I’m imagining my core fantasy.
First, what will you all wear?
A sea of women…. Allie? Eva? The Historian? Isabel? L? Luna? Maxie? P? Penelope? The Rockette? Rose? Sadie? Sofia?!? Tamora? Veronique? You? (Those names – including yours – are in alphabetical order, lest you imagine you discern some other rationale….) In my fantasy, it’s all these women and more. Bloggers and writers and dancers and colleagues and friends and strangers and women I’ve passed on the street and women I haven’t even encountered yet.
In jeans and t-shirts, white cotton panties, white bras? Or sundresses? Or shorts? That’s the spring/summer version.
In black dresses, black bras, black boyshorts for me? Black stockings or leggings or tights? That’s the winter version.
I line you all up along a hotel wall, hands pressed against the wall, legs spread, bent over slightly, asses to me. Tall, thin, petite, rounder, black, white, Asian. I reach around to feel your breasts, pushing against your bras (or against the fabric of your dresses – bras aren’t, strictly speaking, required). I squeeze gently, or roughly. I pinch a nipple, or two nipples. Or four, or six.
I inspect, appreciate, all your asses under the black fabric. I lift the fabric up, to see the black cotton, or silk, boyshorts underneath. I tap your asses gently, affectionately. I spank them, just a little harder. To feel the snap of flesh on flesh, to see the jiggle that follows the smack. To see if I can bring just a little red to the surface. I slide a hand between your thighs, my right hand between one set of thighs, my left, between another. I feel the flesh of the thighs, cool, on my hand. I feel the heat of two of your cunts at the same time, and as I press up, I can feel the moistness through two pairs of your panties, one on each hand.
I hear the sound of your breathing. Two, four, six, more women, breathing – some heavily with anticipation, some barely daring to inhale, to exhale.
Perhaps I press my cock – no doubt painfully, painfully hard – against one or more of the asses displayed for me, while I slide a finger or two or three up into a cunt. One in front of me? To my right? To my left? Yours? Hers?
Maybe I ask you all to turn around for me, to kneel. Perhaps slide my cock in one mouth after another. Maybe I lie back, and ask one (or two) of you to devote your mouths and hands to my cock and balls, another one to sit on my face. Or one (or two) to kiss me. And the remainder to devote your mouths and fingers and hands to one another’s mouths and cunts for me. Maybe one (or two, or more) of you masturbate(s) for the rest of our collective viewing pleasure. Though how much “viewing” anyone does is, of course, an open question.
Maybe, once we’re all nude (are we ever all nude?), we form a giant dogpile, of sweaty, slippery, sticky flesh, breasts and hands and cock and mouths and pussies everywhere, kissing, sucking, licking, fucking, pushing, pulling, slipping, sliding. And coming. Oh yes, coming. For sure.
There are other possibilities. Restraints. Blindfolds. Paddles. Ice cubes. Candles. Feathers. I think the props are, likely, in the sequel. There’s really only so much that can be done in an evening.
(You’ll note – it seems I’ve skipped that portion of the evening I so enjoy, the part before the sex. That will be the subject of another post….)
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