Happy New Thursday.
It’s not brilliant quality, but I kindof liked the steamy quality of the image.
Tonight will be a new year of mixed emotions for me. I’m content and happy with my life, but also want more. When I wrote my new year post last year (‘Decade’) I genuinely thought that this year’s one might have been reflecting on what has happened, rather than what will be. But 2009 could be an interesting year, so we’ll just see what happens…. 
Half-Naked Tinsel
Was the night before Christmas…
Merry Christmas everybody, here’s to a sexy 2009.
Fingers do it for me.
A well-formed arse is lovely, particularly when shown off under a perfectly-tailored pencil-skirt with a high waist and hold-ups. Breasts are… well… wonderful, and I often find myself catching sneak-peaks of perfect pert cleavages through the arched material between the buttons of a tight-fitting shirt while I sit on the train or walk around the office. A little hint of lace, and the almost imperceptable swell of that soft round flesh is just beautiful. Not too big, mind; I like my girls small and perfectly-formed, so the nipple is the main event. The nape of the neck with, perhaps, a ponytail or – oh, yes – plaits, draped across it, swaying with the cadence of the lady’s natural rhythm as she walks. I adore the decolletage, the soft line of a clavicle and the line of the throat – begging to be nuzzled, kissed…. or maybe held firm as she writhes beneath my grip. And let me not forget legs, those infinitely long trails for my tongue, either leading to the same destination – both wanting attention before my concentration slips to the wonders between them. Feet too, hold my attention. Perfect for kissing, stroking, with malleable balls and ticklish toes, and ankles that just yearn to be gripped and flipped, to restrain and control her, and to open her wide for the taking. But it is hands that I love the most, and above all fingers. I’ll often find myself sitting on a train, or in a restaurant, just gazing at the slender, smooth and soft fingers of a woman who is pretty enough that most men would be drawn to her face. As she grips her book, her bag, or even her blackberry, I watch her fingers curve and bend, imagining how they would feel firmly holding my arms, or furrowing through my dark silky chest hair. I dream of her fingertips trailing across my mouth, idly dipping between my lips, before slipping between hers – and then tasting her on me when they return to my tonge. I try and picture her slender fingers around my shaft, wondering whether she could grip my entire girth, or would need two hands to encircle me. I sense how her palms and fingers would feel around my neck, caressing my head, pulling my lips down to hers, onto her… into her. Oh, yes. Digits do it for me.I never do this on a Thursday, do I?
Anyway, there was a few comments made about my ‘moment’ below, so I thought as I’d not done an HNT for a while I’d post a little reconstruction for you. And before you ask, no – this picture wasn’t taken on a train. It’s also a slight exaggeration of the position of my hand, but hey – that’s artistic licence for you.
I know technically I’m fully clothed, but I don’t think that always matters. Perhaps if the opportunity arises (no euphamism intended) I’ll get back to concentrating more on the ‘n’ of HNT in 2009.
As I mentioned earlier this week, my desire has returned.
It took a month or two off, and I really struggled to squeeze out what was deep down inside me, and hiding out of reach. It started when I kindof had sex with my wife (see ‘Nobody expects…’) – I say kindof because it wasn’t proper sex either physically nor (more importantly) emotionally. And it threw me mentally, so I didn’t really know what was going on in my head. I’ve been catching up on blogs and it seems a few others have written about ‘duty sex’ recently (Ms. I was the notable one for me), but I won’t go into details; that’s maybe for another post. But yesterday, after 6 months’ absence, the 21-year-old SMS’d me out of the blue. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect – indeed, it was like she had sensed my libido blinking and stretching as it awoke from its autumn nap, and so she’d decided to make contact. It started off with some updates, and her concern about my job (which, luckily, I still have), but very quickly switched to double-entendre and innuendo – and even outright propositioning. Part-way through the exchange of text messages, I asked what made her contact me that day of all days. “It’s shower time …. and that’s what made me think of u xxx” Well now, that’s not a bad start, is it? She finishes at University in a few months, and will be moving back to London to work. And for various reasons she won’t be coming back to work with me, but will instead be at another company close by. Which removes some of the workplace-related complications that had inspired caution previously. This could be dangerous.I’m sitting on the train, chatting (via IM) to one of my favourite sex-bloggers, and for once we’re actually talking about sex, and fucking each other.
The conversation about lingerie (or lack of) has got me all pumped up and my cock is wood-hard. My work trousers are kindof loose, but there’s not enough slack fabric for it to stand up proud, so it’s to the side, laying across my thigh. It’s kindof the same effect as if I had a (particularly thick) pack of Extra Strong Mints in my pocket. As I wait for the next cell to register reception with my phone, so I can send my next sentence (and receive hers) I idly run a fingertip along the hard side of my flesh, and then tap it impatiently, like I would a desk if I were waiting for an important appointment. And then I look up across to the reasonably-attractive woman, probably in her late 30s, who is sitting opposite me. Her line of sight is unmistakeable – she’s looking straight at my navel, eyes fixed on the rigid profile in my slacks, and my fingers drumming on it. Meeting her eyes, she’s not embarassed or shy – she merely turns up the corners of her mouth in the faintest (almost imperceptable) smile, holding my gaze for an instant to ensure there’s no doubt of what she saw, before dropping back to continue reading her book.I want to take off my shirt.
I want to peel it off, the heat bristling against my skin, droplets of perspiration running down my knotted muscles, over my back, soaking into the wasteband of my boxer shorts. I slip the belt back through the buckle, slowly, deliberately, before flipping the ends apart. I draw it through the loops in my jeans, the tongue of it cracking as it whips out and drops to the floor.
I want to pull the button apart and wrench the denim, forcing the zip down, and then pushing the faded blue material down over my hips and onto the floor.
I want you to look at my erection, hard, thick, foreskin rolled back just slightly, my red angry glans straining at the tight skin over them. Your eyes transfixed on my loins as the blood pulses into my shaft making it bob gently up and down. I want you to sit on your hands, your prim pastel flowery summer dress bunched under your thighs, knees together and slightly to the side. I want you to look, sense, feel my arousal, barely blinking as I begin to stroke my cock’s length with one hand.
My wedding ring sparkles and glistens in the artificial light as my hand twists and rolls back and forth, drawing my tight skin back over my cockhead and then rolling it forward, my loose balls swinging gently between my parted thighs.
I want to walk to you, in slow, steady steps, still gripping myself, my hand stroking up and down my length. You stare, eyes avoiding my gaze, locked on my navel and the slow steady movements of my masturbation. I want to draw my finger across your shoulder, tracing the line of the halter-neck to your nape, pinching the twisted fabric and pulling – gently sliding the material through itself until the bow gives way and the dress slips down to your lap.
I want to stare, eyes wide, at your hard red nipples, standing proud from your small taut breasts. My stokes become quicker as I become more and more turned on watching your half-naked submission. Your hands are still under your thighs, voluntarily restrained.
I want you to breathe in, sensing the scent of my oozing pre-come, spreading itself across my cock’s glistening tip as I wank myself more and more vigorously. I want you to lean forward as you sense my climax approaching, seeing my stomach muscles quiver, offering yourself to me, submitting completely.
I want to come, hot splashes of my seed leaping from my cockhead onto your chest, running down between your breasts, over your belly. As the streams of stringy white spunk drop onto the lap of your dress you remain motionless, eyes wide, mouth corners upturned in the feintest smile, tongue tip showing between your parted lips. As the remnants of my come ooze out of me, trailing down to you in a long threadlike strand, I urge my hips forward and direct my cock between your lips. As your mouth meets my hard flesh, I give one final squeeze and cover your tongue with the last of my sticky mess.
I want you to carefully lick me clean, and then gently pull up your dress, and spread your legs. I want you to ask me to fuck you. I want you to want me to fuck you.
I want to fuck you.
