down and invites me between her legs.
Clumsily, as if intimidated, as a schoolboy, I climb on the bed. Butterflies which never fail to daze me, to fog my mind, and I nearly crash on top of her. I feel shy, privileged to witness her beauty, and not worthy to take pleasure in her.
Sensing my hesitation, she caresses my chest again, and then gently pushes my head towards her breast. Slow and gently, her fingers caress my scalp while my lips brush her perfect skin. A little more pressure encourages me to engulf her nipple and to suckle the hardened flesh.
A soft sigh shows her approval, as do her hands, caressing deneme bonus (http://www.eryom.com/bonus-veren-siteler/) my head.
I take my time to indulge myself in this intimacy, but eventually, her hands urge me to move on.
Slowly, I push myself inside her accommodating body. She's more than ready to receive me, and the entering my cock gets accompanied by a moan of pure bliss. Like everything, perfection is key.
She tells me she's ready for me, and adjusts her breathing to my movements. Slow and considerate at first; smooth and soft, yet determined. When my hips find the right cadence, I can focus on my hands, lips and even my tongue, to caress, brush and touch her face and flesh. She groans and her hands on my back encourage our union.
Her breathing follows the rhythm of our bodies, and her soft grunts and sighs reflect her feelings.
My own feelings cannot possibly be captured by sound and views; I fear the wheezing, my grunting, my gasping to be rather repulsive. The sight of my movements nowhere close to expressing the pleasure they bring. But she doesn't show any signs of revulsion; on the contrary. Her face shows pleasure and ecstasy, supported by the groans and soft yelps that flow over her lips.
She encourages me to speed up a little; to add some more force in my thrusts. To go deeper; harder; faster. I try to give her what she wants, while receiving from her in plenty. Her body billows under me, flows and moves to meet mine, sending my senses in overdrive.
She's untiring, challenging me to bring more, to move faster, harder... She urges me to bring out the best in me, while giving herself so effortless. She's beautiful.
Fortunately, my peak announces itself before my body gives way, and when I warn her of the forthcoming ending, she welcomes it as the offering of a precious gift. I manager to delay myself, to sufficiently prepare her for the inevitable, and then, we come as one.
Her hands softly caress my back as I am gasping for air, and she whispers words of praise in my ear. She thanks me, and tells me how well I did; how much she enjoyed it.
Slowly, I'm getting myself together again. When I find the strength to get up and move out of her, she presses a tender kiss on my cheek, repeating that it was nice.
She softly caresses me as I sit there restraining my seed with a knot in the slippery rubber. There is no discomfort in her actions, no urge to cover herself, to shy away from me. And when I'm ready, she first helps me putting on my clothes before she wraps herself in a robe.
After I've left her room, I walk around, getting myself together again. Once my mind is back at ease, I move on.
* * * * *
"I've brought some chocolates for her." I pass the box to the nurse. "It's Valentine. How's she doing today?"
"She's doing fine; she's already sitting in the living room. It looks like the haloperidol is having its effect. Can I get some tea for you?"
I nod and walk on. There she is, frail, sitting in a wheelchair. The remnants of a beautiful memory, but no sign of recognition when I call her name. A peeled mandarin and a sliced apple parts on a dish, next to her, are waiting to be fed.