Monday, July 21, 2008

Over time I’ve collected bits of possible posts, mostly erotic, but for various reasons they’ve never made it into the blog. Usually I found something else to write about or was never in the mood to finish them. I’ve decided to complete some of them and post them as an off and on series. They’ll be divorced of context, time and place, and may be from past professional engagements or my sexual wanderings.

On my stomach, with my arms stretched in front of me gripping the sheet, his weight pinning me down while his legs hold my own wide. I’m being fucked hard, each thrust lifts my hips off the bed slightly, my moans and cries being the melody to the rhythm of his grunts. Emile is bulky and he smothers me, rough, but with the talent of being so without inflicting (much) pain and I’m just a rag doll being tossed about his bed. I revel in the feeling of helplessness. He pulls my head up by my hair and puts his mouth to my ear, telling me I’m a slut and a whore and having me beg for him to continue. My response is to whimper my pleadings for him to continue.

In college in one of those late night girl talk sessions fueled by wine and marijuana we played a variation of truth or dare and the question was what celebrity did we want to fuck if we had the chance. Shaq was my admission. Emile isn’t that large but he’s 200cm and built like a tackle, sort of a larger Gérard Depardieu with the large head and big hands. It’s not hard to believe that someday he’ll be grossly obese and I’d find sex with him unappealing, but then is not now.

The first time I was with Emile he propositioned me in a café. “Do you want to fuck? He inquired. His reputation had preceded him, so I was not surprised at his direct approach, but what happened next did. He led me across the street to a parking garage and I expected to his car for the drive to his apartment. Near the back of the garage he gathered me in his arm for a romantic kiss? No, he picked me up and placed me across the hood of a Citroen where we fucked, I still can’t figure out how he got the condom on. When he finished he just walked away, leaving me furious and in lust, not to mention having to embarrassingly meet a surprised elderly couple. I hoped that it wasn’t their car.

When he’s finished, he dismissed me and told me to leave. While I gathered my things and dressed, he found his pipe and a book, and then settled in an easy chair in front of the TV. Ready to leave I said good-by and he didn’t acknowledge me. It’s part of the game, not quite a power exchange; Emile doesn’t have the patience for that type of play, but it is about dominance and humiliation. I tell myself that Emile is not a misogynist, but that’s only to make myself feel better about enjoying my time with him.

Kim

3 Comments:

Anonymous VJ said...

Oh those French Romantics! Lovely vignette Kim, and amusing too. This of course? "No he picked me up and placed me across the hood of a Citroen where we fucked...", now qualifies you for the lottery on French citizenship. But misogyny? As deep in it as the smoke swirling around him. Which was of course part of the frisson of the entire transaction. Cheers & Good Luck, 'VJ'

8:16 AM  
Anonymous Phantom Man said...

I love your fantasy, Kim. It combines at least three common fantasies of woman -- sexual ravaging, sex in a public place, and sex with a stranger. I enjoy reading sexual fantasies of women, and I look forward to reading your series. You are a wonderful writer with a wonderful imagination. I always look forward to your posts.

6:53 PM  
Anonymous Phantom Man said...

Oops -- "fantasies of women". Sorry.

6:54 PM  

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