Sexy Things Meme

So SouthernGirl hit me up with this. She knows how much I yearn to be tagged with these meme things and so put me straight at the top of her list (well, except for Andy and Kyra).

So, I have to list five things that are sexy about me. Hmmm. Never was there a more opportune moment for immodest narcissistic navel-gazing!

1. My fingers. I have long, slender and very dextrous digits, which can be used for all sorts of interesting things. I can, for example, touch-type at upwards of fifty words-per-minute… now, imagine what those fluttering fingers could do to a girl…

2. My energy. I wake before 5am every day, and rush around like a rushy thing for the next (at least) 17 hours. I rarely tire, and have boundless enthusiasm all the time. Of course right now all that energy has to go into my career and other mundane things like that, but it’s ready to be diverted into something fulfilling at a moment’s notice.

3. I am a Geek. Now, I’m told this makes me sexy; how, or why, I have no idea. I have been dabbling with computers since before my teens, which means I’ve been doing this for nigh on a quarter of a century; although when I was at school there was no association of sexiness with geeks, that is an entirely new phenomenum. Suffice to say though, it’s probably pretty useful from both our points of view – I can fix those annoying little gliches with your laptop while you’re on your knees in front of me.

4. My love for Cunnilingus. I guess this had to be mentioned. I dream about it, I desire it, I want it and I need it. It’s the thing I love doing most in the whole world. I think I should set up a new company where women in need of some stimulation can call a hotline at any time of night or day, and I’ll zoom round and put my tongue to work on pleasuring them. My rates would be very reasonable – but I couldn’t afford to pay more than £20/hour.

5. My confidence. I am extremely confident and self-assured. It wasn’t always like this – when I was at school I was shy and had all sorts of complexes (complii?). But one day I realised that life is for living, and now I thrive on situations that would make many people cringe. I look forward to opportunities to speak publicly or to manage groups of people, and enjoy making decisions. This can lead to an air of authority which, I’m sure, will be very sexy when wielded in the appropriate situation….

Now apparently I’m supposed to tag four other bloggers. I have no idea who’s already done this, so I’ll just pick four names from a hat, not completely randomly:

Cake – because she needs to remember how sexy she is right now
Amy – because she needs a break from revision
Cate – because, well, erm, she’s hot.
B – because she’s as mad as a balloon, and every single post she writes makes me smile.

Neighbours

I could hear his voice from halfway down the corridor.

Her neighbour twisted the catch on the front door and swung it open to let me in, without even pausing for breath. I pushed past him, ducking to avoid his incessant shouty words in my ear, blocking out the actual sentences with my mind, so his chatting came across more like a dog barking.

Her eyes twinkled at me briefly, indicating that I should sit opposite her with an almost indistinguishable downward glance, and then she turned and rejoined the one-sided conversation, stoically, not speaking but smiling as his inane tale continued.

She nodded agreement several times, never encouraging him but maintaining perfect politeness.

As she twisted to turn towards him and ask about his evening plans, she let her foot trail and her legs parted. Her skirt was short, and the low sun through the window illuminated her thighs with a warm honey glow. Her hand brushed her knee, and ruffling up the soft material revealed, in the evening light, her pefectly shaped brazillian wax, a narrow strip of soft dark hair, shimmering as the light hit her pussy. I tried not to stare, but was transfixed, open-mouthed.

His anecdote began to draw to a close, and he moved into the doorframe pulling it half-closed; his farewell was long and convoluted, despite his journey being no further than across the hall.

She exclaimed, a feined laugh at his punchline, flicking her hair back and then slowly drawing her fingers down across her black cotton top, intentionally bumping the tip over her erect nipple. He waved and said goodbye to me, and I nodded, self-consciously adjusting my trousers as the door slipped closed.

Click.

As the catch dropped, she turned back to me, beginning to unbutton her top, her creamy white decolletage glowing in the sunset. In the seconds as his cheap PVC boots clacked across the tiles she undid the last button and in a single movement pulled her top open and spread her legs wide, skirt riding up around her hips, her perfect landing strip punctuating a soft dark path down to her glistening cunt. Her flimsy lace bra barely covered her little tits, and I could see her nipples pressing through the sheer white fabric.

My zip was already undone, and as the door on the other side of the hall slammed shut, she giggled, her hand between her legs, working her fingers over her slit.

“So….”, she said, leaning back and opening herself wide for me, “now we have some privacy, are you going to get that thing out and fuck me with it…?”

Tell Me

Talk to me.

Tell me about your day. Tell me what you did at work, and who you you saw there. Tell me about the guys you work with and what you like about them.

Regail me with tales of past conquests as we share a meal, soft pink steak drizzled with thick white sauce, your fingers trailing over your wine glass, provocatively trailing up and down the stem as you flirt with me, talking the whole time about the things that get you going.

I listen as your describe your love for all things male, your hunger for thick flesh as you devour the same from your plate. Your painted nails flutter across the lapels of your silk top, brushing the collar and trailing down past one, two, three undone buttons, hovering in the dark vale of your delicious cleavage, subconsciously easing it apart and leaning forward so I can see the lace trim of your lingerie.

Keep talking, as you drag your knee-high leather boots up my calf, between my knees, resting the heel on my chair and gently applying pressure to the bulge in my trousers. I sip my drink, and you lick your lips, chattering about the sorts of physiques you enjoy most, and the positions you enjoy them in.

Tell me how you like to be fucked, two even three men at once, like courses with meat for main, and cream on your pudding. Your soft American drawl lingering on the filthy words as they slip between your lips.

Describe how you love cock, every which way, your desire for hard thick flesh like an addiction that’s never sated. Your lips glisten as you speak, tongue flicking across the pink flesh, moistening and softening your words as they drip from your mouth.

Tell me how you’re still hungry, as we settle the bill and stand, my trousers visibly taut and your eyes visibly widening. Whisper what you want to do to me, as I stand behind you and slip your coat over your shoulders, brushing the points of your nipples which tell their own story of how aroused you are.

Turn to face me, and as I fasten your coat for you, temporarily concealing your delicious body behind thirteen buttons, tell me how I’m going to get lucky.
Tell me, as we walk back to the hotel, how you want my cock in every hole, to be taken in every position, to be stripped, used, soiled, undone, fucked.

Tell me.

Fingers

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.

Moment

She fluttered her eyelashes, and looked at me coyly, almost wincing but eyes twinkling with anticipation. Then she closed her eyes and pursed her lips, pouting, waiting for me to be close enough to kiss.

And then, a little cluster of bubbles oozed from her lips, and dripped down onto my cockhead. Her saliva ran down the side of my glans and collected in a little pool on her fingers, which were holding my shaft, index finger and thumb stretched around my girth, just touching each other. She bent closer, and her pout changed to an ‘O’, her tongue leading the way as she slipped me between her lips and began to suck and lick my cock.

My full length was barely in her mouth when I felt my balls pull up towards my stomach, and my hips began to shudder and twitch. As the first stream of my orgasm spread across her tongue and began to slip down her throat, she was pulling her handbag towards her, simultaneously swallowing my come, licking me clean, and fishing for her lipstick and compact to fix her appearance before we slipped back out into the party.

Another Moment

My cock, hard. Not like a diamond, but hard like a car tyre – solid, unyielding, but slightly pliable. Not erect, but laying against my thigh. I feel it strain against the strong harsh denim of my jeans. It wants to stand proud, be touched, caressed, stroked, kissed and maybe sucked.

I will wank later, vigorous arm movements and, if I can hold myself for long enough, that long pause before my thick come streams away from me and drops across my hand like a party-popper, my breath held, unable to move as I imagine your touch.

But for now, I just stop, and think of the smooth soft strip of hair between your legs, and everything it leads to, and just enjoy my thoughts, the feeling of my own thickness, firmness against my leg, restrained and covered.

Cap’n, she’s gonna blow!

Today has been unbearable. After spending most of the last 7 days talking to somebody absolutely gorgeous, fit and horny as hell, I’ve spent today with cleavages under my nose the whole time. This morning, I was working with a couple of sensationally pretty young new starts, and spent most of the conversations I had with them (me standing and looking at their screens, them sitting next to me) trying desperately not to stare constantly at their firm, soft pretty little tits. Without much success.

I got back to my desk and got chatting over IM to my 21-y-o intern about underwear, and spent most of the afternoon trying to conceal a massive hard-on under my desk.

And on my commute home, I’m faced with several low-cut summer dresses, small, soft, plump and pert cleavage just begging me to dive right in. I feel like I’m fit to burst right now.

This can’t last. Somebody (you know who you are) has to save me from a serious case of bursting balls. I need nipples between my lips, ASAP.

Help me!