He hoists the hem of my nightgown up, past my hips and over my waist. I seldom wear panties around the house so it was no problem for him to enter me from behind. As I closed my eyes in anticipation of his penetration I envisioned New Orleans in the summertime. Not that I had ever been there or had any real desire to go, that was just the visual I pictured behind closed lids as the sheer length and girth of Lavar’s manhood forced me to involuntarily alter my breathing pattern. I have to remind myself to relax as he began to move slowly in and out of my wetness.
“Damn your shit is tight,” he declares. I sense the surprise in his voice, dripping off of each strained word like fresh activator off of a thirsty Jeri curl.
“I told you it’s been a while. Just go slow and take your time. Trust me, I will loosen up,” I toss over my shoulder.
A deep grunt from lover serves as confirmation that Anita had succeeded in negotiating an agreeable comfort zone out of which each of the participating parties in this mutually simulating act could participate.
After detecting the necessary adjustments in vaginal elasticity were complete, Lavar wastes no time in settling into a comfortable, sustainable rhythm that takes me back to summer days in the Big Easy.
Together we drift lazily down a peaceful, serene waterway. I, with my beautiful off white southern belle gown made out of the finest silk and delicate fabrics that money could buy. He, a strapping young buck, in his white button-up shirt, olive trousers, and a pair of black horse riding boots.
Lavar continues to propel us forward using his paddle, causing the rock hard muscles in his chest and arms to strain against the fabric of his shirt. I marvel at the skill he displays in using his paddle to make strong, even, methodical strokes that keep us gliding at a steady pace.
High overhead, the mid-afternoon sun kisses the surface of the water, causing the peak of each tiny ripple to glisten like new diamonds.
Efforts to purse my lips, in order to better endure the magnificent stroking Anita was receiving, prove futile. Before I realize it, a guttural moan bubbles forth from the deepest depths of my gut, up my esophagus, through my throat and past my lips.
Meanwhile, we drift further along enjoying the day’s sunshine and being in each other’s company. We swap wonderful stories from our child hood while sharing a bottle of raspberry tea and nibbling on fresh biscuits coated with honey produced on a bee farm not too far from here.
“Mmm, baby yes,” I groan, as Lavar puts a swivel in his thrust which somehow enables him to find my sweet spot. “You go, boy. Yes, just like that.”
Shawn Richards 'THE WRITER!'
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
JUST A FLOSSY THOUGHT on a MONDAY NIGHT... (REMIXED) 2nd revision
I pull up to the curb in my black SL 500 with the top down bumping a DJ Rello mixtape. T-Pain’s vocals for ‘I can’t believe it’ meshed perfectly over the track from Jay-Z’s ‘Excuse me miss’. In much the same fashion as rich, milk chocolate falls smoothly and evenly over a sugar wafer to produce a Nutty Bar. I display optimum swaggnatiousness in the mist of my swaggerific, swaggerlicious, stunt session. Then suddenly I notice the two sets of peepers peeping at me from across the street. They belong to two very attractive young women. Two 5'3'', chocolate Brat dolls. Bright eyes, full lips, over animated, over exaggerated breasts that bounced. Their jeans painted on and booties super tight, like a J-Dilla track. Two very attractive women whom I was hoping were at least in their early twenties, though my gut told me they were probably closer to sixteen or seventeen. I acknowledge their heavy gaze with a courteous nod and duce chuck of my own. They turn to each other, giggle and touch palms. Hi-five. Jackpot. Like a great opportunity or hot commodity, niggas like me don’t come around too often!
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